Thursday, September 20, 2012

Hooked on a Feeling!

Ketchup With Us

Follow Michele from ODNT and  Mel of According to Mags to check out
"Ketchup With Us" and other hilarity. Just trust me. Seriously.


Tell us in 57 words or less about your biggest celebrity crush from childhood. Or, you know, now. Either way.

I'm not sure whom I was more in love with... the guy or the car.
Michael Knight, a young loner on a crusade to steal a kindergarteners heart. Leather jacket. Flowing locks. A TALKING CAR. I needed nothing more (well, besides a My Little Pony). Even then I liked my boys tall, dark, and just a little bit bad.

Who knew all I really needed to capture your heart was a cheeseburger?
No coke. Pepsi.

You'll thank me for this... or not. 

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Fantasy Land

So, it seems like everyone I know is knee deep in fantasy football. Maybe even deeper... like thigh deep. But it's everywhere- my girl friends, my guy friends, my kid and his friends. Seems like everywhere I go someone is freaking out over their wi-fi connection because "Adrian Peterson is on waivers and man, WHAT A SOLID PICK, YO!" Or something like that.

Thing is, I like football. I like it quite a bit. I'm that loud, crazy (occasionally cowbell ringing DONT YOU JUDGE ME!) football Mama on Saturdays. I like college football. I love watching my Saints, and I can usually make it through a Raiders game without wanting to put my head into a microwave (well... maybe not usually). But I just don't GET fantasy football. I've tried, believe me, I've tried. I've done a few leagues, put together my little team, tried tracking everything... but by week four I couldn't even give HALF a crap about how utterly DEVASTATING it is that Carson Palmer is really utilizing the speed of a healthy Darren McFadden as opposed to getting the ball to his receivers . Can't I just watch the game and get excited that the Raiders are making touchdowns at all?

According to my nearly thirteen year old son, the answer to that question is "Not really."

So while everyone else is busy staring at their iPads and iPhones and iDontCares during commercial breaks and monopolizing all of the good tables at Wild Wings, I'm going to need something to do. And a little competition is good for the soul, right? So what could I do, what could I follow and track and derive such great pleasure from the failure of others? Then it hit me....

Fantasy Reality Television Show.

(I know, I know. Reality TV already exisits in some kind of fantasy world. But hear me out on this one.)
It really has it all. You get together with a group of friends. You draft your picks, choosing no more than, say, six individual cast members, one couple (can be same sex, does not have to be romantic, just two people intertwined for the purposes of the show. Examples: Kim Kardashian and either Kanye OR her mother; Honey Boo Boo and her mother; Maksim from Dancing with the Stars and his anger management counselor), and one ensemble to create your "Fantasy Show Cast," culled from reality television shows (network or cable) that are current- no old episodes of the Real Housewives of Orange County, people. 

Once your cast is established, that's where the fun part starts. While your other friends are anxiously watching picture-in-picture-in-picture games while following play by play on their tablet, scouring sports reports for tales of injury woes and locker room strife, you're doing your research on TMZ, with Perez Hilton, and in the National Enquirer. THE ENQUIRER COUNTS AS A LEGITIMATE SOURCE. Points are awarded not just for SHOW performance... no, no, no! Half the fun of reality television is the train wreck that occurs when the cameras ARENT rolling! Couple gets obnoxious matching tattoos? Three points! Visit by child welfare authorities? Six points! Public intoxication? Eight points? Public URINATION? Give yourself a good ten right there.
The fun doesn't end.

So you can have your quarterbacks, your wide recievers, and your kickers. Take em all, and don't mind me if I just show up to enjoy the game. I'm going to take my guilty pleasures in a true American past-time... some good old fashioned schadenfreude.

Finally, Snooki has a purpose.