I don’t do sports. I don’t play them, I don’t watch them, and I most importantly don’t understand them. I still get basketballs, footballs, and blueballs confused. Until I was not-so-gently corrected by a friend, I thought Tiki Barber was the name of a Hawaiian hair salon. So it comes as no surprise that I not only don’t participate in watching the weekend football games, but I actually go out of my way to avoid them.
My roommate and I have an understanding: I leave the apartment when she watches the Eagles game and she leaves the apartment when I watch Grey’s Anatomy. We both find the others’ television viewing choice ridiculous and pointless. On the rare occasion I make the mistake of sticking around during a football game I am subjected to her ear-piercing screams that are so loud and so full of energy that people must mistake her cheers for domestic abuse. When they are winning she shouts; when they are losing she screams. Either way, it’s a lose-lose situation for me.
However, she apparently isn’t the only one that enjoys the sport and over the years I’ve had to endure several games. By several, I mean two. I’ve learned a few things along the way: Read More »





As I watched the world’s best athletes compete in the Olympics last night I began to regret never getting involved in sports growing up. At 5’10 I could have dominated the basketball/volleyball courts. I could have used my backyard swimming pool to hone my backstroke. I could have viewed my bike as more than just a means to get to the nearest ice cream shop.
Men. Boys. Dudes. We love them, we hate them, we’re better off without them, and we are ALWAYS looking for them. We all know it’s hard to meet a quality man (and we all know the
We are big fans of the Olympics. Seriously, the amount of time and dedication (
I have to say – last night’s episode of Project Runway brought back feelings of happier times. Times when the contestants were funny and talented and I actually enjoyed watching.
I just froze my gym account. Why? Well, because it’s warm outside and I don’t need it. Why should I pay $70 a month to work out there when there’s so much to do outside?
I was at the exact perfect age — high school seniordom — when the Red Sox achieved that wonder of wonders and won the world series for the first time in 87 years. To understand how momentous that was for Bostonians, you really had to have been there — my headmistress declared a day off from school, there were parades and people dressed up in Red Sox outfits every day that week.
Being hungover generally sucks, lets face it. The only place I want to be (and I’m sure this goes for you as well) is in bed, with the blinds closed, watching cheesy made for TV movies and eating my favorite hangover 
