The New England Patriots: A Love Story

The reason I started watching the Pats is a simple one. My father bet on the games. He would make bets at the bar, and then watch the games. I watched them too, because these were the days in which you had one TV for one house, and no way was your Dad going to let you watch Scooby Doo when the Pats were playing. Although let me be honest here, most games during this time were blacked out. Blacked out as in not enough fans came to Sullivan Stadium to watch the Pats play. Hard to imagine, I know. Also, I was in love with Patriot Pat. Dreamy.


My true fandom was not experienced until the magical 1985 Cinderella season wherein we started 0-3 and finished 11-5 but still 3rd in the AFC East. We beat the Jets, Raiders and Miami (all on the road) to reach Super Bowl XX against the Chicago Bears. This logo proved untrue.


Let us revisit the 12 year old me after that game:


This was a very painful year for my sports psyche as not only did the Pats have a humiliating loss (fine I said it), the Red Sox lost to the Mets in Game 7 of the World Series. Two words: Bill Buckner. I also turned 13 and still had no boobs. So yeah, it was a fucking hard year.

As time went on, there were lots of games and lots of coaches and lots of players. We even had a 1996 trip to the Super Bowl wherein we suffered a loss to the Packers. The only good thing about this time period is that I got boobs and I started drinking. As any true Boston sports fan knows, drinking helps ease the pain, that and swearing. Swearing is good.

Also Drew Bledsoe went crowd surfing at the Paradise during an Everclear concert (his favorite band). And that right there perfectly sums the 1990s.


The year 2000 began with the firing of Pete Carroll (thank fucking god) and the hiring of one Mr. Bill Belichick in scandal. Bill was the head coach of the Jets, but then resigned, to come to the Pats. Obviously, Mr. Belichick is smart. In the 2000 draft we drafted in the 6th round Thomas Edward Brady. We went on to finish last place in the AFC East. The following year, the Patriots were not expected to do much better. During the second game of the season, Drew Bledsoe was hurt and in came back up QB, Tom Brady. Although Tom lost that game, the Pats went on to finish the season 11-5 with Brady at the helm. We went on to beat the Raiders, Steelers and finally the St. Louis Rams in Super Bowl XXXVI on Adam Vinatieri’s final seconds field goal.



Chills. Anyhoo, the aughts were a fun time to be a Patriots fan. We won two more Super Bowls and then had an almost perfect season that was destroyed by one Mr. David Tyree. How the hell do you catch a ball off your helmet? Anyway, that was bad. Especially since I watched that game with my friend Grant, a Giants Fan. Yeah. Then there was this dude named Bernard Pollard whose main purpose in life is to maim Patriot Players - Tom Brady, Wes Welker and most recently Rob “GRONK!” Gronkowski.

But here we are a mere 5 days from another Super Bowl, Super Bowl XLVI. So that means 26 Super Bowls from my first Pats Superbowl (holy shit I am old). I am nervous, feeing a mixture of dread and happiness. Happiness that we somehow are having a great season with no secondary, dread because of the people named Hakeem Nicks, Mario Manningham and Victor Cruz. I am not going to jinx my team so the only predictions I am willing to make revolve around my beer consumption and cursing. (Over/Under: 5,258). But in the end, it always remains the same. I love me some Patriots football. Go Pats!

Soul Mate - Don't Jinx Yourself

Recently on a blog I read, the writer announced her separation from her husband of ten years. I should have been thinking, “Oh wow”, “That is awful”, and “No freaking way”. Instead I was thinking, “That is what you get when you call someone your soul mate.” Can we all agree that nothing will destroy your relationship eventually than the flagrant foul of calling someone your soul mate? It is a jinx.

Let us visit the definition of a soul: The spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal. To me, the soul sounds awfully similar to a snowflake, in that every single one is uniquely formed. A perfect mate for a snowflake seems impossible. Yet time and time again, people use soul mate. And surprisingly, not in humor. They actually mean it. I know!

Maybe I am a cold, heartless, dead fish of a person incapable of attaining the enlightenment that is soul mate-yness. (I feel compunction to say ARRGHHH here, so I will. AARRGHHH). But how is it possible for any person to use it seriously. I once knew a girl who dated her “soul mate” 503 times. I know this because instead of referring to these guys with their actual names, I would ask “Where did Soul Mate 152 take you tonight?”

The point is that life is a somersault of good, evil, happy, sad, sober and drunk. Whatever you experience will change you. If you are lucky enough to travel that road with someone hope to god the people you become are fortunate to still love and be kind to each other. The point is that your soul mate of today may not be the soul mate of your future, so stop using the effin term already. However, we with true soul mates are free to carry on.

Joys of Parenting: Toddler OCD

As someone that the sight of an open cabinet immediately creates within a spastic twitch in the cortex of my brain signaling - CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE - the fact that my daughter is a creature of habit bordering on psychosis should not come as shock. Since having children, the phrase “you get what you give” has been painfully defined. On one hand, I have an ultracompetitive sore loser who I much preach the concept of “fair play” to and the other a girl whose bedtime routine is an exercise in torture (and probably might be in Dante’s version of a modern Inferno).

A few weeks back, John once again came upstairs after putting Maggie to bed exasperated and shaking his head, reaching for the immediate beer. Since we have been alternating Owen’s bedtime routine, I said “You know, maybe we should share Maggie’s stories too?” (Usually I cook during this time). John responded, “Totally.” He then may have danced a bit and praised Jesus and smiled at me with a face of “You have no fucking clue what you are getting yourself into.” I realize this now, at the time I just though - what is the big deal?

Let me explain the big deal to you. After the kids finish their bath, and get dressed, at 6:45 p.m. it is time for Maggie to go to sleep.

Me: Maggie, it is time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES.
Me: Okay, two minutes.
(Two minutes pass).
Me: Mags, time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES!! I WANT TWO MINUTES!!
Me: Time for bed.
Maggie: I need to kiss Daddy. DADDY, DADDY, KISSES!
Me: Okay Maggie. Bed.
Maggie: OWEN, OWEN, kisses for Owen.
Owen: (Kissing Maggie). Good night Mags, I miss you. (Awww).
Me: Maggie, bed.
Maggie: I pick out my bottle.

She picks her bottle; we fill it with ice and water. The left side of my skull starts to throb. We head down the stairs to her room. She first goes to the computer to turn it on so that her Mozart playlist can be played (brainpower!), then she goes to her heater to turn it on, then she throws her bottle over her crib and climbs in. For those thinking: She is still in a crib? How old is this kid anyway? The answer is 3 in March and she sleeps from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every single day. She will be in that crib until she is 18 if I can help it.

Now, the stories. At this point in the adventure, Maggie chooses one book which is usually a Dora book. These books are long, and if you try to skip words, you are in trouble. Like last night when I skipped the part about crossing the sea on the pirate ship to avoid the snake and we did not say “Arrggggh”. So then we said it 18,000 times. Mama you forgot AAARRRGGGGGHHHHH. ARRGGHHHHHH. MAMA ARRRAGGHHHH. Mistake. After the first story this is the time when Maggie goes to the bathroom. We head in, where she turns on the light. I DO IT. Then sit and go pee and try to go poop. If she can’t poop she will strain until you are pretty sure an aneurysm will be had, and you are okay with this. She climbs off, flushes and turns off the light. POOP MAMA!

We exit the bathroom, wherein we have come to the touching shadows portion of the evening. “I TOUCH SHADOWS.” She proceeds to touch all the shadows in the room taking care not to step on the treadmill “This is Daddy’s Mama, IT’S NOT A TOY.” Thanks Maggie, I keep forgetting.

Back into bed for more stories. But first, “I NEED BIG ICE”. I get a piece of ice for her to chew on. THAT NOT BIG MAMA. I find another, my headache growing. Goodnight Moon is now read, a favorite since she repeats everything I say. This is a good moment, I almost love her again. That is until the Cheerios book. The Cheerios book has me wishing for death. How can a six page book seemingly take six hours? Oh, because she has to point out every color, and then pretend to take cheerios from one page to put them on another. Then count them, over and over, and then tell me which mice don’t have glasses. I need to get him some glasses Mama. TIME FOR BED MAGGIE. GLASSES MAMA. More placing of pretend cheerios. Until finally every mouse has glasses, every fish has bubbles, every car has wheels, and she agrees to end story time.

We next discuss her day. This is another part of the routine in which I kind of forget that I want to hang myself. She informs me who was her friend, who wasn’t her friend, how she sang Wheels on the Bus and the baby went Wah, Wah, Wah, how she pooped in the potty. The life of an almost three year old is quite compelling. I then tell her, “Good night Mags”. She then asks for a fist pump. We fist pump. Then we high five. Then we high five again. One more high five. I zip up the crib tent and start for the stairs, Maggie then pulls off her all of her blankets and says, “MAMA, MY BLANKETS!”. Shocked. As if she did not take then all off when I turned around. I go down, unzip to tuck her in. First one blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her baby blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her Dora fleece blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck). LOOK MAMA, DORA!!! AND BOOTS!!! Said happiness and joy, as if she does not say this every single freaking night. My love is back. Good night Maggie. Good night Mama. WHERE IS OWEN? Going to sleep. WHERE IS DADDY? Going to sleep. WHERE YOU GOING? I am going to sleep Maggie. DADDY TIRED. OWEN TIRED. MAMA TIRED. MAGGIE TIRED. Yep. Go to sleep, sweet dreams. NIGHT MAMA. Night.

As I climbed those stairs I know that I am free (to drink copious amounts of wine). And although torturous in its execution and not to mention high pitched cries of anguish for any transgression of the “routine,” I try to tell myself that this will be over someday, I will miss this, I will ache for this. But you know what? I really don’t think so, I really don't. At least she is cute. She has to be.