Men and Sports

There are lots of things in life that I don't understand. The Dewey Decimal System for instance, how my kids have light hair when both my husband and I have dark hair, the meaning of life (the first person to E-mail me and tell me 42 gets hit in the head with a "The Hitchhiker's Guide"), and why men are so into sports.

When I say into sports, I don't mean that they follow sports, and I don't mean that they like to watch sports. I mean INTO sports. Take my husband, for example; he can forget our anniversary (I usually forgive him because I don't realize that he forgot it until a week after), he forgets the kids birthdays, even though the night before they reminded him constantly, and he can forget his wallet with his driver's license and credit cards at home three hours into a trip to see my brother in Columbus. But he can remember how many home runs Sammy Sosa has in his career versus left handed pitchers during day games in half full stadiums during solar eclipses as opposed to sold out stadiums. He remembers scores of football games that happened nearly twenty years ago, yet he forgets to bring home a gallon of milk when I send him to the grocery store specifically to buy milk and nothing else.

Sure, he comes home with ten grocery bags full of Doritos, cheese dip, cookies, and other assorted junk food, none of which I sent him to buy. Also in the bags are the latest copy of Maxim magazine, Stuff magazine and the World Wide News with the headline screaming on the cover that the world will end on January 27, 2001 when a giant flying frog from outer space flicks the earth into its mouth after mistaking it for a giant alien fly. But no milk.

Once, he claimed that he remembered to buy the milk, but absent mindedly left it in the shopping cart as he loaded the plastic bags full of junk food into the mini-van. Of course, he gave me his gee-honey-I-forgot-again smile and kissed me, trying to get me to forgive him. Of course I kicked him in the butt and sent him back out for the milk. Never let anybody say that I fall for his cute, boyish charm. When he came back, he proudly handed me the gallon of milk and recited the career statistics of Michael Jordan during night games on the east coast during full moons. I kicked him in the butt again and sent him into the living room to watch the one thousandth baseball game of the year.

One night, we had arranged for my sister to babysit the kids, and I put on a sexy little black dress with a push up bra that gave me porn star cleavage, thigh highs that peeked out of the bottom of the dress and three inch fuck me heels. I was ready to go out on the town and dance the night away and then get home and make him feel like a man. When I stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room, he looked at me, gave me a hi-honey-what's-for-dinner smile and returned his gaze to the television. Silly me, why would I think that we would go dancing when Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls were driving toward their twentieth world championship in five years. Of course, it was their seventeenth game of the year and they were playing the last place Bangkok Bangers and they were winning 103 to 27, but he had to watch it.

Being a woman, I had a plan (we always have plans, that's why we always get what we want). I hiked up my dress and bent over in front of him, (I can't seem to write anything without sex creeping in somewhere, can I?) showing him my thong covered butt. As I looked back at him through my legs, he smiled at me, not just a normal smile, but a wow-honey smile. I had him. I could hear the loud beat of the bass line in my head. So, I thought. His hand touched my butt, and instead of moving in to my inner thigh, it moved out and he pushed me to the side, "Hey, you made me miss MJ's thirty-first and thirty-second points of the game," he complained. "This is important, if he gets thirty-three points, he breaks Wilt Chamberlain's record of career points during night games during blizzards with accumulations of five inches or more."

I stood, pulled the hem of the dress up and let the strap of my dress off my shoulder. I exposed my left breast to him, pulled the nipple to my lips and licked it seductively. He jumped up and I smiled, ready to accept his hug of forgiveness. Instead of wrapping his arms around me, he pumped his fists into the air and started jumping up and down like he dropped a brick on his toe and yelled, "He did it! He broke Wilt's record!"

I frowned. No... I pouted and calmly said, "That's nice, honey. Can we go dancing now?"

"Now? Scottie Pippen needs two more steals to break..."

I frowned at him and ground the pointy heel of my three inch fuck me shoes into his foot. He hopped around and yelled again, this time like some pissed off woman just ground her heel into his foot. He stopped jumping when I stomped out of the room. At least I think he did 'cause I couldn't hear him anymore, I had slammed the door behind me and locked it. It stayed that way for a month.

OK, the above was a dramatization, an exaggeration; I don't want to get any E-mails telling me what a clod I have for a husband, I already know that. I have to stop writing now, "Bety la Fea" is on. That's a Spanish language soap opera I never miss. For the life of me, I'll never understand men's obsession with sports.

Besitos,
Maria G.