the fucking Dallas Cowboys

9/12/99

I have been such a slacker lately. So much stress and time with work and that, I haven't had the energy to update every night. I suck.

This weekend has bee uneventful. Except for when John and I went to Macon Friday and I rode home topless, just to see if anyone noticed. You'd think someone would have, since the car was also topless, but nobody saw. Oh well.

This afternoon we went to another of those "band family" parties. For some reason, I was a total slug. I was uncomfortable, as usual, and couldn't seem to get into it. There are so many people there, and I have nothing to say to them. The men sat around in the house and watched pro football, which bored me nearly to tears. The women went outside and talked about women-things, and I couldn't bear the thought of sitting there with them. They'd just ask me things like when I'm going to have kids. I am so sick of people asking me that.

So I sat in the house with John and a few other men, all of them discussing Nintendo Gameboys and the fucking Dallas Cowboys. Fuck the Dallas Cowboys. Somebody's wife came in with a toddler and some other guy asked her some question about a trip to the hospital the kid had taken a long time ago. She answered the question, getting that animated look that mothers get when they talk about their kids' fevers, and directed her narrative at me. I didn't ask the question. I didn't say a damn word, and I didn't even really show interest. She stood across the room from me and answered a question that some man asked her, but because it was about her kid, she assumed I, the woman, would be the one to nod sympathetically.

I'm afraid I was a little rude. I was staring at her face as she spoke, but her words disappeared so that her mouth moved silently and my brain was spinning: "Why is she doing that? What do I do now? Am I expected to do something here?" I realized, as her voice faded back in, that I was expected to nod, or at least smile or something. I smiled, tight-lipped, too late. I'm sure that now I'm that self-important wife who won't understand anything until she has kids of her own. Because I will, you know. Doesn't everyone?

The men weren't endearing themselves to me, either. One guy, whom I've known since we went to Michigan together, slipped up and said that all TV movies are shown at 3 pm because they're all made for women. And I thought, immediately, "Right, and all women are home at 3 pm." Then he made it worse by saying, "Right after the soaps."

Argh, GOD, I hate it when people assume soaps are for women. Maybe they are, but GOD. I've known plenty of men who watched soaps. Believe me, I thought the same of those men as I did about women who are obsessed with soaps. I feel the same way about people who are obsessed with 90210, or Ally McBeal, or the fucking Dallas Cowboys. I can't stand WOMEN who are obsessed with the Cowboys.

Now, that's NOT the same as being obsessed with the X-Files. That's a completely different thing. Totally.

So anyway, the worst part of the day is yet to come. This wife I'd never met before, but who's supposed to be so cool, turned out to be this pretty self-involved talker. She moaned bitterly about how hard it is to find shoes in her size, even after the topic had been changed. All along I sat there grinning because she wears the same size I do, and I never have trouble finding shoes. But anyway. She came in from the women's group at one point and plopped on the couch. After a few minutes, Becky came in and sat on the floor. Bigfoot Lady says, "Oh, finally, there's another girl in here!"

I didn't react noticeably, though I was sitting on the couch between Bigfoot and Becky. I happened to be facing Becky, and we made eye contact for a quick, eye-narrowing grin. Now really, I don't think I'm that masculine. I have short hair, whatever, but I was wearing a Pooh barrette on one side. And, for a man, I have really big breasts. Hell, even for a woman I have big breasts. I was feeling invisible even before she said that, but that's the point where I started to dig my nails into John's leg, as a signal that it was time to leave. For real.