Taking One For The Team

My husband is a die-hard football fan.

I did not grow up watching football, which is unusual in the Deep South. Truth be told, my dad was more of a Wrestle Mania fan. I have fond memories of watching Hulk Hogan throw folding chairs at King Kong Bundy.

Then I met Robbie Hobbs, and he had to explain football to me like I was a very small child. I still don’t really understand it, but I’ve finally grasped the basics. I think.

To help illustrate exactly what kind of football fan he is, here is a picture of him waiting for a subway in New York City on game day. He walked all over NYC like that, and if he noticed someone staring at his pants, he would point to another person nearby and say, “Check out that dude’s pants.”

It doesn't get much better than this right here.

It doesn’t get much better than this right here.

Then there is the LSU Santa hat that he pulls out every year, pictured below.

Tis the season

These hilarious quirks are pretty much why I married him.

I believe I’ve done a decent job of embracing the football fan life. I have purple and gold clothing that I wear when the occasion calls for it. I like to tailgate, as long as kids aren’t involved, mostly because I love an excuse to day drink. We are now the people who plan our lives around the football schedule. When an LSU game is happening, I understand that we will be watching it — if not in person, then on TV.

I know when to yell, I know when to head to the fridge for another beer, and I know when to send Robbie outside to watch the game through the window.


See? I totally know how to look the part of a football fan.

This weekend was the most important weekend of this season so far, because it was the game against our biggest rival — Alabama. That’s pretty much all I know. I was going to attempt to regurgitate the stats and rankings that he kept talking about in the days leading up to the game, but the truth is I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. All I know is that we HATE losing to Alabama, and Robbie gets really depressed — like lying on the living room floor face down in sadness — every time it happens.

On Saturday afternoon, I left the house for a few hours to visit my parents. When I came home, he had done something to his face.

“HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LSU BEARD?!” he asked excitedly.

I stood in the kitchen and stared at him for a few seconds, trying to make sense of what was happening, but before I could figure it out our three children did what three children do and both of us sprang into action cleaning up spills, wiping noses, and refilling plates.

Two hours later, after our kids were tucked snugly in their beds, we sat down to watch the game. This is when he again looked at me and said, “HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LSU BEARD?!”

I studied him for a long time. He was grinning from ear to ear, beaming with pride. It was clear that he had spent a lot of time and energy carefully trimming his facial hair to spell out “L S U.” The “S” was around his mouth in particular looked like it was a painstaking process.

He waited for my reaction.

“It’s backwards,” I deadpanned.

He didn’t believe me and jumped up to look in the mirror, which of course proved that I was incorrect and his beard clearly said LSU. He’s a very intelligent man — let me be clear — he just didn’t want to accept the truth. So I took my phone out and showed him that his face definitely spelled out U S L.

Also, the “S” was backwards.

I was still giggling about it several hours later, when we lost the game against Alabama and the sadness began. I think that Robbie felt personally responsible for the loss this time.

It can really hurt to take one for the team.

Note the perfectly-executed "L."

Note the perfectly-executed “L.”

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Downy Déjà vu

As long as I am married to Robbie, which will be until I’m senile or dead, I will never run out of things to write about. Here is a conversation we had this evening:

Me: “We’re out of laundry detergent, so I can’t wash any more clothes until I go to the store.”

Robbie: “Just use that stuff in the blue bottle.”

Me: “What stuff? You mean fabric softener?”

Robbie: “Yeah, that stuff. It’s all the same.”


Robbie: “It all basically does the same thing. It gets them clean.”

Me: “No … no.”

Robbie: “Yes it does, I washed a few loads awhile back with that stuff.” (He’s referring to the other weekend when I went to the beach.) 

Me: (silence)

Robbie: “It got them clean.”

Me: “That explains the weird blue stains on our clothes.”

Robbie: “Oh.”

What’s even MORE amazing is that this exact thing happened when I was 12 years old, and my dad took over laundry duties because my mom returned to the workforce.

Weeks, WEEKS, I TELL YOU, went by with the three of us — me, my mom, and my dad — wondering where all of these grey-blue spots were coming from.


Whoever said that most women end up marrying a man who is just like their father was so, so right.

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Every so often something will happen that reminds me of how grateful I am not to be out there in the dating pool. Marriage is hard work, but dating was exhausting. I wasn’t very good at it. I could give you a list of reasons why, but frankly I’d rather not rehash it.

Just know that it wasn’t my specialty.

Yesterday before Zumba class, I was standing off to the side of the room minding my own business when an older woman approached and said, “I thought of you today when I got dressed.” I had never spoken to her before, but she was delightfully engaging/borderline rowdy/possibly crazy, which is exactly what I love in a geriatric.

She showed me her cute workout outfit (complete with large hoop earrings — I high-fived her for that one) and I stood there mouth agape as she rattled on about how she has a son who is single. It took me a few minutes to catch on that she meant she has a son who is single and she wanted me to meet him.

“He’s very tall — like 6’5 — and SO handsome. Honey, he’s a catch. Recently divorced, two kids, makes a lot of money. A lot. You should see his home, it’s gorgeous. Let’s see … he’s a very good cook. Almost too good, really. Sometimes you just want to tell him to get out of the kitchen.”

She then grabbed my left hand and said, “You aren’t married, are y— OH, DAMMIT.” She threw her hands up in the air in what I can only describe as disgust, as I assured her that her son won’t have any trouble finding love.

“It sounds like he won’t have a problem finding someone,” I offered.

That is when she looked straight at me and said, “He won’t find anyone, honey. HE’S A MAJOR WOMANIZER.”

Oh … I see. That IS a problem. But thank you anyway for trying to set me up with your whore of a son.

This is my husband.

Robbie has long said that there is no way he could handle more than one woman in his life. The emotional outbursts, the need for discussion, the complicated bodies, the feelings … my husband is not cut out for philandering. This is why I have surrounded him with light.

A Lode Of Honesty.

Oh, boy.

Let me preface this by saying, please don’t go any further if you are my mother, my grandmother, my mother-in-law (oops, too late) or anyone else who may be offended by inappropriate language and/or knowing about my naked body. Although, if that is the case, is this really the website for you?

(It is not.)

But for everyone else, HI! THIS IS A REALLY BIG DAY FOR ME! One of my essays got published on Mamalode, and I’m super proud of myself — but also cringing a little on the inside. If you read it, you’ll see why.


Some people have asked me, “Why are you writing such personal things?” Well … I really don’t know. I have a deep well of stories that just need to come out. I don’t really put a lot of thought into the why, I just know what I must do, and what I must do is write. I have so many things to tell. So, so many.

Just wait.

(Want to read my essay? Click here to check it out!)