Offering Up Your Seat

Everyone gives up their seat for a pregnant lady. That's just the way it goes. This is not even in question (and for those of you who don't give it up, and you know who you are, well you are just low, low, low).

But what if you're not sure that the woman you want to offer your seat to is actually pregnant? What if you make that terrible mistake of offending and embarrassing a woman in front of a subway car full of gawkers?

That was my dilemma this morning on my ride to work. I spotted a woman, who, at first look, I thought had a bun in the oven as they say, and as I was about to get up to offer her my seat, I stopped. I wasn't sure.

As a friend pointed out, I could have just gotten up and offered her the seat anyways, but the problem was she was about eight to ten feet away with about six people in between- all hungry for a seat.

So if I just got up to give her the seat- I couldn't just point to her and say please sit here and all those seat-hawks would have jumped the second I got up from my precious little spot. And tapping her was out of the question–she was too far away to do the light tap and face of concern, which means hey I want this seat, but you look like you need it more look.


So I just sat there and felt a little guilty, but very comfortable.

A few sayings I don't understand

waiting with baited breath

beating a dead horse- where did this come from? why would you even think to say this in the first place? really? a dead horse?

off like a dirty shirt

I am sure Amy will be able to educate all of us on these.

The Underdogs Prevailed, Now What?

Despite being the richest and most powerful nation in the world, Americans identify with the underdog in sports, politics and any high school homecoming.

We revel in the possibility of the underdog–maybe it goes back to the American Revolution, I'm not really sure, but what I am sure of is that the possibility we see in the underdog provides us with an unbridled hope.

One that we can and do become addicted to despite having our hearts broken season after season (ask a Cubs or Mets fan).

It's a twisted love with continual heart break, but we can't get enough.

As a Red Sox fan, I am torn. Now that we have won two World Series, the 'curse' has been broken (a lovely story that gave our losses the ultimate pain: the knowledge that we had caused our own heart ache).

What do you do when you're team has risen to the top?

Now you're rooting for the Goliath of the sport? That's not fun.

There's no sport in slaughtering your opponent.

It's like hunting rabbits in a pet store with a semi-automatic, where's the sport in that?

No, the Sox are no longer the underdogs of baseball.

I miss that unrequited hope, that bitter-sweet loss. Are they going to win? Can we actually make this work? Oh wait, that's right no, we can't. Because we're the underdogs. I was okay with that, knowing where we were, and there was respect from other fans for sticking with a team despite loss after loss.

So I've thought about some new teams:

I like the Mets because they tease their fans along, you think your team is on a winning–streak and then they blow it- BIG TIME- with loss after loss after loss. To the point where you're embarrassed when someone's reading about it in the sports section of the post on the train to work the next morning.

I also like the Cubs, but they're more of a sure-fire losing team so there's not really that much fun in that.

And that about ends my knowledge of baseball teams.

So, out of the three, I'm sticking with my guys, the sometimes unstoppable (every 86 years and then 2 years later) Red Sox.

Super Bowl 42

It would be easy for me to point out all of the nay-sayers, all of the football fans who thought it couldn't be done, and especially easy for me to point out all of the sad, sad Patriots fans (and not just because their faces are still stained with bitter tears of shock and resentment toward Brady).

It would be easy.

But that's the problem, it's just too easy.

It would be like pulling a chair from underneath a blind person and then laughing when they fall.

Of course it's an easy joke and that's why I am not going to do it.

No, I won't focus on the arrogant statements by Patriots players, fans and most of New England before the game.

I'm going to focus on the David in this contest that successfully served up a lovely platter of New England Patriots for sacrifice: The Giants.

The Giants were the underdogs of not only the Super Bowl, but for much of the year and the took on the undefeated punks of football.

The Patriots thought of the Giants as a last speed bump on their highway to the perfect season.

But as we all now know, they thought wrong. Really, really wrong.

Don't Smoke and Run

During a walk on this beautiful sun-drenched day in Prospect Park, my beau and I came across a few Super Bowl inspired neighborhood football games.

None were organized in the sense of markers, jerseys or in some cases sneakers, but all had that "It's the last down, hail-Mary pass, ten seconds left" spirit to them.

We were drawn to one group that appeared to have quite a following and a lot of screaming and my-driveway-is-bigger-than-yours (a phrase a high school friend came up with to make fun of the kids who spent their time trying to figure out the newest way to out do the next kid) contests.

I'm not really sure who was winning because pass after pass was dropped or just not even close to being caught, but what I really liked about them was their ability to trash talk despite their inability to play. It was beautiful.

One of my favorite interactions between the better (? better is really up for discussion) was between a Joe Pesci look alike with cut off sweatpants with high red socks (think The Super), a puffy coat and a hoodie pulled over his head and one of his teammates.

Before I describe this, I have to explain that Pesci had just failed to complete a big pass and before this last bad pass he had fallen and before that he let a touchdown go by failing to touch the guy who was maybe four feet away from him and not doing any fancy foot work, nor was he that fast.

"Tower?" Pesci's roommate would scream (right next to him).

"Yea!" Pesci replied.

"Tower, you in the building?"

"Yeah!" Pesci yelled.

"Tower, you in the building?!"

"I AM the Building," Pesci screamed.

It was great. As this was conversation was going on the teams were lining up and one tall skinny kid on the opposing team turned his head to the sidelines very quickly and screamed,

"Hey, you smoking? I know you've got a cigarette, come on, Papa, give me a puff."

So, he runs out of the line up and takes a drag of some fan's cigarette before running back to the line up.

While that was bad, I've seen worse, which brings me to the title of the post.

During the NYC marathon I was just about to walk (definitely walking at this point and didn't start running again until Mile 16 over the 59th street bridge) over the Polanski bridge, which connects Greenpoint with Queens, when I saw her.

A woman walking about fifteen feet ahead and to the right of me.

She was SMOKING. Let me say that again, she was in the NYC marathon and SMOKING.

It was ridiculous, offensive and wonderfully funny all at the same time.

Eli, Eli, Eli!

As some have commented, Eli Manning is not exactly the alpha quarterback that coaches hope to have.

He's got the baby face. The "befuddled" look about him after a play goes wrong or right and just always seems to be out of place.

And yet, you have to root for him–I feel like I'm watching my son or brother playing (I have neither) when I am watching Eli.

He always looks lost, like he just haphazardly walked onto the field and they stuck a football in his hand and said give it a shot and somehow he's still here three years later.

But I'm not counting Eli out, sure he gets nervous–a lot.

Sure he throws interceptions–a lot.

Sure he freezes–a lot.

But when he's good, he's great.

He just needs that first touchdown and then he'll be off.

Can't wait to watch him during my Super Bowl extravaganza on Feb. 3, 2008.

Why a New England Girl is Rooting for the Giants

The title of the post has already alienated me from my Mom, boyfriend, a few colleagues and of course, most of New England.

But I don't care.

No–I'm rooting for the Giants. The David of this year's Super Bowl.

Sure there are lots of reasons I should hope that the Patriots should win:

1. I'm from Connecticut
2. Tom Brady is cuter than Eli Manning (although I'm not entirely convinced of this)
3. That whole 17 and 0 thing they've got going
4. Tons of other reasons that any New England fan will happily fill you in on if asked or even if you don't ask or just happen to walk by them, most likely they will be talking/ranting/raving about how the Patriots are going to kill the Giants in two weeks.

But I've got one good reason that's enough for me to root for the Giants:
They're the underdogs.

I love underdogs, which explains my love for the Red Sox for so many years (and why I'm sporting a Mets cap during baseball season, although I'm still a Sox fan at heart despite winning two World Series).

And everyone expects the Giants to be crushed, slaughtered- sort of a sacrificial offering to the Super Bowl gods on behalf of the Patriots to start a legacy- but I'm not interested in that.

I'd like to watch the Super Bowl and not have to wait for the next great Doritos commercial because we already know who's going to win.

No, I'd like to see the Giants take on their Goliath (no pun intended) and surprise everyone, but most of all Mr. Football himself, Mr. Tom-I-date-and-impregnate-hot-women-and-think-I'm-amazing-despite-throwing-
three-interceptions-against-San-Diego-Brady, and serve up their own lamb for sacrifice.