how she learned to love football: a very short story*

Katie was pretty sure they'd only had sex twice that month. Or was it only once?

She marked the calendar with big black Xs every time they did it. Wait, now that she thought about it: Maybe it was only once that month. It was this strange, oddly predictable pattern where, pretty much, every 11 days he’d give in. And her birth control cost $34 a month so when she knew they were going to do it, she’d say, “Baby, make this one good. It’s worth $11.33.”

They’d known each other, oh three, four years by then. But she had no idea what they were doing together. Because it certainly wasn’t the passion keeping them glued. To this day, however, she has him to thank for getting her into sports, though. Katie became a football fan because of him.

Bill would spend every weekend—Saturday for the college games, Sunday for the pro games—immersed in the TV. It was all about him, his microbrews, his weed, his remote control.

And Katie would try anything she could think of to get his attention. And that meant, just like a terrible joke or cliché or Peg from Married with Children, dressing up in slutty little outfits and pushing her super duper, push-up bra boobs in his face or just standing there, blocking his precious TV, pride gone, bare ass naked and damn near begging:

Come on, Bill, can’t you peel your eyes away even for just a second?
Please?

It’ll take ten minutes. 
Tops.

Nope. Not Bill. 

He’d say, without even a hint of a smile, “Katie, come on, you’re being ridiculous.”

It was like a really disappointing beer commercial featuring Robot Bill the Anti-Sex Stodge sitting there in a haze of wasted potheadedness. Cue computer generated voice: Hot chick in way of game. Move hot chick out of way. Drink beer. Continue viewing game.

Meanwhile, Katie was thinking: how about we get creative like they do in a cheesey sitcom or a bad porno and do stuff while the game is still on? She was willing to compromise. Let him have his football. Let her have some fun. Really. She was willing to make a deal.

Ridiculous? To him, she was.

To her, she was just a girl looking for what a lot of women, so she heard, turned down on a regular basis in the context of marriage. (Katie's note to self: never take this for granted. Idiots!). And what were all these rumors flying around that men were constant sexed-up freaks and women were orgasm fakers?  

There she was begging for it, not understanding why. She knew that was messed up, everyone told her it was, but then she started wondering if maybe she was undesirable. But that was ridiculous and she knew it. All the men she'd ever known couldn't keep their eyes, hands or other parts off her. This Bill was the weird one. Why she hung on, she didn't have a clue. It could've been all that money he had. 


But she knew it was only a matter of time. A ticking clock, time bomb. She wasn't going to stick around for this. Even though he was worth millions. Like tens of them. Jewelry, expensive clothes, vacations made life comfortable and pretty. But Katie wanted to get down. In sexy outfits. Even while he sipped his stupid beer and watched his stupid game. It was any "normal" guy's dream. Wasn't it?

But instead of getting angry, she’d go to the kitchen and pour herself a stiff Jack & Coke, didn’t matter what time it was, and sit on the chair by herself, dangling her hooker shoes off the side, naked, maybe not naked, whatever, didn’t matter, he didn’t notice. And the more she sipped, the less she felt. 

The less she felt, the more she watched.

And so, what else was she gonna do but learn to love football? 

To be continued....

* this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to characters living or dead is entirely coincidental. 

buzzwords, the buzzkill

I’ve been surrounded by intimidating smarts before. The kind of smarts that make you wonder if you’ll ever amount to a hill of beans in life. But as you get a little older, a lot of those seemingly “intimidating smarts” turned out to just be really good talkers. Good talkers who really know how to effortlessly toss out these little buzzwords and incomprehensible marketingspeak designed to make an intelligent, well-intentioned, hardworking (usually female) newbie feel like not only an outsider but maybe, horrors, a real dummy.

Things often said by coiffed, cologned and cufflink wearing men.

Things like:

“identify best practices”

“the low-hanging fruit”

“push the envelope”

“capture mindshare”

“are we polishing a turd here?”

“perhaps cast a wider net”

“dimensionalize that paradigm”

“tear down some silos”

“the scenery only changes for the lead dog”

Meanwhile, everyone’s nodding.
Taking notes.
Sipping their boardroom table burned coffees.
Saying equally hideous things like:

“I’ll circle back to you on that”

“Are we on the same page?”

“Noodle that”

“Let’s explore core competencies”

“Next steps”

I can’t think of any more at this very moment but "at the end of the day" I’m sure I will. Oh yeah, other stuff like “30,000 foot view” and “where the rubber meets the road” and a real sweetie: “the smell test.” Good times!

As an impressionable young copywriter back in 1999, the big term was (let’s all gag in unison): “We’re all about thinking outside the box here.” Yeah, we get it. Like coloring outside the lines. Big whoop. It makes for a stupid, lazy, dumb-kid-did-it sort of crayon gone mad mess. Later on you learn that no client wants anything that doesn’t come in a neat, tidy container. So stay in your box. You belong there. It’s where the money gets made.

Anyway, now I realize that clarity is best. It’s always been best. Clarity is where communication thrives. Is that clear? If you can still say what you want to say in a clever, interesting way, great. If not, stick to clarity. Otherwise you lose people. And nobody buys anything. And the client moves on to an agency that can deliver smart, CLEAR creative. And you’re out of that nice, cushy, outside-box job. Suddenly making a staggering $275 a week off the good ole Florida government wondering how in hell you’re gonna pay for that Lexus.

I digress. Sorry, did I just get personal?

All I can say is that the box is cozy. Stay in it. Be smart.

In the meantime, get clear. Please.

I read on NPR this week a great reminder about simplicity and impact, the “Six Word Memoir” made truly famous by Ernest Hemingway years ago.

Hemingway’s goes:

“For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

If the hair isn’t standing up on the back of your neck people, stop reading now. You’re not my friend.

Anyway, the point is: you can say a lot with very little. And you can be very clear, too.

What if, on the other hand Hemingway wrote:

“SIDS. Sad. Shoes Straight to Goodwill.”

Just doesn’t have that one-two-punch does it? (There I go again. I’m telling you, this marketingspeak is a tough habit to break).

So can you please do me a favor, and yourselves an even bigger favor, and let’s all try a little less marketingspeak?
(No matter how smart you think it makes you look). To me, and to a lot of my friends (who shall remain nameless, for now), it actually makes you look like a wannabe jackass who is, yes, very much so…polishing a big, stinky, steaming turd. And no, you can’t make ice cream out of horseshit. (another gem I’d forgotten about).

If you’re not sure if a product is going to work or sell or what, don’t give it a “smell test.” Gross.

In that next meeting, and this is pretty revolutionary stuff, I know….why not astound your peers and say, simply:

“Let’s see if this works!”

Now that’s some intimidating smarts.

Peace out yo. That’s all I gotta say. Carry on friends.