Musings at a Massachusetts Dairy Queen

It's Labor Day! Isn't that lovely. To me, Labor Day used to angst-riddled and filled with the inevitable dread of a brand spanking new school year. Nowadays, I don't mind it so much. Instead of worrying about the looming grab-ass chatter, distribution of syllabuses (syllabi?) and seeing who got better looking over the summer, I get to look forward to fall. As I have gotten older (and my seasonal allergies have eased up over the years), the end of Summer and start of Fall is rather lovely! My ideal weather is where I can be comfortable in skinny jeans, a t shirt and if need be, a zip up hoodie. I am giddy with excitement of listening to The Smiths as I wander the mean streets of Providence and then plop myself down with a quaint english murder mystery series. You know the type, small town in the countryside where there are an astounding amount of murders for such a small place. There's a good chance the butcher will get framed because he was sleeping with the preacher's wife but at the same time, that harlot was also shtupping the baker's younger brother who just got back from studying abroad who ACTUALLY wanted to kill the Vicar because...oh never mind, you know the type of show. 

Where was I? Right, Fall! A couple days ago I was at a Dairy Queen I have driven by 3,000 times in my life on my way to and from work and finally decided to pop in and get something. I brought a notebook and decided to try to come up with some things to blog about in the near future: my musings at a Massachusetts Dairy Queen. I came up with a few topics but must say I was distracted by the scene at said Dairy Queen. 

The woman working the register must dread airport securities because I can't see taking out what looked like 3 different tongue piercings being a whole lot of fun. The floors were quite sticky. This made me shudder as I heard a mother start yelling at her son because he had just came back from the bathroom and somehow lost both his shoes and was now rawdogging the aforementioned floors with bare feet. I was contemplating my decision to finally try this DQ when the burger I ordered, some monstrosity called a Flamethrower, showed up. To be honest with you, it wasn't bad. Spicy as hell but I mean that in a loving way. As I attempted to free my mind about the possibility of catching scurvy at this place, I tried to focus on my upcoming fantasy football draft. Then I started feeling bad about myself. 

Fantasy football is stupid. It's incredibly dumb. Also, we must keep in mind this: guys are dumb. Does it make sense that a made up game about real life football games is a driving factor to keep millions and millions of friend groups together? Absolutely not! Yet each year, friend groups will get together on a carefully selected date (always easily settled on every year!) and draft their minions. The goal? Supremacy with your most treasured friends and loved ones. Sure you might win a couple bucks, get to keep a trophy that gets passed around and hasn't had an updated engraving for past champions since 2015, but the bragging rights is what matters most. 

My league is entering year 11. Each and every day I thank the fantasy Gods that I have never came in last place, which features a trophy with a horse's ass on it, and is named after the most annoying girl that we went to high school with. It gives you good reason to have a special place in your heart for players you normally couldn't care less. If I ever run into Jordy Nelson, DeVonta Freeman or Aaron Rodgers (okay maybe not that weirdo) I would gladly pay for their beer or meal for them leading me to my one season of glory in 2016. 

Fantasy football is great fun...at times. Actually a lot of it is second guessing yourself as if you could have predicted that a player you drafted in round 5 was going to snap their Achilles in week 3, or some no name player out of BYU with a name that sounds like a character from the Lion King was going to light up scoreboards and cost you multiple games. It's dumb and at times stressful but there is nothing more satisfying than beating your friends at stupid stuff. Nothing.

As I was prepping for my draft at this dreary Dairy Queen, it dawned on me that with the first overall pick, I was doing the no brainer move of selecting San Francisco 49ers running back Christian McCaffrey. Even the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz was smart enough to take CMC with that pick. I noted that he is now married to former Miss Rhode Island, Miss USA and, of course, because Rhode Island rules the world, Miss Universe, Olivia Culpo. 

"...did you just say, 'coffee milk and hot weiners'?"

Years ago I met her when I was probably 12? 13? A neighbor of mine was friends with her and while I tried to say hey and mumble something that sounded cool at the time, she paid absolutely no mind to me despite standing next to her. I don't even think her eyes left her Razr phone for a second when I was introduced. I was probably on my way home from the convenience store, possibly on roller blades, maybe a bike and definitely had a bag that contained a vanilla coke and some sort of candy bar. I would've offered but she was so stuck up I became frightened and decided to just keep going on home. I thought of this when she won title after title and was then hobnobbing with Donald Trump. I also thought of it when ex boyfriend and ex New England Patriot Danny Amendola had that hilariously awful, cringe inducing instagram post where he tried to sum up their breakup. 

Now all these years later, I have to do the unthinkable and select that dope's new husband, with the hope that he brings me glory against my group of idiot (I mean that lovingly!!!) friends. Suddenly, fantasy and reality have to blend again. This is a no win for me! Each time he scores a touchdown I'm sure I'll think of getting absolutely ignored! This season will be tough and now I have to deal with this. Having this number one pick was a real blessing and a curse for me. If it ends with glory, so be it. But will the happiness outweigh the moment of embarrassment that I felt back in like...2003?

My what a tangled web we weave. I have to put my faith in the power couple of Rhode Island. This stinks.