I joined a flag football team once, and it was the worst experience of my life.

It wasn’t because of my athletic ability. I wasn’t because I’ve never been to a school with a football team.

It was because the quarterback was a huge asshole.

I hate to put guys who were in fraternities into a “frat boy” stereotype, but Jerry, the quarterback, was your typical asshole frat boy that you see in the movies.

Only, he wasn’t good-looking.

Jerry made it clear that he didn’t like girls playing (and only threw the ball to us when he was mandated to throw to a girl), made crude jokes about his wife that made me cringe and, if we were losing, he’d get red in the face and start yelling at everyone, which pumps no one up.

I’ve been on a number of adult social leagues, and Jerry was the worst coach ever.

And by worst coach ever, I mean that the game WHERE I SCORED MY FIRST TOUCHDOWN, EVER, I drove home crying because of him.

Let me explain. The entire season was a big ball of frustration.

Jerry routinely paired me up with very tall girls, and I would fruitlessly chase them around the field doing absolutely nothing defensively.

“You’re the fastest girl we have,” Jerry snorted when I asked him about his coaching decision.

“Yea but she’s six feet tall,” I said. “I’m five feet tall. It doesn’t matter if I am in front of her with my arms up jumping up and down, she can easily catch the ball completely over my head. What’s the point?”

He didn’t see the problem, and ignored me.

Then, Jerry exclusively threw the ball to specific players, even if they had four people surrounding them.

All of us girls stood there, a LOT, with no one around us, saying, “HELLO!? HELLO!?” and Jerry ignored us.

Yet, the worst of the worst was when I scored my first and only touchdown.


I don’t even know how it happened. I was thrown the ball during a “girl’s turn” and managed to zig-zag my way down to the end zone. ALL! THE! WAY!

I had never done anything like that before, athletically. I was overcome with adrenaline. I felt like the kid from Little Giants.

“AHHHHHH!!!!!” I screamed loudly, spiking the ball like the professionals do.

I then did this classic touchdown dance:

oh yea.


Yet, when I went back to my team, only ONE GUY told me congratulations, and it wasn’t Jerry. He wasn’t happy because even with my touchdown, we were still losing.

I was pissed.

“Hey!” I said to him. “Aren’t you going to tell me congratulations? I just scored a fucking touchdown.”

“That’s what you should have done,” Jerry said. “You don’t reward a dog for sitting.”

My jaw dropped. He wasn’t joking.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO BE THE DOG HERE???” I said, furious, embarrassed. God, who talks to people like that???

All my happiness drained. I might as well have gotten the ball fumbled. I walked away to drink my Gatorade alone, forcing back tears.


But then I got really, really angry.

Because, wait a minute….you absolutely reward a dog for sitting. You give it treats.

And OTHER PEOPLE are happy when their players get touchdowns. There’s a whole joke about guys spanking other guys on the asses when they do that! Right??? Right!!!?


Thankfully, we didn’t get into the playoffs, and I was able to quit the team after the next game.

I learned two things from being in that league. One, I will never be on another flag football team ever again.

And two, I will always OVERLY reward dogs for sitting.



I’ve never been someone who is just dying to get married.
I have friends who are dying to get married and I listen to their reasons and all, but I feel like getting married is something you do when you’re all grown up and stop day drinking.
But Jack didn’t know that.
If I had been someone who was overly obsessed with getting married, he would have gotten a slap to the face.
Jack and I were both in the same wedding party and he was already annoying in that he hooked up with a bridesmaid the night before and ignored her the next day at the wedding, making group pictures uncomfortable.
All the groomsmen were being quite annoying that day, scattering around and not taking the professional photos seriously, although they did share their Jameson with us.
After the ceremony and group pictures, I was anxious to get into the reception. My friends who I hadn’t seen in a long time (and my then-boyfriend) were partying and eating oysters and watching an LSU game and I was missing it.
“Can we go inside now??” I asked the fussy wedding planner.
“No,” she said. “We need to get the entire wedding party to line up and follow the bride and groom into the reception.”
The bride and groom were still taking photos by themselves.
All the bridesmaids were lined up perfectly. Only one groomsman was in line.
“Where is everyone else??” I asked him.
“They’re in the reception.”

I wanted to be in the reception! They probably didn’t even know we had to line up. So I marched inside and tapped each one on the shoulder.
“Hey, can you come outside and line up?” I asked, longfully waving to my friends who were already celebrating.
Each groomsman was confused and irritated they had to walk back outside (YEA, I KNOW THE FEELING) and when I walked back to the line, every groomsman followed…except for Jack.
“WHAT THE F—?” I said, as the wedding planner started hyperventilating and the bride and groom were walking towards the line.
“We can’t walk in unless EVERYONE is here,” she said. “They are announcing each of your names.”
At this point, we had all been waiting for over 20 minutes and I was hungry and I wasn’t about to wait longer because someone can’t follow simple instructions.
I walked back to the reception, found Jack flirting with someone and interrupted the conversation.
“Hey, Jack, everyone is lined up except you, can you come please? Outside the tent?”
He ROLLED HIS EYES, making me feel like a huge bitch but I didn’t care because at least he followed.
Finally we were all in line, ready to go inside.
I couldn’t have been happier.
Yet, what should have been an adorable moment of watching my best friend and her new husband being presented for the first time as a married couple, Jack had to ruin the moment.
“Woah, look at little Miss NAG over here,” he said loudly as we were all about to walk in. “Now I know why YOU’RE not the one getting married.”
ALL THE OTHER GROOMSMAN STARTED LAUGHING and my jaw dropped as a gracious bridesmaid turned around and called him an asshole.
And that’s how I ended up walking into the reception of my best friend’s wedding with a red face feeling super self-conscious even though everyone was clapping and my hair looked awesome.
I should have pointed out that I didn’t see a ring on his finger either, but I was too shocked and embarrassed.
I guess that’s what happens when someone THROWS THE FACT THAT YOU’RE NOT MARRIED IN YOUR FACE and then points out that it must be because of your personality.
I then realized that while I DON’T have a deep desire to get married, I’d at least like to be considered marriage material, rather than an annoying nag.

I just wanted to get into the reception! I wailed to my friends as I recapped what Jack said. I wasn’t even being that nagg-y!!! This is all the wedding planner’s fault!!!
They repeated what the fellow bridesmaid called him and told me to get over it, but I was still upset.

(My then-boyfriend was too enthralled by the LSU game to console me.)

After awhile, I started to feel better, thanks to a bit of a reality check and the delightful sangria they were serving.

I mean, who needs to get married, anyway?
I’m not a grown up yet.
Here’s to day drinking.


Not too long ago, I was lying around my apartment with Sam — who I met the week before at a party — talking about what we wanted to do that day.

“ Well, where do you live?” I asked him.
“Oh yea? I’ve always wanted to live uptown,” I said.

“Yea, it’s cool, but I live with three other guys and it’s really annoying having four dudes living in one apartment,” Sam said. He was 28.

“One of my roommates is a firefighter and his girlfriend is SOO annoying and she’s over almost EVERY night,” Sam continued. “It’s come to the point where we all just roll our eyes when we see her car outside.”

“Ah, that sucks,” I said.

“Yea, but I think they’re going to get engaged soon, so we’re all hoping that happens and they move in somewhere together,” Sam said.

I told him that I understood roommate issues. I’ve lived in five different apartments (and one house) over the past ten years, and Sam and I talked at length about shitty roommates and roommates’ shitty significant others.

We hung out in my neighborhood for a bit and then Sam drove home — uptown — and we made plans to go to dinner that week.
He came to pick me up.

It was a very nice, expensive restaurant, one that was so expensive it made me a tad uncomfortable.

Sam waited until I took a big bite of salad before saying, “I lied to you. I actually live with my parents.”

I coughed on dressing and lettuce and looked at him like he must be joking.
“What?” I said.

“Yea, I just moved back to New Orleans a few months ago and didn’t have anyone to live with, so I’m living with them for awhile.”

I swallowed.

“So…the whole story about the four roommates….and the firefighter….??” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I dunno…I was really embarrassed and made up something quick,” he said.

QUICK?? He QUICKLY came up with a massive elaborate lie?

I mean, here I was actually feeling sorry for his poor firefighter roommate who was going to propose to his girlfriend who sucks.

(Um, someone sucks.)

I debated whether I should find it endearing that Sam lied because he wanted to look good in front of me, or find it disturbing, indicative of a pathological liar.

I took another bite of lettuce, goat cheese and candied pecans to think it over.

Sam must have seen the confusion in my face, because he said quickly, “I mean, my parents DO live uptown, so I DO live uptown.”

Ha! As if that made it all better! Like, he didn’t lie completely because he kept it all in the same zip code.

“Well, you should have just said you live uptown, period,” I finally said.

Because we were at a nice restaurant and we were having an elaborate dinner (that he paid for), I was never able to appropriately call him out on his HOUSE of lies. It wouldn’t have been classy. Emeril would have been mad.

I wanted to say,
“Look, saying, “I live uptown with friends” would even be forgivable. But dragging your fake FIREFIGHTER friend into the mix and telling me specific details about how you and your roommates ALL ROLL YOUR EYES when you see his FAKE girlfriend’s car outside your FAKE house is quite another thing.”

What other elaborate lies would Sam tell?

I fast-forwarded to if we were seriously dating, and imagined he’d make up something ridiculous like being in a comedy improv group and had to practice every night, when really, he’d be cheating on me.

“Well, I WAS in the French Quarter,” he’d justify, which in my head is where both the fake comedy group and mistress would be located.

But I kept my mouth shut on the matter. After dinner, I committed to just having a nice time listening to good music with someone who was good-looking and a good dancer.

And, after several vodkas, I began to think, what’s wrong with a little lie anyway?
I mean, my driver’s license says I’m both taller and thinner than I really am.

Really, what’s the big deal? (Oh how my drunk mind turns on me)

When the show was over, Sam dropped me off at my very own (parents free) apartment.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, and I actually hoped he would.

But no. He lied again.
I never ever heard from Sam again.

Alas! Our short-lived relationship went up in flames.

Too bad all the firefighters I know are fake.