Don't You Mean Nightmare?

I'm guessing blogging angry isn't recommended. Right now I should go run a mile, take a hot bath, drink a glass of wine or even better, do all three. But instead, I think I'll exercise poor judgment and write some public hate mail to my enemy of the moment: fantasy football.

Dear "Fantasy" Football:

I'm not a fan. Actually I don't like you one bit. Here are the top three reasons I think you stink:

1.) You waste SO-O much time. Now not only does my husband want to check in on the Seahawks score, he wants to watch EVERY single NFL match possible so he can track the performance of his fantasy team. As the hours tick away every Sunday, I loathe you even more.

2.) You impair my husband's ability to communicate/engage with his family and friends. Not only does he not have much time for us because he is focused on the TV, if he is forced to talk to me, play with the kids, or go anywhere with friends, he will frequently check in with the fantasy football app on his phone. Nothing says "quality time" like sideways phone glances and endless rolling of the Blackberry trackball.

3.) What makes me hate you the MOST is the way you turn my funny, kind, smart, loving husband into a total Grump-a-saurus Rex! This is a game right?! I thought this was supposed to be something that is fun. You are not fun. For any of us.

So, F. Football, long-story-short, you certainly aren't MY kind of fantasy! If I could figure out how to kick you to the curb, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Resentfully yours,
Seattle Sun