I almost burned down the house thanks to Fantasy Football. Seriously, though. It happened on Monday. I had heated some oil on the stove to cook some frozen French fries for Clifford’s dinner. It was fast and easy and if you haven’t been paying attention, I’m not exactly Julia Childs here, so whatever.

When the oil was hot enough, I threw in the fries. I put the lid on and walked into the living room to grab my phone. Little Sis called right when I went to pick it up. We got whatever pleasantries needed out of the way and then we got down to business -Fantasy Football.

Our draft is Sunday, you see. We have 14 in our league this year which means we’re going to need to go deep. And as far as players go, they’re already dropping like flies. We started going through possibilities and strategies, the pros and cons of various players, our always in-sync thoughts on Tom Brady, team names, etc. You get the drill. The next thing I know I see smoke billowing out of the kitchen in a dark dense wave. I pause, staring at the smoke. I’ve never seen that much in an enclosed area in my life.

Me: There’s smoke coming out of the kitchen. Just a sec.

Little Sis: Why?

Me: I have no idea …

I got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen to see it filled to the brim with smoke, and now I could smell it, too. The repugnant odor of burnt oil choked the breath right out of me. This was well beyond toasted marshmallow territory. This was bad.

Me: Hey, I think something’s on fire. I need to go.

Little Sis: Um, okaaay …

I hung up and realized that though I could barely see, holy shit, I had had something on the stove! Consumed by football once again, I’d completely forgotten that I was even making anything at all. I ran to the stove and turned it off, watching as the dark grease-filled smoke ballooned from the small blackened pot, filling the open area with its oppressive stench, devouring any oxygen it could find left in the room.

I turned on the vent and opened the window trying to get the smoke to dissipate as much as it could. The entire time this was happening, Clifford was downstairs renovating the garage. I was thinking two things—-

1. I am so thankful we live like college kids as our detectors have no batteries (because that noise would have been annoying as hell and would have certainly alerted Clifford to what was happening upstairs).

2. He was absolutely going to kill me, and then proceed to lecture me about being oblivious to my surroundings.

The funny thing is, is that with all the smoke seeping through every vent in the house wherein he had to have smelled something was amiss, he never once made his way to my level. So maybe I’d get away with this little snafu after all …

About an hour later, Clifford finally emerged from the garage and it was time to play Deflect and Deny.

Clifford: What burned? It smells like something was on fire.

Me: (taking a whiff of the foul air while trying not to gag) I don’t smell anything.

Clifford: (skeptically) You don’t smell that? (he paused and then looked at me with one brow raised) Did you set fire to something?

Me: No. (it was the truth- kinda)

Clifford: (not buying what I was selling) Seriously. What burned? There’s smoke everywhere in the house.

Me: (innocently looking around, smoke burning my eyes) I don’t see anything. (I saw it everywhere)

Clifford: (pursing his lips) You don’t see the smoke?

Me: (shrugging) Nope.

Clifford made his way to the kitchen.

Clifford: No really. What did you burn? You did something. (he starts coughing because of the heavy smoke stagnantly suspended above)

Me: (casually continuing to sit cross-legged on the couch while watching Turn Season 2 and enjoying a bowl of ice cream to soothe my sore smoky throat, I quickly glanced his way from my periphery) I didn’t do anything. Why do you always think I did something?

Clifford: (walking out of the kitchen and giving me the look) Libby …what did you do?

Me: (pausing Netflix, sighing heavily and rolling my eyes) I may have tried to make some French fries for you and I may have left them on a little too long …

Clifford: Because you forgot about them? (he glimpsed the laptop on the coffee table before me)Because you were on your precious computer twitting or posting shit instead of paying attention?

Me: (confidently) I was NOT on the computer. (because I wasn’t)

Clifford: So you were on your phone then. (much more of an accusatory statement than a question)

Now this is where it gets a bit murky, I know. For some reason when Clifford challenges my life choices, the instinct I have as my hackles rise is to unequivocally prove him wrong. There’s just something about him that turns me into a rebellious 16 year old (or a petulant pre-teen, take your pick) when his criticism kicks in. Now if we were being all technical about words and their meanings, I guess to some that means I lie. However, I choose to think of it as diverting Clifford’s attention to lesser offensive possibilities that could have happened just as easily. Also, he would have been super pissed to know I almost burned down the house because of Fantasy Football.  He already thinks I’m a little too involved…

Me: (maintaining eye contact) I was not on my phone.

Clifford: (huffing) So where were you? The bathroom?

Me: (hey, when supply demands …) Yes.

Clifford: (taking a deep and totally judgmental breath) So let me get this straight. You light a gas stove with oil on it and then go to the opposite side of the house to go to the bathroom?

Me: (still maintaining eye contact) No, I used the closer bathroom.

Clifford: (sighing and rolling his eyes) But it doesn’t matter. You left a pot of oil burning unattended. Do you know how dangerous that is?

Me: (rebellious teen in full force complete with eye roll, indignant groan, and broken eye contact as I reached for my phone to tweet) Yes. (not looking up) And it won’t happen again.

Clifford: (sharply) You better not be twitting this.

Me: (snorting) It’s “tweeting” not “twitting” and I totally am.

Clifford: (letting out a frustrated grizzly bear like growl) You drive me nuts! You almost burned down the house!

Me: (simply, still tweeting) But I didn’t.

Clifford: (forcibly trying to make a point that just wasn’t going to take) But you could have.

Me: (quickly looking his way) But I didn’t! And I won’t do it again.

The expression on his face was the standard expression I receive from Clifford when I promise to never again do something he deems completely stupid. Aggravation mixed with pure incredulity. It rolled off my back along with every other look like that he’s given me over the years; I just kept tweeting.

So, Fantasy Football almost burned down my house. It’s four days later and it still smells like 85 bags of burnt popcorn. It’s SO bad.

Anyway, I can’t wait for the draft! Though my Rendevous Reaganites came in second place last year, this year’s team, Stop! Hamiltime, is going for the gold. I can feel it.

I am back.

Move #2: With Great Risk Comes Great Reward

Thomas Jefferson better be right. I have never researched my Fantasy Football picks as much as I have this week, delving into stats and predictions and theories and injury lists, etc. It was a bit beyond obsessive. I settled on a lineup at 8:25PM (our league locks in on Thursday’s kick off) willing fate be on my side.

Clifford had one player live last night. Only 3 points went his way. Granted it was his Tight End, but I’ll take it. Beggers can’t be choosers in a scenario such as this. Of course this is the week the Seahawks score 13 — on my bench. I have all my eggs in the Cardinals’ Defensive basket for Week 7 and it had better pay off bigger than the Easter Bunny.

What I want to talk about today is a new love in my life. I love Fantasy Football, and I want to shout it from the rooftops or jump on a couch with Oprah – that’s how in love with FF I am.

I was surprised, too.

Where has it been all my life? Better yet, where have I been to have only joined a league this year?

There’s definitely been a little bit of a learning curve because I’ve never played before, but it’s become an obsession for me. Clifford would watch The League on FX — I feel like I might be becoming those people.  It’s also been fabulous because Clifford is playing with me. My husband, who I remind you is not from North America and has never been interested in football or particularly any other sports since moving to the States, has finally invested in one. And that sport is football. This. Is. Huge.  It has sincerely taken our relationship to the next level. Watching him shout things at the TV about offside and holding makes my heart grow three sizes too big.

Yep.

And I’ve gone from interested to completely engrossed. I’m suddenly more involved in NFL stats and player performance and injuries than I’ve ever been before. I’ve always been a college football kind of girl and now I find myself living for Sundays instead of Saturdays (though I’ll still catch any college game to watch Notre Dame lose or Michigan win).

Fantasy Football is like the ultimate school yard pick-up game of kickball. There are captains and there are players. In Fantasy Football, you’re guaranteed to be a captain and you get to pick your team.  Your choices have consequences, but you get to watch those consequences be played out on your hi-def TV instead of on a dirt field behind an old smelly gym.

I’m not leading my league by any stretch of the imagination. It’s my rookie year; cut me some slack. But the highs and lows of winning and losing week to week have brought back my competitive drive with a vengeance. Though it’s a much more mature competitive drive than what I had during school yard kickball. It’s healthier… Instead of pounding the nearest teeter-totters like a two year old after a heartfelt loss, I just pound a bottle of wine like my liver could care less (we’ve struck an accord).

Fantasy Football is my happy place. Living the dream …

Which means I am super psyched about Fantasy Football. I’ve never played in a Fantasy league before, but I love football. That was the biggest disappointment in attending an art school – there wasn’t a team. And being stuck in the South with SEC lovers, watching games just isn’t the same. Sure, I can appreciate other regions because when you enjoy something, you enjoy it across the board, but again, it’s not quite the same as a Big Ten mashup in my book.

Though I typically take collegiate anything in sports over pro, I’m all in on this one. So I have a team. I am the owner of the Rendezvous Reaganites (formerly the Suburbia Reaganites). Though I prefer playing sports to watching them, there is something intriguing about owning a team, making the trades, deciding who plays – you know, being the Big Cheese. It’s strategy, and a little bit of luck (like Andrew Luck who is my top draft pick, Chelle, and the quarterback you will not have – just saying.) It’s why I prefer doubles to singles now; it’s like a chess match. Well, a chess match that relies entirely on outside forces affecting my team and plan beyond my control such as my players remaining unharmed, making wise decisions of their own accord and not doing anything stupid to ruin the offensive and defensive lines I’ve carefully constructed prior to game day. So not like chess at all really …

Our  league’s draft day is Labor Day. I’m pumped. An entire season of trash talking and winning over other adults in the name of football is truly appealing to me on a number of levels. Let’s hope I get my lineup right.

Do you play Fantasy Football? If you have any tips and tricks, I’ll take them because I fully intend on winning this one for the Gipper.

                                        My team’s logo.                                         (all credit to http://gifsgallery.com/ronald+reagan+gif)