My name is D, and I'm a football widow

Football Widow:
N. A woman who must cope with the temporary death of her relationship during football games.
Nothing will draw Stanley away from the TV on Sunday. Jill realized she's become a football widow.

So it's official... Preseason has started. Last year I didn't fully understand the gravity of my football related situation because, let's face it, Jeremy and I weren't living together and I just had to sit through the Sunday night games. Granted, I should have realized that something was up when I would call on Monday and our conversation would go something like this:
Me: Hey baby, how was your day?
Him: *grunt* GIANTS!!! *grunt*
Me: Really? Well you'd never guess what happened today, Olivia chopped her teachers hand off with a rusty hatchet and I'm being sued for $5,000,000.
Him: *grunt* DEFENSE!!! *grunt*

Yeeeeeaaaaaaah. And as I've recently learned, the end of Baseball season coincides with the start of Football. Baseball I can deal with. I love baseball. It brings back warm fuzzy memories of my childhood. So now not only do I have to deal with baseball games, but football as well. He is currently flipping back and forth between the Yanks/Boston game and some preseason football thinggy. I on the other hand have manages to finish my math work and am currently writing this blog while listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees, quietly, and with headphones. But that's apparently not good enough, because he just blared the TV in an oh-so-subtle hint that he *might* not be able to hear every teeny tiny call because he can *kind of* hear Hong Kong Garden. Right...

So I have to decide whether or not I'm going to let football steal my man without putting up a fight. I'm thinking not. Last year I tried to just sit next to him on the couch while he watched the game. I would quietly crochet or read but ever 5 seconds he would pound on my shoulder and tell me that I HAD to watch some life altering play. Let me tell you now that the only thing I equate with Hail Marys are my barely repressed memories of Catholic School. *Shudders* I know nothing about football. Which means one thing to me. Now I must find a book. A book! I can deal with books! Apparently there are a million books meant to help girls like me. Most are written by women in an attempt to help us reclaim our mates. If you know of one personally, LET ME KNOW! Because apparently I'm even lost when it comes to football related books. First down? Is that different from a touchdown? And what's with those stupid dances that they do when they get to that painted bit of grass? *At this point I'm wondering how I survived a childhood in TEXAS*

(On a side note, I was just told I can't use a graphic that I found. Wanna know why? BECAUSE THE GUY ISN'T WEARING A GIANTS JERSEY. REALLY?!)

Anyways. I think I'm coming down with a football migraine. I'm going to go do something. Like hang myself.