The Fat Farm Weekend
by Ivette Ricco, President of Femmefan.com

April 2003

It’s the weekend of April 26th and my gal pals have headed north to the Mendocino Coast. They have convinced their significant others, and themselves, that it’s critical that they indulge themselves and work off some of those extra lbs. Those lbs were strategically gained during the football season. And so it follows that the approaching warm weather dictates a trip to the fat farm. Lest we feel a tinge of compassion for them one should remember that the fat farm involves saunas, hot tubs, massages and lots of good gal pal time.

All my gal pals have left for the fat farm, I, however, am hanging with the guys.

I said no to the gals’ invitation, after all, what good is age if you can’t flaunt those love handles? I earned them fair and square and by golly I’m going to keep them intact.

There are lots of other things I can do on the weekend.

My first plan was to grab a blanket, my sunscreen and James Patterson’s most recent book and spend the day at Stinson Beach.

That plan was quickly scrubbed due to current monsoon weather conditions.

Then I thought I might go see a good movie, but found that the only new flick of interest was “Holes” and that concept wasn’t the least bit appealing.

So I decided that a quiet weekend watching TV would do just fine.

And what could be better than watching the NFL draft with other NFL die-hard fans?

The “significant others” my pals left behind had their own plans for the weekend.

They were gathered at Hanky-Panky's house. These were all my ultra-macho friends, Raider fans, who breathe football and live for anything Raider.

They tolerate me (ignore me) but they let me hang with them as long as I don’t try to compete with them or talk football like one of them. I know the ground rules and abide by them.

No Forty Niner Rah-Rah stuff, no “girlie” talk, no talking over the commentator (no matter how much of an idiot he is) it’s okay, however to talk over Suzy Kolber and leave the room when she’s on. They all seem to need another beer when she’s on camera.

They ignore anything Andrea Kremer has to say and head in the direction of the “head” when she appears.

So the stage was set, five thirty-something Raider fans and one fifty-something female Forty Niner fan.

A 50-inch screen TV dominated the center of the room. The coffee table was covered with chips, pretzels, jalapenos, nuts, bean dip, popcorn and a huge bowl of M&M’s. There was an ice chest full of Keystone Beer and I could feel the testosterone.

I noticed a bottle being passed around, and was chagrined to find it was a bottle of Bean-O. I politely turned it down when it came my way. I did not turn away the shot of Mylanta, however.

Every year I try to find some modicum of enthusiasm for this tedious event. I really do try to find a way to enjoy it as I realize that watching the draft is considered a rite of passage for die-hard football fan.

My male counterparts are completely into the sideshow and act as if they are watching the playoffs.

Still there is really no way to manufacture drama for a format that simply screams “BORING”.

I am amazed that the NFL hasn’t found a way to get some barely clothed females on the telecast as “round girls”. Since the NFL is in its off-season the cheerleaders should be available. Every 15 minutes they could have a cheerleader representing the team on the clock come up and flash a smile while walking in circles holding a big clock while the likes of Mel Kiper Jr., Chris Berman, Bill Romanowski, and Dennis Green drone on and on. They could also use some sound effects much like 60 Minutes does, with a tick tock effect for added drama. Even I could get behind this idea, it seems a lot better than watching these guys for 550 hours.

The MC, Paul Tagliabue, is the real “Mr. Irrelevant” in the NFL draft. Maybe the NFL should consider giving Dennis Miller another shot as an NFL announcer; he could certainly add spice to this show with a few well-placed f-bombs and it would definitely add some color to this deathwatch.

The whole 15-minute (the Bengals are on the clock) is so much BS. Didn’t we already know that they had signed Carson Palmer? Who were they trying to fool with that anti-climatic announcement?

And tell me why it takes 15 minutes for each team to make a pick. It’s not as if each team hasn’t analyzed and reanalyzed every player, every possibility and every conceivable trade for weeks before, perhaps months before the actual draft. But can anyone explain how it is that the Vikings missed their turn? Was someone in the John? Oh those Purple Men, they sure know how to screw things up, real geniuses those guys.

It was, at least, a unique moment and I wouldn’t mind seeing that happen more often.

Otherwise it’s all SOP, standard operating procedure, and mind numbing. If folks think baseball is too long and boring, then they need to sit through the NFL draft as a point of reference.

After sitting through 600 consecutive minutes of agony and at minimum 400 promos for Jim Rome’s new show, eating a bag or two of chips, and thereby elevating my cholesterol level to approximately 600, drinking a bottle of Napa Valley Merlot followed by a six pack beer chaser and shifting between my left cheek and my right cheek every 20 minutes to avoid numbness and blood clots I made a pledge that I would never again miss the gals’ trip to the fat farm.

The next day I jumped in my car, drove up the coast at 70 miles an hours hoping to join my pals in time for a massage, a steam batch and a little female bonding.

I guess I failed to pas the test but this is one rite of passage I will happily do without.

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