In order to have any sort of logical conversation about Ice Dancing, it’s important to get the “Twizzle” definition out of the way…

“Twizzle” is a rum-based drink they hand you as you’re boarding the booze cruise on the fake pirate ship in the Bahamas during Spring Break.  What it has to do with Ice Dancing, I can’t say.  Maybe it makes the skaters loose-limbed enough to do all those one-footed twirls?  They all do lots of those twirls, just exactly the same, so this is quite likely the explanation. 

If it were me?  All that twirling would make the rum twizzles suddenly…reappear!  Ta-da!  Rough seas ahead, matey!  But these are professional skaters.  Dancers.  Skaters.  So they’re used to all the twirling, post-rum drinks. 

So now that we have that out of the way, let’s discuss Ice Dancing, shall we?  Have I ever SEEN Ice Dancing before?  It seems like I have.  But then, when the announcers mention that this couple or that couple were the silver medalists from the last Olympics – and they don’t look familiar to me at ALL – I think maybe I haven’t ever seen Ice Dancing afterall.

But now I’m on it.  And I’ve got Meryl and Charlie locked in my brain.  Congrats on the gold medal, by the way.  Did the Canadian couple jump you in the parking lot on the way out?  ‘Cause they looked like they wanted to.  But maybe they’re saving that for when y’ins get home?  That way they can include your/their coach-with-the-bangs in the takedown.  So I’ll totally remember them for NEXT Olympics.  And in case YOU can’t picture them, Meryl is the one who looks the most like the Disney Princess Jasmine of any living human on earth.  And Charlie looks like the actor Jeff Daniels in that movie “Dumb & Dumber.”  It’s the hair.

But you know who I’ll REALLY remember for next time when it comes to Ice Dancing?  That brother and sister team – Alex and Maia Sibutanis.   First off, they come in handy when I’m threatening my kids about their behavior towards each other, “If you can’t get along, I’m gonna make you go into ICE DANCING like the Sibutanis.  And then you’ll have to be together ALL THE TIME.  ON THE ICE.  DANCING!”  

But in addition to being used as an example of brotherly/sisterly love, they  danced…skated…danced…their last dance…skate…dance…to a Michael Jackson compilation.  Come on!  That was so frickin’ awesome!!! 

The rest of the competitors talked to my older sisters about what music they should use in their programs (I’m 100% sure I heard the Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet as well as “To Dream the Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha – two of my sisters’ piano sheet-music faves from back in the day).  And when they weren’t talking to my sisters, they were talking to my high school choir director, Mr. Beavers.  Because there was LOTS of 42^nd Street (on the avenue I’m takin’ ya to…Forty.  Second.  Street!) and even a “Bei mir bist du schon” by the Andrew Sisters.  (Bei mir bist du schon?  Please let me explain.  Bei mir bist du schon means that you’re….GRAND!  Ok…stopping now.  But first?  I could say “bella, bella” even say “wunderbar!”  Each language only helps me tell you how GRAND you are!  Ok.  Totally stopping.)

But the Sibutanis talked to ME about their music, and thus I recommended some 80’s tunes.  ‘Cause you know how I love me some 80’s tunes.  I also suggested more “Thriller Hands” for their program.  (“Thriller Hands” are when you bring your claw-like hands up on one side of your face and quickly move them to the other side of your face.  Like you’re a zombie.  In an 80’s music video on MTV.  That you and your older sisters waited up until midnight to watch the world premiere of…in 1983 boo-yah!)   But they didn’t take me up on THAT suggestion even though you have to admit that “Thriller Hands” woulda been fun.

But now?  I am ON it when it comes to Ice Dancing.  I will totally remember Meryl and Charlie.  And that angry Canadian couple.  And those Russian Black Swans.  And for sure-sies the Sibutanis for next time.  Yep.  On IT!  All OVER it!  Just like white on ICE.  Hee-hee-hee.

Whoopsie!  Tee-hee-hee…did I say DRUNKO?!  Because I actually meant BUNCO.  Which is a new dice game I learned this week.  But it could totally be called Drunko.  Because there’s a lot of drinking.  A lot.  Of drinking.

This Maiden Bunco Voyage o’mine occurred at the local country club.  Where I was the only woman in my 40’s.  There was one woman in her 50’s and the rest of them were 65 or older if they were a day.  And these gals are CUT THROAT when it comes to Bunco.   Because money is involved.   And drinking.   But I already mentioned the drinking.

What I may not have mentioned yet was that – in honor of the Olympics – the country club was handing out free Moscow Mule drinks to the Bunco players.  Uh-huh.  So now you can see where this is all headed, right?  But before we get there, here’s what I have to say about Moscow Mules:

They’re fun…until they kick your teeth in. 

And then?   Then you wonder where your teeth went.

In the meantime, does anyone else think Moscow Mules taste like Christmas potpourri mixed with gingerale?  But they do come in these nifty little copper cups with handles.  (And no, to the lady in the corner who was starting a copper cup collection: you don’t get to KEEP the copper cups.  You have to return them at the end of the night.  But nice try.) 

The old-timey copper cup has the added benefit of making you feel like a Miner Forty Niner.  All you’d need in order to complete the mental Miner picture is a tin plate of beans warmed up over the fire.

So there you are.   Drinking Moscow Mules and rolling dice with a bunch of 65-year-old miners who are wearing the most beautiful diamond rings you’ve ever seen in your life.  I mean these monsters are FLASHING in the lights as their owners are rolling, rolling, rolling dice for dollars. 

You’re maybe following the rules.  Maybe not.  But you have a partner.  Who’s keeping you on track.    Unless YOU were supposed to be the partner keeping track of the track?  Uh-oh. 

A bell rings at the head table and you begin.  First there’s a 1’s round.  Then a 2’s round.  And so forth.  During the 1’s round, the 1’s count as 1.  Unless you roll three of them all-at-once.  In which case that’s “Bunco” and it’s worth twenty-one points.  When that round is over, you move on to the 2’s round.  During the 2’s round, every time you roll a 2, they count as 1.  Oh crap!  Is it just me, or is the math getting harder?  Another Moscow Mule, please!  And when you roll three 1’s like last round, it’s actually no longer Bunco, but something called Funco.  Normally a Funco would count as 5 points but because Head Granny said that 1’s were something called “Wipeout” you now LOSE all your points AND your partner’s points.  Wait!  Whaaaat?!  WTF??  Another Moscow Mule NOW!  I thought this was gonna be a GAME!  What’s up with all this MATH?!??  And my partner SUCKS!  Unless I’M the sucky partner?!??

You work your way up through the 3’s, 4’s and 5’s to the 6’s and then you start all over again with 1’s.  It’s getting louder and rowdier.  Everyone’s face is beet red.  And they’re morse-coding the light reflected from their rings right into your eyes.  Women are stumbling over to the snack table piled high with peanuts and sugar cookies.  There’s laughter, math and a bell ringing off in the distance – or in your head. 

And then?  And THEN??  You get your teeth kicked in. 

But it’s ok.  Because everyone else has just had their teeth kicked in too.  So now the room completely resembles the annual meeting of the Toothless Miner Forty Niners club.  Everyone has an old-timey copper cup in one hand.  Our noses are touching our chins, our faded red flannel shirts need a good wash, and just about everyone there could use a new pair of suspenders.  We’re all huddled over a pile of teeth in the center of the table.  Trying to sort out whose teeth are whose.  And no one’s making any headway. 

I look BAD without any teeth; I never did find them.  But I struck gold – and won twenty-five bucks.   Gee-gee-gee-gee [insert toothless laughter here]

And that’s how you drink Moscow Mules. 

Wait!  Were we talking about something else?  Why do I feel like we were talking about something else?!   Oh.  That’s right.  It’s Valentine’s Day…that must have been what we were just talking about.  Happy Valentine’s Day!   Hash anyone sheen my teeshth??

***Disclaimer – I have the utmost respect for athletes, particularly Olympic athletes.  So if you’re in the Olympics, you rock.  No if, ands, or buts about it.  I have never been, nor will ever be, in the Olympics.  (Unless they create a Crochet category, which I highly doubt they will.  And for the record – no, I did NOT crochet those sweaters the U.S. Team wore which made them all look like they were going to a bad sweater party.  Because I don’t cry cute and I don’t crochet tacky.)  So, Olympic Athletes In Any Sport…go on wit’ yer bad selves!  The world recognizes your incredible God-given talent, not to mention your dedication to your sport-of-choice.  No matter what your sport, you do not deserve mockery.  And this blog is by no means mockery.  It’s just an insightful deconstruction of a totally inscrutable sport.  I should know.  I watched it for an hour yesterday.  And so ends the disclaimer.***

Is it just me or does it seem like all the curlers you know originally wanted to be something else?  Their parents committed them to the Ministry of Sports for the lifelong junior figure skating track, for example.  Until there was an injury.  At which point they became a curler.

But once you’ve made the big decision to become a curler, you have to get an outfit.  What to wear, what to wear?   Find a bowling shirt.  And maybe a matching jacket to go over top.  ‘Cause it gets cold where you’re going.

What will be harder about the outfit is finding the shoes.  You’ll need a pair of shoes, of course, but only one shoe in the pair should be a Heelys.  (Heelys are those shoes with a little roller skate that POPS! out when you call to it with your mind.  But maybe in the case of curling, it’s actually a teeny tiny ice skate rather than a wheel?  This is unknown.)  You need to look like you’re gliiiiiding down the ice with your big rock-with-a-handle while maintaining some semblance of control.  TWO shoes-with-hidden-skates might make you look totally cartoon-y as your feet skitter every which way before you bite dust…er…ice.  So that’s why just ONE shoe-with-hidden-skates is recommended.  Nordstrom’s sells all sorts of mismatched shoes.  So they might be a good bet.  Check there first. 

Then, you learn the international language of curling and use it only when channeling your inner Cinderella’s Stepmother:  SWEEP!  HARD!!  SWEEP HARD, B**CHES!!!  Kidding.  Totally kidding about the b**ches part.  Hubby & I spent an hour watching women’s curling and we never heard anyone yell THAT.  But that would have been fun.  Right, B**ches?!

Be sure to wear your exhausting nights of hard partying and strategy discussion on your face like a university student with a too-full course load, or a mother-of-newborn-twins. 

No less important is learning the scoring system.  Because what seems like a move that would earn points in the rest of the sports kingdom does not earn points in curling.  What’s particularly useful in this instance is to understand the physics of rowdy home crowds and how their shouting and body heat (I shudder to think of it) can possibly melt the ice of your shuffleboard.  Be prepared for contingencies of this nature.

Also?  Look askance at every joke about “getting stoned” or “written in stone.”  Heh-heh-heh.  But consider buying a bumper sticker that says, “Curl up and die.”  Copyright NSAHM 2014 (if that hasn’t been copyrighted before, of course.)

As a next-to-last step, get sponsors.  My suggestion would be Swiffer Sweepers and Heelys.  And possibly Nordstrom’s.

Final stop?  Sochi!

Mine?? 

You talkin’ tuh me?  You talkin’ tuh ME?!?

‘Cause if the Sochi Winter Olympics had really been “mine,” then the Team Figure Skating competition woulda gone waaaaaay different.

Ida had all the teams board the ice at the same time and just Triple-Lutz away until the last three people were standing.  Gold, Silver, Bronze.  Done.

Barring that, I was kinda hoping it would take on more of an “All Skate” format from the roller skating parties of yore.

Picture it:  “Tainted Love” is blaring from the loudspeakers.  The disco ball is rotating full-speed and you’re in your best designer jeans (or those borrowed from your older sister).  And you’ve got the look.  You’ve got the look I want to know better.  You’ve got the look that’s altogether.  Working.  Playing.  Day or night.  Jordache has the look that’s right.  The Jordache Look*!  The whole gang is whirling past, counterclockwise.  People break off from the pack in onesies and twosies to do some serious damage center rink by showcasing their mad skating skillzzz.  Crouch low (as low as designer jeans will allow), then stretch your left leg straight while supporting it with both hands…GOLD!

Instead?  They just used the Team Figure Skating Competition as an excuse to award the Russians more gold medals.  Annoying.  And totally not my idea.    

MY idea for the Russian figure skating team?  Was to make Evgeni Plushenko get a new haircut BEFORE he got any more golds.  Because, Evgeni?  We’re not doing that with our hair anymore.  That zipper cut with the droopy feathers on either side that you smooth back with a HUGE comb (it’s green and says “Sitt’n Pretty” on the handle…what??  Too much detail?!) which you keep in the back pocket of your Jordache Jeans?  Nope.  We’re not doin’ that.  So stop.  It detracts from all the medals around your neck. 

But I’m not so far gone in my altered the-Olympics-aren’t-really-mine-even-though-they-say-they-are state of mind that I can’t recognize a few good ideas when I see them.  ‘Cause I can. 

Of which ideas do I speak?  How’s THAT for proper English?  Boo-yah!  Gold me up for THAT why dontcha?! 

The idea the set designers had to put all those teams in glass fronted cubby-holes.  I have to admit that I did like that part.  But can you imagine the SMELL in there?!?  Not only was the iceskating-mimes-in-a-box concept super fun, no one even tried to escape from their box as mimes are wont to do.  Also?  Despite the smelly cubbies being only two inches away from each other, there were no International Incidents. 

So kudos, Comrades, on those good ideas.

*”Tainted Love” was originally recorded by Gloria Jones but made famous after being covered by Soft Cell in 1981.  So there’s that.  But did you notice how I slipped in that part about the lyrics from the 80’s Jordache COMMERCIAL?!?  There’s no end to the fun we’re having with this, is there?  Because now we’ve bumped it up a notch by adding COMMERCIALS to the “80’s song for every moment in life” game which we’re playing.  Fun funsters from fun land in the fun house! 

Yay!  It’s Fur Trapper Friday!!  Whoop, whoop! 

Oh??  You don’t know anything about this?!?  It always comes on the Friday AFTER Ground Hog day.  Well…here in Colorado at least. 

I grew up in New Jersey, so while I can tell you that Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr dueled to the death in Weehawken, I can’t really tell you too much about Colorado’s great tradition of fur trapping and trading.  Other than what I learned as a New Jersey youth while watching that sweeping miniseries in the late 70’s about fur trapping and trading – entitled Centennial, based on the book of the same name by James Michener. 

This is what I learned:  Stephanie Zimbalist dies in a tent after being bitten by a rattlesnake.

Ta-da!!!  That’s it.  That’s all I know about fur trapping and trading.

Ok, that’s a lie.  I also know that Stephanie Zimbalist went on to star in Remington Steele opposite Pierce Brosnan in the early 80’s, so we don’t need to worry too much about that tent scene.  80’s girl dun good, reeeeeeal good ifyouknowwhadimean.  nudge, nudge, wink, wink

And?  Still lying.  I also know that the miniseries was amazingly confusing and had waaaay too many characters (kinda like Game of Thrones but Fur Trapper version), some bad French accents and a good part of it was set in Colorado.  So that’s gotta tell us something about how important fur trapping and trading is to Colorado. 

In fact, the youth of Colorado are schooled in the importance of this early industry and spend a whole trimester studying fur trapping and trading.  Who knew?  Not me.  But in honor of Fur Trapper Friday, let’s see if YOU are smarter than a 4^th grader in this particular subject…

Directions: Match each vocabulary word with the correct definition.  There will be two definitions that do not have a match.  Put those letters on line #14 & #15, then write the correct vocabulary words on the lines next to them.

____1. Bent’s Fort                          A. helped build Fort Vasquez

____2. Fort Vasquez                      B. the skin or pelt of an animal

____3. William Bent                       C. fur trapper, army scout, and guide for Fremont

____4. Andrew Sublette                D. French word meaning “hiding place”

____5. Castoreum                          E. mountain man who lived with the Crow Indians

____6. Lancaster Lupton              F. some believe this man blew up his own fort

____7. Cache                                  G called the “Crossroads of the Southwest”

____8. Rendezvous                        H. another name for Fort Uncompahgre

____9. Jim Beckwourth                 I. Fort St. Vrain was first called this

____10. Kit Carson                          J. built in 1835 on the South Platte River

____11. Fort Lookout                    K. nickname for Fort Davy Crockett

____12. Fort Misery                       L. liquid that comes from the beaver and is used for bait

____13. Fort Robidoux                  M. name of the second fort built by William Bent

____14. ……………………..                 N. French word that means “place of meeting”

____15. ……………………..                 O. traded with the Indians for nine years and then began to plant crops

Answer Key: 1 G, 2 J, 3 F, 4 H, 5 L, 6 O, 7 D, 8 N, 9 E, 10 L, 11 I, 12 K, 13 H, 14 B undressed skin of an animal with fur still attached (nummy num num), 15 M Fort Wise

Thank you for playing.  Happy Fur Trapper Friday.  Ok, I lied about that too.  There’s no Fur Trapper Friday. 

PS – I don’t know if any of the answers are actually correct.  I assume they are since my 4^th grader got 100% on this very same test with these very same answers.  But who knows?   Not me.  Have I mentioned I’m from New Jersey…where we WEAR furs, we don’t catch ‘em. 

It’s been 11 degrees-below-zero here in Colorado for the last few days.  That’s Fahrenheit of course.  And no, I won’t even try to convert that to Celsius because we saw how well the Roman Numeral thing went earlier in the week.  And everyone knows that Celsius is the Roman Numerals of Temperature.  And please don’t even get me started on the Kelvin scale.  Because you know what that would result in?  An Absolute Zero!  (Hee hee hee – I’m funny even in Kelvin land!  And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you should look it up because me and the science-y guys are laughing our a$$e$ off right about now.) 

But on the bright side, there have been some fun learning experiences amidst all this bitterly cold weather. 

For one, everyone has been walking around like they’re in a bad Heart music video from the 80’s …And the full moon that hangs over these dreams in the mist… but only from the ankles down.  Because when the sun starts to warm up the icy ground, a weird six-inch fog boils up and floats across every open space.  Cue dream sequence:  These dreams go on when I close my eyes…Every second of the night I live another life…These dreams that sleep when it’s COLD OUTSIDE…Every moment I’m awake the further I’m away.*

The second fun thing I’ve noticed in this cold weather are the sun dogs.  While it’s not unusual to see sun dogs in Colorado, typically they’re just little patches of colored light waaaaay up in the sky.  But the ones I’ve seen lately look like parentheses-shaped rainbows around the sun.  This atmospheric phenomenon is actually called an ice halo.  (Or parhelion.  And you know how I remember that?  Because there’s a song about it.  From the 80’s, natch.  By Slade.  It goes like this: Hey there, Par-hel-i-on, lying there in the sun.  All things to everyone.  Run, runaway.) Still your momma aren’t I, science-y guys?! 

And the THIRD fun thing about this weather?  You get to discuss what happened to the Donner Party during similar weather 100+ years ago.  I’m not sure why it even came up (I may have had something to do with it, or maybe not, I’m not admitting to anything here), but said conversation veered straight into a mention of cannibalism (nummy, num, num).

Sonny – in a clearly horrified voice – joined the conversation with, “You mean they ATE people?  Like…what did they make?  A STEW?!?”

Hmmmm.  Now why would STEW be the first dish that comes to mind when discussing cannibalism ?  (Or ‘anthropophagy’ – this one’s for you, science-y guys!)  When I picture cannibals from the Donner Party, I don’t picture them sitting around a cozy fire dressed in winter bonnets and wool shawls eating stew off tin plates, all civilized-like.  I picture them wild-eyed and dressed in rags gnawing on a hairy-leg-still-wearing-a-sock.  But STEW??  That’s just weird.  Because really, if they had all the fixin’s for stew, maybe they coulda just added a few more potatoes.  And left the hairy legs where they belonged.

Speaking of hairy legs, this blog should actually have been titled: FOUR Fun Things About The Bitter Cold with the fourth fun thing being ‘no leg-shaving.’  There’s no leg shaving in the bitter cold.  There’s no need because no one sees your bare legs since you wear leggings morning, noon and night.  Also hairy legs conserve body heat AND dissuade the cannibals.  Hopefully.

*”These Dreams” by Heart, released in 1986 from their 1985 self-titled album.  And??  I’m winning.  Still winning.  And?  STILL WINNING in this “80’s song for every moment in life” game that we play.  Of which I am the queen.  And the inventor.  And?  THE WINNER!

Has enough been said about this year’s Super Bowl* commercials yet?  Naw – I didn’t think so either!  We’re so much alike!!  Freaky.

And now?  Now it’s my turn to weigh in on the commercials. 

But before I get started, I need to let you know that I’m a marketer by trade…Wait.  Does ‘marketer’ make me sound like I go to the market a lot?  ‘Cause I don’t want it to.  I mean I DO go to the market a lot, but I don’t want you to think that’s what I do for a living.  Because right now, I don’t do ANYTHING for a living – thanks for bringing it up stink eye, stink eye.  But if I DID do something for a living, it wouldn’t be going to the market.  Rather, it would be MARKETING!  Phew!  Glad we figured that out.  Wait.  Unless ‘marketing’ makes it sound like I go to the market to do quite a bit of marketing.  ‘Cause I do, but…and the Super Bowl commercials are a marketer’s Nirvana. 

In addition to being a marketer at heart…if not by current trade – WILL YOU STOP BRINGING IT UP ALREADY!?  Also, does ‘marketing’ make it sound like a horse might be involved?  Like I gallop on my horse to the market??  ‘Cause I don’t, and I just wanted to clarify.  In case you were confused…me no likey football.  Which means I pay extra SPECIAL attention to the Super Bowl commercials.  And it’s with a heavy heart that I tell you that the commercials this year were a little…meh.  Particularly those during the first half.

Professional Opinion, peeps.  Nothin’ personal.

And admittedly, I didn’t see ALL the commercials this year because at some point we switched to Puppy Bowl TEN.* (Where there were some pretty decent commercials in their own right.  Case in point?  The one for the three-pronged, foldable cane called the HurryCane.  Get it?  HURRYcane?  See – good, right??)

Anywhoooo, what was UP with ALL the car commercials?  The Volkswagen one was fairly cute with the German engineers getting their wings and pooping rainbows.  But the rest of them were very frequent and very annoying.  Especially that one with the Muppets.  I don’t even remember what kind of car was being advertised.  All I remember were the Muppets.  Because WHO is actually still doing stuff with MUPPETS?!?  Who would buy…a car…that was advertised by MUPPETS???  In fact, I posed this very question to my family, and Sissy replied, “Uh, Muppet Lovers?” 

Yes!  But who EXACTLY are the Muppet Lovers?  Who’s left in this world that’s a Muppet Lover?!  Octogenarians?  And are they buying a lot of cars??  I’d love to see the Market Research behind this.  The hard numbers that prove octogenarian Muppet Lovers are this car’s target audience.  Better yet, show me the transcripts from the Focus Group at the Senior Center where people were shouting out Kermit!  and Miss Piggy! when asked who they’re most likely to buy a car from in the near future.

Ok.  I’ll move on now, and stop being so negative because those Muppet-y Marketers HAVE jobs and I don’t.  But alls I’m sayin’ is that the Muppet thing seemed a little risky in terms of a marketing strategy.  That’s it.  Done.  Ok, zipping it.  Zipped!

And then there were those commercials that – to my complete and utter horror – actually made me tear up.  What?!  WHAT??  There’s no crying in football!!  But I gotta say, that “Every soldier deserves a hero’s welcome” commercial got me right here.  In my icy, judgmental, marketing heart.  As did the Honda one where Bruce Willis tells me, personally, to hug everyone in the room.  (Which I did.  Because I do what Bruce Willis tells me to do.  Every time.) 

And hows-about that T-Mobile commercial?  The one with the whistling??  That drove the dog batshit, so you now owe me BIG TIME, T-Mobile. 

And let’s pause right here for a grammar lesson, shall we?  My English Major Mother…did it almost sound like I was trying to break into that “I am the very model of a modern major-general” song from The Pirates of Penzance?  ‘Cause I wasn’t.  It just maybe sounded that way…always told me the rule is, “Less in quantity; Fewer in number.”  (She say’s nem-bah ‘cause she’s from New Hampshire, but you can just say ‘number’ regular-like if you want.)  Which means Soda Stream and spokesgal Scarlet Johansen were a teensy bit off with their slogan, “Less sugar; Less bottles.”  Because the Modern English Major Mother General might say instead, “Less sugar; FEWER bottles.”

Speaking of bottles, can you IMAGINE how much drinking was going on during the Super Bowl??  Which leaves me particularly puzzled as to why Scientology would pay a MINT to air a commercial for…Scientology.  Are drunkards with their faces painted blue really their target market, spiritually speaking??

Finally, a word on that Microsoft commercial about technology: http://youtu.be/qaOvHKG0Tio (#empowering).  Wow.  Just…wow. 

Microsoft, will you hire me?  I’m a marketer…and I’d love do some marketing…but I’m not doing any of that right now.  Thanks for bringing it up!  Stink eye, stink eye.

*Who knew Roman Numerals were so incendiary?  I heard from several people yesterday about how I got it wrong and that it was actually Puppy Bowl TEN, not Puppy Bowl ONE HUNDRED – and Stupid Bowl FORTY-EIGHT, not Stupid Bowl SIXTY-EIGHT as I had originally reported: https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2555.  But you know what’s particularly funny about that?  No one corrected me on the STUPID Bowl part!  Heh-heh-heh.   But back to Numeral-Gate.  I hate Roman Numerals even more now that they made me look like an a$$.  And who’s calling themselves ‘Numerals’ nowadays anyway?!  The word ‘Numerals’ is just soooo snotty.  Hey, Numerals!  Nellie Olsen called and wants her huge snot-nosed hair bow and frilly pantaloons back, ya snots.  Me?  I’m just a Laura Ingalls Wilder down-home ‘Numbers’ kinda gal.  No hoity-toity ‘Numerals’ for me.  Case closed.

Yes, you knew I was gonna go there.  But before we even get started on that, I have to state for the record that I hate Roman Numerals.  If football is an AMERICAN sport, why are we using ROMAN numerals to tell us where we’re at here??  Because I don’t get Roman Numerals.  Not now, not ever.  They’re too much like math.  In fact, if you put pi-to-the-tenth-decimal-place after the words ‘Super Bowl,’  I’d like it slightly better.  Metric conversions after the word ‘Super Bowl?’  Yep, still better than Roman Numerals.  Because making me translate numbers – in the form of letters – back into numbers – so that I can add them up in my native language?!  Utterly stupid.  And that’s why I secretly refer to this event as the Stupid Bowl. 

So…where were we headed until I did my Roman Numeral diatribe?  Oh, that’s right.  We were talking about yesterday’s Stupid Bowl.  Stupid Bowl Sixty-Eight* to be exact.

First off, what the BLEEP was Joe Namath wearing??  Hey Joe!  Liberace called from beyond-the-grave where he just rolled over, and he wants his coat back!  You shoulda just stuck with the pantyhose and the Noxzema face cream, because now PETA is gunnin’ for your cross-dressing a$$!

And that part – pretty much right there at the very beginning??  Well, Fur Coat McGee’s SECOND coin toss would be the very beginning.  So right after THAT.  Where Peyton Manning watches the ball go sailing off to his right, while he rolls his eye like a big Doberhuahua?  That part was totally awful to witness.  Totally.  Awful.  Uh…Omaha!, Omaha!, we have a problem.

Now you have to understand that I only used the Stupid Bowl this year as an excuse to crochet a bunch of orange-and-blue crap.  (Because when do you ever have an excuse to crochet orange-and-blue scarves?  Boot cuffs??  Never.  Good excuse, see?)  And I don’t really care about the football end of it.  But even I was p.o.’d about that ball-sailing-off-into-space move.

But perhaps it wasn’t the bad football playing that did the Broncos in?  ‘Cause I saw some bad ref-ing, so maybe that was the problem?  In fact, at one point, I saw the ref call the Broncos for “traveling.”  Admittedly, I don’t know much about football, but trust me when I say I’ve spent all winter watching 6th grade girls play basketball.  And I’ve seen a LOT of traveling.  And I know the international ref symbol for traveling when I see it.  And I coulda sworn the Broncos weren’t traveling.

But enough about football during the football game.  ‘Cause we have GOT to discuss the half-time show.  Because when the football game isn’t about the commercials, it’s about the half-time show, right? 

It’s my personal opinion that Bruno Mars was a class act with an olde timey Ricci Ricardo nightclub vibe.   But the Red Hot Chili Peppers?  Wack.  And what was on Head Pepper’s legs?  It looked like support hose, but with cartoon panels.  It reminded me of those tat sleeves you can get at Halloween – that make your arms look like you have tattoos all up and down them.  Except Head Pepper’s leg thingies weren’t as sheer as tat sleeves.  And they were on his legs, not his arms.  Ok, so nothing like Halloween faux tat sleeves, but puzzling-as-a-fashion-choice nonetheless.

And that’s pretty much it.  That’s all I got for Stupid Bowl Sixty-Eight.  Because right about point 36 for the Seahawks, Hubby was so disgusted that he took his Broncos shirt off, put his Eagles shirt on, and we switched to Puppy Bowl X**.  (THEY do Roman Numerals too.  I’m so MAD!  LEAVE THE POOR PUPPIES OUT OF IT!)

But speaking of the Eagles…did anyone catch that part where the camera kept panning to that eagle on the sidelines?  That was weird.  Since PETA was there checking on Joe’s jacket, they shoulda checked into that eagle thing as well.  That didn’t seem right. 

*See?  I have to do the math for you TOO, don’t I??  In Roman Numeral Land we all know that X = 10, L = 50, V=5, and I = 1.  Does the sick feeling in my stomach mean that there should be some subtraction in this problem…or that I have the value for X wrong?  Does X really equal 100 and you’re supposed to subtract all the letters listed after X?!  Hmmmm.  No.  No, I’m pretty sure X only equals 100 when it’s listed all by itself; and X equals 10 when it’s listed WITH other letters.  So, ignoring all subtraction and just working on the sunny side of the street, the problem looks something like this: 10+50+5+1+1+1 = 68.  Stupid Bowl 68.  Have I mentioned that I HATE Roman Numerals?!  Gah!  In English next time, please.

**The X here refers to 100.  Because you need to remember that arcane rule: when X is by itself, it equals 100.  So we’re talking about Puppy Bowl 100.  And while on the surface it would seem puzzling that they would have MORE Puppy Bowls than Stupid Bowls, it’s important to note that they actually got the idea for Stupid Bowl FROM Puppy Bowl.  Also?  The Puppy Bowl is so cute they sometimes play it twice a year.  So Puppy Bowl 100 makes perfect sense.  On a more personal note, I still DETEST Roman Numerals but I think I’m finally getting the hang of them.

When Hubby & I were first married, one of the requirements of a program we were piloting* was to have a golden retriever and buy it high-end dog food from one of those boutique pet stores.  Check and…check!

What was particularly fun about the pet store we frequented was that it had a pet!  See – fun, right?!  The pet was one of those Australian Cattle Dogs.  You know the type: coarse, mottled fur; looks like it’s made out of two different dogs fused together in the Frankensteinerator; mad herding instinct that cannot be domesticated out of it.

As soon as you walked into the store, the dog would come over and herd you in.  To the store you were already coming in to anyway.

It would just get behind you and follow you down whichever aisle you were going to and then, when it was convinced you were safely on your way to your destination, it would break off and go back to the door to await its next herding assignment.

Well, when I was coming home from a recent trip to Cal-i-for-Nigh-Ay, I encountered a man who TOTALLY reminded me of that Australian Cattle Dog.  He was waiting outside the parking garage elevator.  Anxious to help move forward a process-which-was-already-moving-forward.

His physical characteristics had nothing to do with why he struck me as Dog Man.  Rather, it was the herding mannerism which kicked in when a bunch of travelers walked up and the elevator arrived.

Dog Man turns to everyone in the general vicinity and announces that the elevator is here and asks who’s getting on.  Like allofasudden he’s Elevator Welcoming and Loading Committee or unnecessary herding dog or something.  We’re all here, Dog Man, because we were already committed to the elevator process in some way.  But thanks for asking.  The other travelers straggle on and give Dog Man – who somehow teleported from outside the elevator to INSIDE the elevator and is now manning the number panel – their floor numbers.  I’m also in the elevator by now but I know of the top-secret SECOND number panel on the OTHER side of the door, so I just press my OWN floor number thankyouverymuch!  Having spent the last three hours sharing half my airplane seat with a bobbing, weaving stranger https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2523 I am no longer interacting with humans at this point.

We get to Floor 4.  And the doors open.  And no one gets off.  Uh…

Dog Man turns to a particularly loopy lady whose head remains attached to her shoulders only by grace of the bohemian scarf she has wrapped three times around her gullet and says, “This is 4.  You asked for 4.  Are you getting off now?  Who else is getting off?!”  Oh my gosh, he memorized everyone’s floor number?!?  Yikes.  Someone is super committed to elevator running.  Unless he just wants her OUT already!  ‘Cause I know I want her OUT already so I can go home.  Get OFF, LaLaLoopsy!  In fact, EVERYONE off!!

When the elevator is finally empty, it’s just the two of us.  And he’s staring at me manning my Control Panel for One like I’m a rival for Elevator Person of the Year.  Hey, Homeslice.  You were the one who was herding people you didn’t need to be herding.  So don’t give me that look.  To defray the tension, out loud I say, “I’m just tryin’ to get home so I appreciate you keeping everyone on track.”

He gives me a relieved smile.  And then ding!  The elevator door slides open.  I pretend to look around, like there’s lots of people still on and yell, “Everyone OFF!” making Let’s Go!/Come on! motions with my hands.  Hee-hee, me funny.  We chuckle as we head down the aisles of cars.  He’s subtly following behind me.  Until he breaks off.  I didn’t actually see where he went.  But I suspect he went back to the elevator. 

*We were part of the DINK pilot program.  Do you remember that yuppie term that came into popularity in the late 80’s/early 90’s?  Dual Income No Kids??  It turns out that unbeknown to us, we were actually part of the DINKY program.  Surprise!  Dual Income No Kids…YET!  And an even bigger surprise??  We are now part of the SITCOM program – single income, two children, outrageous mortgage.  SURPRISE!!!!   

Ok.  Before we go any further in this “Airport Experience” series of blogs, we need to address the stank elephant in the room…

For the love of all that’s holy, WHAT is going on in the women’s bathroom at the airport?! 

Because the faux pine scent that’s being used to cover up whatever is happening in those bathrooms??  It actually has the opposite effect and instead makes the whole experience a million times worse.

It’s like Bizarro World Narnia.  You step through the door at the back of the wardrobe, and you suddenly find yourself in a deep, lush woodland of primeval evergreens.  But something’s…off.  Not.  Quite.  Right.  Is the gas lantern burning at the edge of the woods?  No.  Is it the snow that’s softly falling??  No.  Not that either.  It’s hard to describe.  It’s more of a…[SNIFFFFF!]

Accck!  GAAAACCKKKKKKK!  What is that SMELL?!? 

Wait a second!  This isn’t a magical land!!  This is an AIRPORT BATHROOM!!!  And it smells like they just dragged an entire fake pine-forest-in-winter through here in order to dispose of the…dead bodies.  Not only did it NOT “freshen things up,” but it tipped you off to the fact that something so horrific has happened in here, that it must never be mentioned.

But I’m breaking the silence!

[chanting, with fist raised] No more pine-y fresh scent!  No more pine-y fresh scent!  No more pine-y fresh scent!

At a minimum, find a better scent!  At a minimum, find a better scent!  [petering out because this no longer lends itself to chanting]

Oh!  And also?  My Dear Sisters in Travel: whoever is making the bathroom SMELL like a bathroom?  Stop.  Now.  ‘Cause when they say “take the show on the road,” they didn’t mean THAT show.  Leave THAT show at home.

P.S.  Hi Hubby.  Happy Birthday!  Aren’t you glad we’ve spent the last TWENTY SIX of your birthdays together?  Isn’t this fun??  Aren’t you so happy you married someone so…insightful?  I know, I know.  I love you too.