I'm a lovely person. Really.

Tonight, I'm catching up on what's truly important.

I ate peanut butter toast, the dietary staple that I haven't consumed in about three weeks. I bet my skin has looked sallow and the sparkle has been missing from my eyes on account of this malnutrition.

I'm watching a new episode of Hoarders, the single greatest TV show ever, with the possible exception of the upcoming Steven Seagal: Lawman.

And I'm checking out Facebook for the first time in about 10 days. I have a few new friend requests. One of them features a photo of a girl I recognize from my sophomore year of high school. I don't remember this girl being super busty, but evidently she feels that's her claim to fame now. Her Facebook profile pic is ... umm ... in profile. And she's sticking out her ... umm ... assets.

But, to give her credit, she did include a personalized message with the friend request: "i remember u."

She didn't capitalize or spell out the last word, but she did punctuate. Hmm.

My dad once told me that I sure can hold a grudge, and I guess that's true. Because boobs and syntax aside, the one thing that came to mind when I figured out who this girl was this:

That bitch tried to steal my bike shorts in 1991.

Yes. It's true.

She transferred to my school in the middle of sophomore year. We were in the same PE class. And I had these really nice bike shorts that I got for my birthday. Because it was the early 90s and bike shorts were cool. And Boob Girl asked me if she could borrow them. Sirens went off in my brain, screaming, "Hell to the no! This new girl cannot be trusted!"

Because she was new. But mostly, she was shifty. But I wasn't practiced at listening to those important gut reactions. I handed over the shorts.

She kept giving me the runaround about getting them back. Finally, after two weeks, I called her house and told her aunt that I needed my shorts back because I was playing tennis the next day after school and I had to have my shorts. Which was a lie. I didn't play tennis (which is a story for another day). And I'm pretty sure that most athletes can, you know, be athletic-like in a variety of shorts. But I thought having a deadline was a good thing.

And Boob Girl brought me my shorts the next day. With a scowl and a smirk.

And then she transferred schools. Not because of the shorts, I'm guessing. But really? She was barely a blip on the educational radar of a group of kids who had mostly known each other since kindergarten.

I'm sure that was a tough situation for her. As an adult, I can appreciate that. But my inner 15-year-old is still pissed about the shorts.

I pretty much accept any Facebook friend invitation. However, on this one? I'm going to listen to that voice in my head that tells me that a) nothing positive will come of any affiliation with Boob Girl; and b) my daddy is right - I do hold a grudge.

Turkey sandwiches. Turkey tetrazzini. Turkey pot pie.

I have blogger guilt.

I've been a crappy blogger this fall. And it's Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend, I blogged exactly twice last week, and I don't think I have anything terribly interesting to say now.

It's weird - I started blogging as an exercise in writing, as a way to get into a rhythm of writing for myself again. And then I made all these blog friends ... and now, sometimes? Sometimes, blogging feels like that e-mail that you know you need to respond to, and you know it will only take a few minutes, but sometimes? Sometimes, it just feels like yet another item on your to-do list.

You know?

I'm sure some of this feeling is due to the fact that today, I am faced with leaving my parents' house and returning to the real world. My week is jam-packed. And this long weekend doesn't feel long at all.

Lil' Frankfurter has been partially responsible for the perceived duration of my visit. It's hard to feel rested when, well, you're not.

See, Lil' Frank is generally unsettled the first night we're either visiting or someone is visiting us. That means that our first night here, Lil' Frank woke up every hour. He went outside at midnight and 4:10. After that last foray outside, he went right back to sleep ... and I was awake for an hour. Too bad we aren't one of those families who get up in the middle of the night to put the 89-pound turkey in the oven, because I was so there.

The last few nights have been better, but Lil' Frank is still not in his element. And he's had a few accidents around the house. And he's been obsessed with the closed doors and toys that were purposely placed out of his reach. And, he got carpet burn on the pads of his feet again and bled all over creation.

Basically, he's been a high-maintenance nightmare. I have a feeling my folks will be not-so-sad to see us go.

And, truthfully, I'm emotionally tender. Last Thanksgiving, I lost the Geriatric Poodle. So, there's that.

But, sleep deprivation or no, I have much to be thankful for. I've had a great time with my family. We are all healthy. We have been laughing a lot. We are warm and safe and have the luxury of being sick and tired of turkey.

I wish the same for you.

Insert witty title here.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pilgrim porn.

As you do.

I figured I could write a post about the possible porn titles for different holidays – everything from Arbor Day (think of all the variations on “log”) to Daylight Savings (spring forward, anyone?). And then I decided that I didn’t want my blog to come up in those creepy Google searches. And besides, can you really beat a Fisher-Price pilgrim with a porn stache?

No, you cannot.

But here’s something that made me cackle. I’m thankful for the Muppets. And I’m thankful for all of the wonderful friends I’ve met through blogland. Enjoy.

I got your Thanksgiving right here.

I have been doing my best to ignore the Christmas music that's been playing not on one, but two, TWO local radio stations since November 1.

And I'm turning the channel whenever a Hey-It's-Christmas-Let's-All-Consume! ad comes on TV. I'm trying to make peace with the fact that those awful Gap ads will be playing nonstop for the next month.

And I'm even giving folks with their Christmas lights up the benefit of the doubt, thinking that the lights are up only because it's been nice, and folks are worried bad weather might impede regularly-scheduled light set-up.

See? I'm a giver.

And I'm trying to give thanks. But sometimes it feels like we are small band, as the world jumps from Halloween immediately to Christmas. In other words, eat a bunch of candy and dress like a whore, then immediately buy a bunch of overpriced plastic crap that you don't need.

I know! I don't know why other countries hate us, either.

I also don't know why Thanksgiving seems to be a dying holiday. I think it's pretty kick-ass. What's not to like about eating good food and being mindful of your blessings?

In my yoga class today, the instructor talked about giving thanks for the big little things ... clean water, our bodies' abilities to practice yoga, not missing a meal.

And that got me thinking about the grave injustice that got me so stinkin' mad yesterday.

See, My Guy has this truly hideous fake tree that the previous owners left at his house. If a palm tree and a piece of green construction paper had a baby, it would look like this tree.

We decided that since he's hosting his family for Thanksgiving that we should decorate The Thanksgiving Tree. So, we bought some ugly decorations at Michaels. And we made turkey hand print ornaments out of construction paper. This was, of course, my excuse to buy a new box of crayons.

Now, there are few things I love in this world more than a new box of crayons. I love the way they smell. I love the orderly way all the even points line up in the box. There's just something so clean and fresh about a new box of crayons - it's about hope and faith and all that is good and right with the world.

Except.

Except, upon opening my brand-new box of 96 Crayolas, I realized that someone had flipped open the top part of the box and used some of my new crayons. Like, maybe someone had tested out the crayons at Target, then plopped the run-down crayons back in the box.

Who would do such a thing?

So, I'm trying to be thankful for my ability to buy a new box of crayons even though it's not the beginning of the school year. And I'm trying to be gracious about whatever random teenager coloring with my crayons. I'm trying to have Thanksgiving in my heart, even if the world around me jumped to Christmas.

The world around me, except for some neighbors who posted what is supposed to be a Thanksgiving flag outside their door. It features pilgrims that look sort of like Fisher-Price people ... except that the guy pilgrim totally has a porn 'stache. Now, every time I walk by that house, I think, "Pilgrims! Bow chicka bow wow!" Which is not really the spirit of Thanksgiving at all.

Do you think there's pilgrim-themed porn? "Oh, Captain Standish ... now I know why your first name is Miles!"

Random much?

I feel like I've been cheating with blogging this week. Yeah, I'll tell you a story ... but I'm gonna crib some movie dialogue or a funny video to pad it all out. You know, so you feel like you're getting your money's worth.

Oh, wait. Reading blogs is free. Whatever.

So lemme tell you the real dirt.

My editorial partner in crime, Dorothy, scored her dream job. Like, angels brought it down from heaven and gently deposited it in her lap while Bon Jovi performed "Livin' on a prayer."

Yes, it's that good.

I am sooooo excited for her. But I've been in a bit of shock-o-rama. We're gearing up for the busiest time at Corporate Behemoth, and the game just changed. And, I'm going to miss my friend.

And, I have cramps.

So, there's that. And I'm still mad as hell about my boob doctor 90-second experience on Monday. And I'm comforted yet completely pissed off that many folks have had similar experiences. Instead of "Livin' on a prayer," many of us have had boob doctor encounters with more of a "Highway to hell" soundtrack.

Now, I love AC/DC as much as the next girl. But their music does not symbolize what I'm looking for in medical care. I will admit, though, that Metallica's "Enter sandman" played as I parked my car at Cancer Pavilion! on Monday, and I felt like a football player going into battle.

Obviously, my brain is everywhere this week.

So, happy weekend to me and to you. I'm going to watch football and do laundry and avoid doctors. What's on tap for you?

My wife's boyfriend broke my jaw with a fencepost.

I have kind of been having this week, you know?

And so, I've taken great delight in the discovery of my two new personal heroes, Rhett and Link. They make epic commercials for local businesses.

Really. Businesses like the Salt Lake Community College Barbering and Cosmetology School - An Unlicensed Salon. And TDM Auto Sales / Cuban Gynecologist in High Point, North Carolina. Really.

But this one is my favorite. C'mon down to Cullman Liquidation and git yo'self a home. Or don't. I don't care.



Check out ilovelocalcommercials.com for more goodness.

Fly the friendly skies.

On my flight to Boston last week, I had two people fighting over the seat next to me. Because I am just that awesome.

Actually, some princess with sunglasses the size of a hubcap wanted to sit next to me so that she wouldn't be in the back of the plane. But the guy whose actual seat it was was all, "Uh, this is my seat. Beyotch."

And so, I met Jim.

Jim and I talked for the duration of the two-hour flight. And not in an oh-Jeezus-leave-me-alone sort of way, or a creepy-stalker-guy sort of way. Just in a we-would-totally-be-friends-in-real-life sort of way.

I love talking to new people - everybody has a story, and real life is way more interesting than anything you could make up. Jim told me about his wife and daughter, and the daughter's autism, and what they're doing for Christmas, and his his recent sinus surgery. And I told Jim about Corporate Behemoth and the burden of outfitting a home without the benefit of a bridal registry and what it was like to be present at my grandma's death.

Because sometimes, it's easier to talk to strangers about intimate things than it is to talk to people you really know. It's like gravity - it just is. See also: blogging.

Jim left me with three awesome takeaways:

1. A kick-ass plane ride that went by in a flash

2. This kind comment as we were getting off the plane: "I've so enjoyed talking with you, Cha Cha. I can't believe you're not married - you're such fun and such a catch." Which totally made up for this summer's "Good luck ever getting married" debacle.

3. Anticipation for the most awesome advertising campaign. See, Jim works in marketing ... marketing of ... well, feminine hygiene. Yes. We talked about tampons and pads and menstruation. And we both agreed that some man wrote the whole "Have a happy period" slogan. Because, seriously? Also, did you know that Tampax invented modern feminine products?

Yeah, me neither.

Anyway, Kotex launched a campaign in Australia that will hit the U.S. in the spring.

It features this guy.

Yeah. Take care of your beaver.

I know it's sort of low-brow, but come on. It's a fact of life, so we might as well laugh about it. And this made me cackle.



And you're welcome.

Image courtesy of Google Images.

What's your sign?

Today, I went to the Cancer Pavilion!.

Cancer Pavilion! makes me think of a scene from the greatest movie of all time, Trading Places. Eddie Murphy (Billy Ray) and Dan Aykroyd (Louis) are pretending to be acquaintances from an African education conference.

Louis: Nenge? Nenge Mboko? It is me, Lionel Joseph!

Billy Ray: Lionel! From the African Education Conference!

Louis: Yah, mon, I was Director of Cultural Activities at the Haile Selassie Pavilion.

Billy Ray: I remember the pavilion - we had big fun there!

Both: Boo-boo yah, boo-boo yah, boo-boo yah, hah! Boo-boo yah, boo-boo yah, boo-boo yah, hah!

Billy Ray: Oh, memories!

I'm guessing the Haile Selassie Pavilion was waaaay more fun than Cancer Pavilion!.

See, I had this spot on my breast. And then it went away. And then it came back. And then I freaked out.

Oh, and somewhere in there, my gyn went out of business. So I contacted Cancer Pavilion!, where my mom and I are in the genetic counseling program because, well, we rock the breast cancer hizz-ouse.

And the genetic counseling people had been all, "OMG, anytime you need anything, we'll hook you up!" Except, in reality? That really meant, "We'll grudgingly help you get an appointment in three weeks."

And then the spot went away again. Which was good - don't get me wrong.

But today I went to Cancer Pavilion! and spent three hours, of which I saw the actual doctor exactly 90 seconds. She basically felt me up, told me the spot was dermatitis, and told me to get a mammogram when I turn 40.

I should have just gone to the Minute Clinic inside the CVS.

I'm torn. I'm torn between being thankful that the spot did go away and that the Cancer Pavilion! people thought it was no big deal ... and being supreeeeemely annoyed at the folks at Cancer Pavilion!. I have an intense family history. I look like a pirate due to the scar from a lumpectomy I had when I was all of 23 years old. Could someone please just acknowledge that I did the right thing by coming in? That would be far more palatable than being treated like I was wasting their time.

Ahem.

However, I'm saying two little (ok, big) prayers of thanksgiving tonight. One, thank you for my health. And two, thank you for the gorgeous woman with the long blond hair in the waiting room. She overheard that it was my initial appointment at Cancer Pavilion! and basically followed me into the ladies' room - but not to be creepy. She told me that she had the same doctor, that she'd had breast cancer diagnosed in January and had been clean since her radiation ended in June, and that it wasn't any big deal. She just kept telling me: You'll be fine, I promise.

And ... she was right. Thank you.

Image courtesy of Google Images. Lookin' good, Billy Ray!

Rock on.

Today, I slept until almost noon. Then, I ate cereal and cuddled with the dachshunds. Dachsi? Doxi? Whatever. Multiple wiener dogs.

I had a moment of, "Oh, crap! I'm wasting the day!" And then I realized that if going to a yoga class or getting a massage was considered a valuable and worthwhile use of time, then snuggling with my pups was, too. After all, there are all sorts of studies about the value of companion animals on physical health.

I don't think those studies have included data on doxies who refuse to go outside when it's raining and instead pee on you and around your house, but maybe that's just my own personal experience and an opportunity for further research.

So I did go to yoga. And then I cooked. And then I sat on my couch, knitted and re-re-rewatched vh1's top heavy metal songs.

Yeah, I've seen it a few times. Yeah, it's permanently saved on my DVR. But I learn something new every time!

This time? I picked up an important life lesson from David Coverdale.

Why yes, that David Coverdale, he of Whitesnake and Tawny Kitaen.

He talked about how when he comes home from being on the road - because with that hair, of course he's still touring - he transitions from being a rock star to completely being a husband and dad.

"Balance is essential for a fulfilling life."

So, basically, this lazy Sunday is David Coverdale-approved.

A few final thoughts on business travel.

I finally got home Thursday night / Friday morning at about 2:30. Good times.

After several delays, the gods of the Milwaukee airport (that's General Mitchell International Airport to you) announced that our plane had arrived and we would begin boarding soon.

We all approached the gate.

And we waited. And waited. And then, the gate attendant announced that there wasn't anything serious going on, but we were waiting on lav service.

Lav service? There was a problem with one of the restrooms on the plane.

At this point, it was after midnight. The general consensus was that we would all promise not to use that bathroom if we could just get on the fucking plane and get home.

I am not ashamed to admit that I became delirious. I looked around the almost-empty terminal, at the cleaning crew and my fellow disgruntled travelers. And then?

Then, I noticed the walls.

Remember that scene in Coming to America when the Soul Glo family gets up off the couch and leaves greasy residue?

Tell me you don't see a resemblance. A striking resemblance.

So, I got all my coworkers singing the Soul Glo theme song (don't pretend you don't know it - Just let your Soul Glo! Feelin' oh so silky smooth! Just let it shiiiiine!).

And then we got on the plane. And then we got home. And then I collapsed and have been sleeping a lot.

I did realize, however, that I failed to mention one other important takeaway from my travels: I learned that one of my coworkers carries his Blackberry around in a Ziploc baggie. Always.

Maybe he stands out in the rain a lot. I don't know.

Livin' the dream.

I'm stranded in the Milwaukee airport.

Me and my posse from Corporate Behemoth.

This after a 9-to-5 meeting that left us all tired and a bit cranky.

Now? We are cranky and tired and wondering if we're going to get home tonight. I have already pulled the trigger and texted Puppy Love Lisa, asking her to spend the night with Foxie Doxie and Lil' Frankfurter. Because she is the greatest human ever.

And now? My posse is splayed about the Milwaukee airport, feet propped up on suitcases, laptops out, none of us using them for work-related purposes.

I will share other highlights of this quick trip to Boston:

1. The Doubletree gave the same hotel room to two people. This meant that at midnight last night, some poor dude spent 10 minutes trying to key into my hotel room while I watched through the peephole.

2. The Doubletree also screwed me by calling me at 12:15 a.m. ... to ask when I wanted my wake-up call. Seriously? Fuck you, Doubletree.

3. In the midst of today's meeting, I realized that one of my coworkers looks just like Sam the Eagle. You know, from the Muppets.
This made me look around the conference room, trying to decide what other members of the Muppet menagerie were represented at Corporate Behemoth.

I think we've got a Scooter.
And a few Bunsen Honeydews. I do work for a software company, after all.

4. In the restroom at the Milwaukee airport, on the sign-in sheet where workers note when they cleaned the facilities? One of the employees signs his name "Bill The Thrill."

Right on, business trip. You rock.

No, I don't work at a hospital. Obviously.

It’s November at Corporate Behemoth, and you know what that means.

Yes. It’s time to re-enroll in health benefits.

Corporate Behemoth changed a bunch of stuff around this year, so even the folks who are willing to shell out big bucks for big coverage are sort of screwed. None of us know which anorexic little plan to choose.

One of the number crunchers in my department actually created a comparison Excel spreadsheet to help us all decide. It’s the clearest bit of info we have in our oh-Jeeeezus-please-may-we-not-actually-need-insurance-because-I’m-not-sure-I’m-picking-the-right-thing arsenal.

Today, I overheard a 45-minute conversation between three dads on my team, all trying to decide how best to protect their families. I wonder if Corporate Behemoth realizes what their attempts at saving money actually do to staff morale and productivity.

I'm worried that no one at Corporate Behemoth has the expertise to make these decisions. This concern is based on two things:

1. All of the colorful "Hey! Let's talk about health care!" info HR provided is actually written in a combination of Sanskrit and Serbo-Croatian.

2. One of my coworkers recently posed this question about our product's online content: "So, does all of the content reside in one big suppository?"

How to be a half-assed homeowner.

Brought to you by your guide in half-assery, Cha Cha!

1. Revel in the glorious weather this weekend. Realize, too, that this is most likely the last nice weekend in several months.

2. Make big and somewhat overzealous plans for yard work. Yard work in the yard that you have basically ignored all year.

3. Saturday morning, realize that you must watch the 11:00 Iowa game in lieu of getting an early-ish start on the yard work.

4. Become despondent and depressed when your beloved Hawkeyes fall.

5. Take your heartache out on the leaves that coat every surface in your yard. Also exert your dominance over the volunteer trees along the fence line that were once volunteer trees, but since you've ignored them for a year have settled in, grown hearty, and are now receiving mail at your address.

6. Wonder who, exactly, Lil' Frankfurter thinks is going to open the door when he cries for someone to let him back in the house, despite the fact you're at the other end of the backyard.

7. Realize you've been working for hours and hours and hours because it has gotten dark.

8. Go inside and see that it's only 5:00. Be sort of depressed, but promise to hit the yard hard on Sunday.

9. Check voicemail. Receive an invite to brunch. Realize that only losers skip brunch to work in the yard.

10. Do some stuff, go to bed, wake up barely in time to make it to brunch. Enjoy brunch.

11. Come home from brunch with barely enough time to get ready for yoga class. Decide that the yard will still be there after yoga and that yoga will make you so happy.

12. Go to yoga. Be so happy.

13. Come home. Fight the urge to take a nap. Eat some yogurt instead. Then go outside to hit that bitch hard. Plan to dig all the grass out of the landscaping, artfully organize that black sheet stuff around the landscaping so grass can't grow through, and then cover the whole shebang with mulch.

14. Remember that digging grass up out of landscaping is a giant pain.

15. Be sort of delighted when you realize that the ugly-ass evergreens in front of your house are not only ugly, but also sort of dying. Decide they will all need to be replaced in the spring. Decide that this means you can totally pull a little grass from around the landscaping, then just cover the rest of the mess up with some mulch, because you have seven bags of mulch in your garage and as long as they are in your garage, you can't park your actual car in the garage and this is unacceptable.

16. Be happy with your half-assed plan until you look up and realize that in your three years of homeownership, you've never once cleaned your gutters. Realize that it's obvious. Decide that having an entire ecosystem popping its ugly head out of your gutters does not bode well for your overall curb appeal.

17. Pull some grass. Be surprised when it gets dark at 5:00. Realize, too, that you've been bending down, ass-to-street, in yoga pants, for a couple of hours. Decide that the darkness is not a bad thing. Throw down some mulch.

18. Give up. Decide homeowners are losers. Go inside, take a shower, and eat Rice-A-Roni.

Things that are funny.

1. Today, that nice woman who gets paid to listen to me run my mouth - some would call her my therapist - asked me a funny question.

We were talking about boobs. Mine are ... ample. And she said, "Does anyone ever ask you if they're real?"

No. It never really occurred to me that they might be too ample to be real. But once, when I was walking through a crowded bar and some dude was staring, I said, "Yeah, they're real" as I walked by. Because I'm sassy like that.

2. This photo. Is funny. Because Foxie strikes this pose on the back of the couch all the damn time.
3. And also this photo. Because Foxie is ... foxy.

Key to my post office box heart.

Sunday was daylight savings time - and you know what that means.

That's right. My sleep patterns are ... how do you say? Oh, yes. All fucked up.

But in addition to being tired at 9 p.m., it's also the time of year when I actually take the dogs for walks in the morning. This is fairly easy since I wake up way before my alarm. Because it is light outside. Which is dumb.

There's one house on our route that I try not to stare at. When the garage door is open, you can see a very nice organization system made entirely of cheap metal shelves ... and those white plastic bins that proclaim "Property of the U.S. Postal Service" on all sides.

Yes. My neighbors have built their entire garage organization system around stolen property.

I'm trying to get a count of the actual bins involved, but it's hard to do this while also walking two dachshunds, trying to avoid the homeowner's beagle, and managing the Herculean task of not looking like a nosy freak.

Today, though, I discovered the icing on the cake.

It was trash day. And Stolen Organization System Neighbor had their grey plastic trashcan on the curb. Their grey plastic trashcan that had "Mail Room" written in Sharpie on all sides.

Disgruntled mail clerk? Postal fetishist? Or shifty office worker who has taken lifting Post-Its and paperclips to a whole new level?

I wonder what the rest of the house looks like.

Conversations with my family.

The set-up: My parents, My Guy, and I are sitting around the kitchen table. My mom has just returned from visiting her aunt and uncle.

Mom: So, I learned some new things about Grandma today.

The Rest of Us: Oh, yeah?

Mom: Yeah. Like, she kept a gun in a handbag on the top shelf of her hall closet. Even when she was living at Crescent Ridge. You know, just in case.

Dad: Really?

Mom: Yeah. I guess during the 30s, when they lived on the farm, there were hobos and such, and, well, some of them weren't very nice. Grandpa had a .45. So he bought her a .32.

Dad: A ladies' pistol.

My Guy: How feminine.

Mom: Yeah. And I also learned that Grandma had a boyfriend - that's how she broke her rib.

The Rest of Us: Huh?

Mom: Yeah. When she was living with us, she broke a rib. The only reason we knew about it was because she got out of a chair wrong and about passed out from the pain.

My Guy: I've heard that broken ribs are super painful.

Mom: Well, she went to the doctor and got it all taped up and such. But it turns out that it was from her boyfriend! He squeezed her too hard and broke her rib.

The Rest of Us: *silence*

Mom: Grandma was living with us - I was in grade school or junior high - but we didn't know she had a boyfriend! And he just squeezed her too tight and broke her rib.

Me: How big was Grandma?

Mom: Oh, maybe 98 pounds.

Dad: And how tall?

Mom: Probably about 5'2".

*raised eyebrows, dirty minds, and conspiratorial, knowing glances between The Rest of Us*

Me: Umm?

Dad: You can't break a rib by squeezing someone.

My Guy: Yeah.

Dad: It would take a little more than a hug ...

Mom: SHE WAS MY GRANDMA!

And ... scene.

Sometimes? This blog just writes itself.

Nine and ohhh!

I have been playing hookie. Huzzah!

My Guy and I traveled to Iowa to surprise my brother for his birthday. Poochie? He was surprised.

And then? We went to the Iowa game.

Now, I have been a Hawkeye fan for my entire life. My parents had season tickets. I have probably seen a dozen games in person. I had not, however, ever seen Iowa actually win.

I have witnessed ties. I saw our star running back Ronnie Harmon break his leg in 1984. I've seen heavily favored Hawkeye teams fall to lesser ball clubs. But I figured that an 8-0 Iowa team could readily take care of Indiana. So, My Guy and I bought tickets and made the trek to Iowa City.

In the third quarter, our quarterback threw for four interceptions. And yet? Iowa scored 28 unanswered points in the fourth quarter and won. I can't describe the game in a way that does it justice, so I won't try. However, I did have three major takeaways:

1. Until about five minutes left in the game, I thought that my family would disown me. If the Hawks lost because I was at the game and refused to leave? Well, my lovely family would be thankful for the good times we'd shared ... and kick me to the curb. I don't blame them. However, I was thankful that this didn't come to fruition. Thank God the Cha Cha Football Curse was lifted.

2. It was a chilly, windy day in Iowa City. I was glad to be sporting both my long underwear and SPF 85. Because that's how I roll. But it was quite obvious looking around the crowd that these are people who are accustomed to cold. While I joke about being a hearty northerner, it's true. My folk are a hearty people. They were simultaneously very prepared for the 40-degree temps and also completely unfazed by it. Twenty below wind chill? Bring it. They'll still come to the game.

3. If you've ever wondered exactly who is the stupidest human on Earth, I have found her. She and her husband sat behind us at the game. My first hint that something was very, very wrong came when she asked why the game had stopped.

Husband: It's a TV timeout.
Dumb Lady: So, they can't play then?

Seriously?

These sorts of questions went on and on. But with 1:37 left in the first half, my stadium neighbor really outdid herself.

Dumb Lady: So, who are we playing again?

At this point, I reached a new low in my life. I began actively hoping that another human being had Alzheimer's. Because if she has some sort of cognitive issue, my empathy will kick in and I'll just be glad that she's out and enjoying the day and taking in the sights and sort of following the festivities. But if not? If she's just really that dumb?

I have a hard time being gracious around that. Luckily, I was too focused on my beloved Hawkeyes being 9-0 to take the time to thin the herd, if you know what I'm sayin'.