Stupid is as stupid does: or Super Bowl Sunday–rah, rah

Today is Super Bowl Sunday. I do not understand football and I can probably be forgiven because, while my mind works in delightful ways, it does not compute sports strategy. In high school I liked to watch basketball but if I was passed the ball in gym class I became confused—there were so many options—dribble it somewhere, pass it to someone, try to get it in the basket, or, as I did quite often, stand there until someone shouted at me with instructions. Girls did not play football in gym. I tossed a football around a bit with my older brothers in our backyard (mostly I tried not to get hit in the head) but that was about it. I am familiar with the weirdly shaped ball, but not the true essence of the game that is named after it.

The sport baffles me—I understand when they throw the ball, and when they try to stop someone from advancing it to their goal post, but it seems like most of time it is a bunch of bodies piling on top of one another—I guess in an effort to stop the ball—but that usually seems beside the point. I watched the movie with Sandra Bullock and the adopted son who became a famous football player, and when the little brother explained strategy with mustard and other condiment bottles, I understood to a point, but when you replace the bottles with people, I am still somewhat ill at ease with the game—which seems a bit violent.  A game where head concussions are a regular achievement is not generally my cup of tea.

Today, in all my glorious ignorance, I am going to celebrate Super Bowl Sunday. I got some wings—spicy and mild (for me), a chocolate cake with a football on it, and I am rooting for a local guy who plays on the bird team.  For anyone local, the guy’s name is Luke Wilson, and he is from LaSalle, Ontario, only about 35 minutes from where I live.

I have never watched a Super Bowl game in my life. I have been to Super Bowl parties and partaken in the wonderfully bad food, but I have stayed away from the huge television set usually in a place of pride in someone’s family room, and watched a movie on the smaller TV upstairs with those like-minded souls who accompanied their spouses to the party (I am not being sexist here—many a lady I know understands and likes football). I used to go to football games at university but hydrated on purple jesus (sounds so disrespectful now—but it was kind of like grape juice spiced with alcohol) it did not really matter what was going on in the field as long as we did not cheer when the other team scored.

Today I am looking forward to the commercials and half-time and the food. I always get these wonderful ideas thinking my family will follow suit and we will have a wonderfully close-knit bonding experience. These plans usually go awry—but I never give up. I usually find the unplanned times together work best, but I still give it the old college try (without the copious amounts of alcohol).

So, go bird team go. Perhaps I should find out the real names of the teams –what do you think?

(I used the Comic sans font so you would know this is supposed to be funny—did it work?)

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Olives ~ How Could I Forget Olives?

Olives

Olives (Photo credit: jurvetson)

I was going through my Thanksgiving menu in my head today for some reason. It is not like me to plan ahead, so this is a good sign for those who will have to eat the meal. I thought about the menu that I have created, and was gobsmacked that  I had forgotten the most important thing: OLIVES. Sure we will have turkey and stuffing and potatoes and corn and pumpkin pie—but how did I forget the Olives?

Olives have been on all my holiday feast tables since I left home and my mother’s table. And olives were on the menu of every one of her holiday meals—or at least Thanksgiving and Christmas, but probably Easter too.

I love olives. The little green ones stuffed with pimento were the ones from my childhood, and I still make sure I have them on my table for the holidays. I guess my tastes have expanded since childhood, because I now like briny black olives, but my hands down favourites are  huge green olives stuffed with a garlic clove. They are to die for (seriously that is what this cliché was designed for, to describe these garlic stuffed olives).

I am going to let you in on a little secret: when I do not have my jumbo garlic olives, but have the little guys with the pimento in my fridge, I open the jar and stick some garlic cloves in, and the next day, these garlic infused olives are also “to die for”. Learned this from my sister who got it from her friend Kathy.

English: Single clove garlic.

English: Single clove garlic. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Someone once asked me if I liked garlic and was surprised at my response that I love garlic. Do I look like someone who does not like garlic—am I too white bread for garlic? (Is there even such as thing as too white bread for garlic?) I get this kind of stuff all the time—I was once told by someone that they were surprised I drank beer. Jeez, I need to get some kind of makeover—admittedly I am a little preppy in the way I dress—but hey, I love garlic and a cold beer. Hope that settles the controversy (though I think it is a controversy of my own making—the mind is a wonderful and complex thing isn’t it?)

I seem to have digressed here—but just so there is no mistake: Olives will be served at my Thanksgiving table. They will also be on the table at Christmas. When I was a kid this was the only time we had olives. Today, I have them whenever I darn well please, but they may not make it to the table in one of my mom’s little crystal bowls like they will this Thanksgiving.

Day 12 ~ 200 Words

Nancy Kissel during the 2005 trial

Nancy Kissel during the 2005 trial (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My husband thinks he is very clever. And that he has a profoundly wonderful sense of humour. The proof they say, is in the pudding. Unbeknownst to me, he bought me a book and left it in my bookshelf for me to find.  I did not find it for weeks, until one day I was perusing the shelves looking for a little inspiration for my weekly newspaper column (as I had not yet started blogging).

Front and centre, there sat his “gift”. A red coffee table sized book, proclaiming in bold black print “EVIL WIVES”.  I took it out of the shelf and looked it over. Pictures of very unhappy women adorned the front cover. The back cover blurb read: “Nancy Kissel served her investment banker husband a strawberry milkshake laced with drugs, then clubbed him over the head with a statuette.” Some might say that this was overkill, others that it was a job well done.

The book brags that it “focuses on the most horrible crimes ever committed by women.” Hmm, wonder if I can match wits with any of the diabolical widows—I have been saving apple seeds for years….a little arsenic with your beer, dear?

Published in: on July 17, 2012 at 3:23 am  Comments (24)  
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