Kay's Blog

Football Fever

Everyone knows being sick can cause a fever.  But last weekend I had the kind of fever that can make you sick: Football Fever.

I caught it from my husband, Steve.  He’s not a huge fan (though like me, he could probably stand to lose a few pounds). Still, he gets interested when his team makes the playoffs, like the Seattle Seahawks did this year.

The game had just started last Saturday when I heard Steve shouting at the TV. That part isn't unusual, but he sounded especially excited, which made me curious. I came downstairs in time to see the Seahawks score their second Touchdown…in just three minutes…against the favored Green Bay Packers!

That’s when I caught the fever.

I plopped down on the couch to help cheer the Seahawks on to victory. At that moment the Seahawks fell apart, crumbling into a such a pathetic mess I thought they might get a visit from Dr. Phil.

It was a huge letdown to see the other team score the first of SIX unanswered touchdowns in the icy Green Bay stadium.  It got worse; large flakes started falling onto the field (besides the Seahawks).

Those first snowflakes developed into a full-fledged Blizzard. The fans and players from Green Bay are used to that kind of weather. But the Seahawks are from Seattle. The only kind of Blizzard we can handle comes from Dairy Queen.

Here’s the crazy part: most of the players wore short sleeves. I guess they wanted to look tough, because even though the temperature was below freezing, they all showed off their rippling biceps (or “guns,” as they call them), by baring arms.

The game dragged on, and watching the Seahawks lose after their promising start was sickening. It was even more painful when they kept calling “Time Outs.” As a mom, I’ve used Time Outs as punishment, and being on the other end was a bummer.

Eventually the Seahawks lost, by a depressing score of 42-20. Because even though both teams had the same number of Quarterbacks, Running Backs, Tailbacks and Fullbacks, the other team had something we didn’t.

A Comeback.

What Can Brown Do For You?

Mother Nature gave me brown hair. Now, Father Time is taking it; my beautiful sable locks are being replaced by a color of gray that's as dull as a Presidential Debate.

Luckily I don't have a ton of gray hair - yet.  But I have too much gray hair for a woman in her mid-thirties, which is how old I am...trying to look.

I first noticed the strands of silver in my hair a few years ago. I didn’t mind, because there were only a few.  But their numbers keep growing, and I’m afraid soon I'll have so much silver someone will try to polish it.

There’s a solution, of course. Unfortunately the solution contains harsh chemicals, is a pain-in-the-butt, and costs an arm and a leg. It’s easy to see why some women say, “no way” to hair color. As for me, I'm vain; I firmly support the right-to-dye.

Every six weeks I go to my hairdresser, Stefanie, to get my locks changed. She mixes a combination of noxious chemicals into a goopy potion and smears it on my head. She slaps on a shower cap. Then we wait.

At this point, I avoid glimpsing myself in shiny surfaces, because I look ridiculous. When it comes to getting your hair colored, it’s the Destination, not the Journey; on the way to the land of the Beautiful, you travel through the town of Ugly.

Guys are lucky. They don’t worry as much about having gray hair. My husband, Steve, has gray hair, and he only covers it up once in awhile. Even then, he eventually ends up taking off his hat.

Most women feel differently. If someone asked me, “What Can Brown Do for You?” I’d answer: Make me look younger.  Yesterday I felt fantastic when I walked out of Stefanie’s as a shiny brunette.

I’ll be back in six weeks to do it again. Because for me, dyeing is just part of getting older.

Balderdash

"It doesn't matter whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game."

Whoever said that was obviously a loser.

Saying that winning doesn't matter is Balderdash, which means nonsense. Balderdash also happens to be the name of the lively game I played the other night with some friends.

Here's how the game works. You're given a word, person, movie title, etc. You have to bluff your opponents into believing YOU have the right definition, answer or plot. Here are examples:

Who is Jesse Reno?

Janet Reno's Identical Twin.

What's the plot of the movie, "If Ever I See You Again?"

It's a gripping saga of lost socks in the dryer.

Because of brilliant answers like these, my game piece overtook my friend Cheryl's to win the game. As I crossed the finish line, there was a loud cheer.

The cheer went on for awhile; meanwhile everyone else left to get snacks.

Maybe I was a little obnoxious, but I was excited - I haven't won too many things.  I've never won any trophies. The only plaque I had was removed by the dentist.

The next day I was still basking in the glory of my win when the phone rang.  It was my friend, Cheryl.

"You were probably waiting for me to call," she said.

"Yeah, I was pretty awesome last night, huh?"

"Actually, I'm calling to say that something felt wrong; I couldn't stop thinking about the game all night. Then I realized I made a mistake - I didn't move enough spaces on my last turn. I won after all."

I thought about it for a minute.

"You snooze, you lose," I said.

I couldn't help it; calling me to claim my victory took a lot of nerve. I felt peeved. I felt irritated. I felt like calling her something nasty.

But is there a name for a person who is that petty? That competitive? That obsessed with winning a trivial party game?

The only one I could think of was Kay Miller.