Vocabulary Schmocabulary: Getting a leg up in English from the old lady

These days, I think anyone with kids would agree that schools give the kind of homework that requires parental involvement. BIG parental involvement. Like: what 2nd grader can create an entire diorama all by themselves? Hello? Glue gun in the hands of a 7 year old. No danger there.

So with all my re-living the elementary school years via my son Chase who's now in 5th grade, I thought, well, one good thing that comes from that is that he'll have a real leg up in English, writing, etc. Since that's sort of what, you know, I do. So we scrutinized papers and I was prompting him to add more adjectives and throw in funky stuff like quote marks well before the words "quote" and "marks" had been strung together in his classes. But this year, I've been encouraging Chase to have a go at his homework solo. He's preparing for middle school where they'll be really loading up the homework and the expectations are severely raised. I'd worked to lay the foundation; it was time to fly on his own.

So all last week, Chase had these vocabulary word cards to put together--a handful every night. He had to write the provided word on one side and on the flip side, a definition and then a sentence using the word. He did all of these by himself and the night before the test, I was quizzing him since there were so many. And you can imagine my sheer delight to come across the word "ashen." As in, "You could say she had a bad night from the look on her ashen face." Or, as Chase wrote: "My fireplace has a lot of ashen in it."

Yep, thank goodness I was here to give him that leg up.

My budding English major:

Good News? Anybody?

Am I the only one sick and damn tired of the drama that smacks us in the face each morning via the news? I consider myself neither an optimist or a pessimist, but merely a realist. And the reality is, in trucking these days, like the rest of the free world, there's little good news to be had. But I actually got a little good news today so I feel the need to shout it to the world, simply because I think we could all stand to know that not everything happening each and every day is bad, bad and mo' bad.

As you all realize by now, my job is in trucking. I'm a truckin' gal but not in a "let me back that rig up for ya" or a "can I reheat your coffee, sir?" way. Rather in a writer/manager/miracle-worker/juggler capacity. And part of the line up I work on includes a great website, TheTrucker.com.

We've specialized in trucking for...well, ever. And when you're in this kind of business, getting feedback from readers/end-users is like pulling teeth. We're all busy, I know, I'm not really knocking on you here, per se. But it's simply a fact I've learned in my umpteen (which in this case translates to 15) years in the industry: drivers don't usually do a whole lot of sending in letters and comments. Not good, not bad. It's become a "if they ain't complainin', keep doin' what you're doin' because they like it" kind of thing. No news is good news and all that jazz. Don't get me wrong--we get some notes but just not tons. And that's ok--I don't need a constant pat on the back. But because we know this about our audience, when we do hear from the folks about something good that happened to them because of something offered by us, we take notice and we're thrilled. So in an effort to pass around a little good news, I'm sharing some recent kudos here, if you don't mind.

We just received a super letter from a gal who, even in this crapstorm of an economy, was able to use our website to land herself a job that will be a real step up for her. She wrote to our website guru:

"I just have to thank You. I applied to Dart Transit [and] have been approved though my application. March 16 I will be going though orientation. I really think your website is awesome. It really works, and I hope other drivers who are looking for work come to this site. There are [many jobs] there. Thank You, Nancy Teresa Bourland"

Nancy, you are incredibly welcome and I'm delighted that we connected you with a new career and a bright future. In this day, the cream of the crop jobs may be harder to discover, but they're out there folks. Want to see for yourself? Check out the site here--we want to hear more success stories like Nancy's because we can all appreciate a little good news!

The T On the Loose

You know how you love Fridays? That's right--I know you love Fridays. How? I spy on you. But I too am a fan of Fridays which made today a day to love. The morning moved along swimmingly, like most Fridays do. I planned an evening of taking my son to his chosen social destination, enjoying a dinner that I did not have to make or clean up after, and then returning home to a glass of wine and a chick-flick my husband wouldn't be caught within 10 feet of (Pride and Prejudice). And then, the day turned. Our beagle Teddy decided to celebrate this particular Friday (he also loves them) by exercising his need for space.

Around noon, T Bear and my Sheltie Bailey were out for their mid-day constitutional. After woofing down a 15-minute lunch, I went to let them back in. Enter: one Sheltie. Sans Beagle. I stuck my head out and looked around but did not see any four-legged creatures in the 50 lb range. I thought maybe my husband had let him in unbeknownst to me so I asked him: Where's Teddy? I knew the answer wouldn't be good when all I got was a blank stare from the man whose very life revolves around this dog who is--in return--co-dependent on him.

Where was the T? Out John ran to check the gate that was always supposed to be closed and locked. It mocked him by creaking open in the wind, eerie-sounding, like a ghost town deserted before the bad guys step onto the road. A gate most decidedly not closed and not locked. The T was on the loose.

Into action we moved. John grabbed a leash, I grabbed my keys. If you know anything about Beagles, you know that one on the loose can easily be guided quite far, quite fast by his "I gotta follow that smell!" nose. John began walking and I cruised the 'hood. Luckily it didn't take long to locate our wild beast: Poor thing had been in the wild where he never knew where his next meal might come from so he was foraging for food in a neighbor's trash, picking up a small bag of food cartons, vegetable cans and last night's leftovers and tossing it into the air in the hopes that landing on the ground would bust open the goodies. This is, after all, the tried and true hunting fashion of wild dogs for hundreds of years.

I parked, stepped out and called to Teddy. Up popped his head and he gazed at me, wondering if it could really be me. I called again and he realized it was me and he tore off toward me, with beagle ears flapping in the breeze and his back legs sort of swinging to the side like a NASCAR race car that's a little loose in the corners. I swooped our little wanderer into my back seat and cruised back to my worried hubby who was scouring the houses in the direction he'd gone. "I've got him!" I bellowed, once I got close enough. I stopped and John took the T out to let him walk home with him on the leash. Clearly the dog had a need to stretch his legs. And while I headed back to the house, I watched in my rear view mirror to see Teddy spending more time dancing around and jumping on John than he did just casually walking. And no wonder--there's no couches or wet dog food or tempur-pedic mattresses in the wild, wild world. And he'd been out in that dismal land for...for...minutes! He was thrilled to be back. We were thrilled to have him.

Our little wanderer:



Hard to tell who loves who more:

Hip in the A.T.L.

It's a gross day in the ATL today. Rainy, nasty, thunderstorms expected all day. And with all that going on, there's one prevailing thought on my mind: when did Atlanta become "The A.T.L.?" I feel obligated to say it this way so it's clear to all that I'm hip.

You know what else makes me hip? Crocs. But you know what's not so hip? Tripping over them in grocery stores because I don't pick my feet up enough and the rubber shoe ends up catching on the tile floor. This happens to me all the time and today was no exception. I pitch forward and then have to take a couple fast steps to keep from falling on my face. But then I jump upright and just continue forward, like I most certainly did not just trip over what appeared to be nothing. Because that would be very UNhiplike. And to further reiterate, I look at the people who are inevitably there to witness the folly and I give them the ol' gun-finger point and wink. Yep, that reinstalls my hipness.

Rainy days and crocs--making it tough to be hip in the ATL.

Grab the Pinatas, Pina Coladas & Cupcakes. We're Celebrating President's Day!

Who among us doesn't love President's Day? Right? I mean, it's a national holiday, we're all off work, truckers are lounging in their sleepers with their feet up, receivers are all closed, postmen are partying on the decks, the kids are out of school, mattresses everywhere are on sale... Bring on the party hats and ice cream cake.

Whoa there, Nellie! You mean, YOU aren't off work? Yeah right, me neither. What's to love about President's Day if you're not a government employee, a financial employee, a kid in grade school or in the market for a new mattress? Nada.

So alas, I'm still plugging along today, working on the April issue of Trucker's Connection and Downtime, harrassing my writers to send in their articles and working my way through them all with my hard-to-please red pen. My son Chase got to do something cool today, however. And it was nice for me because the alternative for us both would have been him walking into my home office every 15.4 minutes, asking what he could do because he's booooooored. What do you know? Me saying: "You'll need to figure it out because this isn't a vacation day for me; I'm working" never really floats his boat. Nor mine. But alas, someone came to our rescue and orchestrated a 4v4 round robin soccer tournament in a nearby neighborhood, and Chase is out there. Him and his black shorts, brown t-shirt, kelly green soccer socks and horrifically ugly, new black and white soccer cleats. That's right, friends, you could easily pick my kid out of a crowd by his GQ style alone. But whatever.

Since drop off was during my lunch break, I was able to watch the first square-off. Teams were randomly selected by the saint who concocted this occupy-your-kids activity. Poor Chase ended up with quite the motley crew. It's a crap-shoot when teams are organized completely randomly; luck of the draw. You either end up with a stellar team or a...um...not-so-stellar team. Chase's group looked like it'd fall into the latter category. It's probably a good thing I'm not off work and thus, unable to stay and watch. I'm a bit of a sore loser, which I'm sure surprises the hell out of all my friends (snort!). And thus, Chase ended up a smidge on the competitive side too. I know it'll be ugly when he calls to say how they finished up. And of all days to have Lady Luck cheering for the other side--the tournament champions get to order their own custom professional soccer jersey. Any team, any player number. Chase loves Cristiano Ronaldo. I could see visions of a #7 Manchester United jersey floating through his head the minute they announced the prize. Something tells me it ain't happenin'. But I'm sure playing out there will still be a lot more fun than moping into my office every few minutes to see that yes, indeed, I'm still having to work.

Speaking of work--no rest for the non-government employed weary, so off I go... Happy Prez Day!

Following Day Addendum: After the tournament Chase texted me to say he was done and I respnded with: "How'd your team do?" His answer? Short and sweet: "Bad."

I had to laugh. Oh well, who wants a Ronaldo jersey anyway?

Walking in Nani's Shoes

As the financial world in the U.S. today continues to spiral downward, I find myself turning more and more to the wisdom of my great-grandmother and what I know about how she saved money. See, she lived her adult life during another horrendously crappy time: the Great Depression. She was married and had three children. Like most women then, she did not work and to boot, she was married to a man who worked the railroads and (though a hard worker) was occasionally known to come home on Friday evening having drank his entire paycheck in the pub.

Yet, this spirited gal still managed to save money over the course of her adult life. A substantial sum of money. She would set aside whatever dollars and cents she could manage and once she would reach a certain dollar amount, she went to the bank and bought a savings bond. Then she'd start the process again, buying bonds as often as she could. And once purchased, she never cashed them in but would roll them over into bigger bonds when they matured. I don't think she even shared this information with her husband at the time. This was safe money, earning a little interest without risk of loss because of a volatile stock market or a husband who might've found other things to do with it besides save for the future.

When age started stealing my Nani's memory, she and her husband (who had long since abandoned the booze and had become the wonderful, loving Poppi I knew) sat down with my grandmother (their youngest child) and grandfather to let them know all the details of their finances. See, she was smart enough to realize her memory would soon be completely gone and that someone else needed to know where all their savings was or risk it sitting in a bank somewhere for all eternity unbeknownst to family.

My grandfather--who is himself pretty financially savvy--was astounded, he told us, to learn just how much money they had socked away. Nani had bought so many bonds and each growing bigger by the year, steadily worth more and more. You may scoff at the pittance of saving money this way, through savings bonds or more commonly these days, CDs (in the same vein as a bond as far as safety and amount of interest earned), but either of these compounds and can amount to something substantial.

I never knew just how much money they had, but I know that they lived many years (10 or so, I believe) in a private facility that was half assisted-living and half nursing home. This place was a gem for them and their needs as they lived their golden years but it also carried a gem of a price tag: multi-thousand dollars/month. It was covered by what Nani saved.

This blows my mind--she was able to save money in the crappiest of all economic conditions with an unimaginably dismal life situation taking care of three children with a husband who was known to thwart her often. He may have been contrite afterwards but contrite didn't put food on the table. Yet, she made it work, raised three great kids and saved dough in the process?! I have no excuse whatsoever to not be doing the same since I have hardly the difficulties that she did. And since the market scares the fool out of me, I'm returning to her roots and adopting the CD mentality. Save, save, save, buy a CD and forget about it. Save, save, save, buy a CD and forget about it. One day, the stock market will be a possibility for me again. But even then, having some of my money in a safe locale is smart. For now, I'll follow a proven method of savings. I'm walking in my Nani's shoes.

Squirrels: Pesky Pests or Furry Friends?

Up until about a year ago, I thought of squirrels (huh? did she say squirrels? She did. Stay with me here) as nuisances. A sentiment shared by many of you, I would imagine. We had bird feeders in the yard and enjoyed the birds coming to visit. The squirrels inevitably saw these feeders as their personal buffet and were seen ducking into the corn and seeds as often, if not more than, the birds. And perhaps also like you, we invested scads of dollars at Home Depot into squirrel deterrents, which never worked, I might add. I'd like to meet the genius out there who is laughing all the way to the bank after concocting these crazy contraptions that each and every squirrel I've ever seen knows how to thwart instantaneously, laughing and pointing at you as they do so.

The best deterrent we ultimately found was us running out there when we'd see them munching on our bird goodies, flailing our arms around like crazy folks. Oh, they didn't care for that one bit. But then last March, life as we knew it screeched to a halt--where life concerned squirrels, anyway. One afternoon, we let our dogs out and on our patio sat a baby squirrel. Young enough that his eyes were still closed, we have no idea how he managed to find his way from the safety of the trees to our patio but there he sat, clearly orphaned. And my sense of animal adoration kicked in. The aforementioned desire to keep squirrels away dissolved like the wicked witch of the west getting a smidge too cozy with a bucket of H2O. This little bit was no longer a bird food scavenging nuisance but a ball of fluff, a creature of God. There was nooooo waaaay I could leave this animal outside to die a most certain and hideous death.

We scooped him up, brought him in, put him a Rubbermaid container and thought: Now what? With the help of my vet, a handful of licensed wildlife rehabbers (thank God for you, Cherie) and the Internet (how did we survive without the Internet??) we cared for him until he was old enough to be released. Squirrels are illegal to have as pets in my state so make no mistake: this was not a pet. But this guy wasn't familiar with life that didn't involve humans, so as he lived with us until he could be successfully released, Scoot became very familiar with us and behaved with my husband, son and I like most squirrels do not. He would come right to us and take nuts, avocado or grapes, climb on our shoulders, hand-wrestle for a little playtime. He was awesome. Beyond awesome. But we let him go because it was the right thing to do, and he hung close to our house, visiting the back yard most days for some snacks and playtime. And after a couple months, he moved on, as squirrels eventually do. I was devastated; I won't lie. Heck, you knew I would be.

I told you all that so I could tell you this. Last Saturday, I went to a rehabbers lunch with a pretty big group of great gals who are all licensed to rehab various wildlife in the Atlanta area. These are the tireless folks who are called when someone takes down a tree and discovers a nest full of squirrel babies. Or if an opossum gets trapped in your basement and a critter-capturer comes and gets him out, etc. This is very cool to me. And I'm thinking I might learn how to do this and eventually get licensed. It suits my love of animals, right? Only drawback would be the death involved since you end up dealing with animals who are hit by cars or mauled by cats, etc. That's a bit of a hiccup for me but I am hoping the joy would outweigh the difficulties.

For starters, I'm going to work under a licensed rehabber and just learn and assist, help release squirrels who are rehabilitated and ready to go back into the world. Trucking will continue to be my day job, you know I can't leave Trucker's Connection or all my over-the-road pals behind. But in my off-duty hours, why not get more involved with animals? There's a lot to learn about wildlife rehabilitation, but what I already know is that squirrels are really fun, furry, sweet creatures. You might not want them in your bird feeder, but they--like birds--are simply creatures who, like all others, are seeking food. Many folks have, like me, come to see these climbing fur balls in a new light. Take it from someone who had one as a pal for a short time, they're good critters.

My Scooty Pooty when he was still pretty little:



Scoot, stopping by to visit and play one afternoon:

Confessions of a Costco Junkie

I'm gonna admit something here. The first step to curing an addiction is admitting you have one, right? Hi, my name is Megan. I am a Costco junkie. For those of you in an area of the country that doesn't have a Costco, first, my heart bleeds for you. Second, it's like a Sam's or a BJ's--it's a food "warehouse" where you buy 27,000 lbs of ground beef and you get it for 12 cents a pound. And I love it.

Why? Because my sad, sad life has gone from eating out eight nights a week and popping into a movie theater whenever I want like dropping a 50-spot for two hours of enjoyment, some overly buttered popcorn and Ju-Ju Beans was normal to pinching every penny so much, Lincoln's giving me dirty looks. So one of the few things I do get to spend money on and be able to look myself in the mirror is groceries. And boy, have I perfected the grocery shopping experience...because, frankly, I now have time on my hands. Time that used to be spent enjoying movies but is now spent figuring out how I can squeeze blood out of a turnip.

And Costco has now figured heavily into my grocery shopping experience. Going through there and seeing the deals you can get by simply being willing to buy more of whatever it is at one time makes me giddy. I go in there, whip out my iPhone (don't judge me, I bought it before the economy went in the tank), hit the calculator function and proceed to figure up how much a bag of coffee at Costco saves me vs one at Publix. Then I figure up how much it saves me per pound, then per ounce. And then I squeeze my eyes closed, do a little dance and laugh like a psycho patient as I plop a three pound bag of coffee in my cart for $9.99. And it proceeds like this for the few hours it takes me to walk the place. If I go on a Saturday or Sunday, it becomes actual entertainment because of all the sample food they serve up. And then if it's a Saturday or Sunday during a time they've offered coupons (YES! This cost-savings place also sends coupons that save you even more...wait, stop, I'm gonna lose consciousness), the whole family piles into the truck, we throw the mother-in-law onto the roof in her rocker and you talk about an OUTING.

Yep, Costco junkie. But hey, times in trucking (and for all of you not in trucking too, I am sure) are harder than Japanese arithmetic, and this little fetish saves money and provides entertainment. You can hardly blame me if I don't intend to kick the habit.

A New Baby, a Dose of Hysteria & the Dog Food Fork

Today's a big ol day in our house: a day of remembering, of laughing, of shaking my head, of reminiscing about how far we've come since 1998. Today is my son Chase's 11th birthday.

I was only lucky enough to have one child and so while it seems so totally mom-ish to do this, I can't help but reflect on when Chase was born (6:33 p.m.) 11 years ago and how my life changed afterwards. Before you yawn and click elsewhere, bear with me. I'll try to limit my sappiness here but ya gotta cut me some slack on my kid's birthday.

Chase came along when I was 27 years old (yeah, yeah, now you know how old I am; you're a genius). I thought then that my timing was ideal. It was well after I'd graduated college (a personal goal: school THEN children, not vice versa or even simultaneously) and I'd enjoyed many adult years getting to be all selfish with my life. Yet I was still young enough to have plenty of energy for the sleepless nights and the activity-filled days.

The day Chase arrived--unprompted and ON his due date, thank you very much since it's the only thing I've ever done on time in my life--he was without a doubt the best thing that had happened to me. If you have children, you fully understand this. If you have not had children, this is monumental beyond comprehension. Sure, you think you know how much you'd love a child. It makes sense that you would. But it's only after you see this creation, after he or she exists, that you realize what it means to truly love something more than you love yourself. And you better because your days of loving yourself the most are over. I mean over-rover. Sure, I brought home this beautiful baby and everything was rose petals and honey. For about two days. And then, you know, some initial shock began to set in. Alright, some hysterics, mixed with a little hiding in the bathroom crying and wondering when someone was going to swoop in to help because caring for a baby took every minute of every single day and...and...when was I going to bathe?!! or eat?!! Forget about sleeping--I mean, I knew those days were going to be over for quite awhile but nobody told me that you had to completely restructure every second of your day, waking and sleeping. My world was still revolving, to be sure, but here was the stunner: I was no longer the center of it. He was. Yep, there is no amount of pre-planning for that reality. You expect the love, you expect things to change, but you just don't realize quite how much until bam! From one day to the next--literally--your life and how you live it is 180 degrees altered.

About six days in to my new dose of reality, I reached a breaking point. Though my mother was staying with me for a week or so, she lived two hours away and I knew she'd be leaving soon. My hysteria over this motherhood business was mounting and I don't think I was hiding it as well as I thought I was. So on this particular night, I'd slunked out of my cry-hole (the bathroom) and was sitting at the kitchen table trying to eat the spaghetti my mother had made--and though she's a good cook, hormones have a way of making eating the very last thing you want to do. But since I was nursing, some stubborn rationale wouldn't let me forget that food was a necessity so I was struggling to get what seemed like cement down my throat. Mom and I were talking about another episode Chase had just had where he'd been sleeping and then suddenly he gasped for breath and we realized he hadn't been breathing just prior to that. My mother said: "That's scary, Megan. You're reeeeeeally going to have to watch him closely." Oh my gosh, are you kidding me? I was worrying about feeding him enough and on time, keeping him comfy and warm, keeping the cats from smothering him, keeping the air dust-free, changing his diaper, keeping him from scratching his face, keeping all the well wishes from putting their germ-infested hands on him, and so on and so on. But one thing I sort of thought he might handle on his own was breathing. But now I had to monitor that too?

That extra nugget of need-to-do pushed me over the brink into Overwhelmed Land. A terrible place you don't want to visit. And I was sitting there, digesting this new addition to my ever expanding need-to-do list and choking down cement spaghetti when I looked down and realized I was eating with the fork I'd dubbed "the dog food fork" because it was the one I used for precisely that: scooping out wet can dog food into the pooches' bowls. And now I was eating with it! "Oh mannnnnnn," I pitifully lamented. "I'm eating with the dog food fork." And then, no matter where you might have been in the world (yes, you) at that precise moment, you heard my howling. You didn't know what it was at the time, but now you know. It was me. That damn fork was the straw that broke the new mother's back.

I came unglued. Luckily my wise, know-it-all-because-I've-been-through-all-this-myself mother just waited it out. Once the hysteria subsided, I sat there in stunned silence, realizing that this was no temporary life change and completely unsure of how I would handle it all. And that's when my own mother uttered a comment that profoundly changed my scope: "Megan," she said, "I can't tell you today how you'll handle everything that needs to be handled with this baby. But I can tell you this: you will handle it. Somehow, some way. Because failure isn't in you, and I know you'll be great at motherhood too."

Simple, right? There was no grand plan, no flow chart or alphabetized to do lists, but her reassurance reminded me to take it all a day at a time, an hour at a time, a feeding at a time. And what do you know, here we are 11 years later, eating three square meals a day, bathing and everything.

After that first week, maybe two, of complete shock and awe, I got into a routine with Chase. I was borderline militant about it but I believe his very structured feeding, bathing and bedtime schedules were what resulted in Chase being an immensely happy baby who rarely fussed. Either he was comforted in knowing there was a definite time he'd get fed again, be put into a warm bed and so on, or God saw the depth of my freak-out potential and decided to cut me some slack.

Those were rough days of getting acclimated but I couldn't believe how much I adored this child who'd initially scared the crap out of me. And for the past 11 years, this fellow has evolved into a mini-me. Folks tell us all the time that we are the spitting image of one another, and I jokingly say that considering all the work I put in, the least he could do was look like me. LOL

Chase is an exceptional kid who makes me laugh all the time, he's impressed me with his athletic ability (which he DID NOT get from me, thank God), he's well-mannered, well-behaved and emphathetic to all around him, and he makes me thankful every single day for his presence. Oh, and he makes sure I don't accidentally eat from the dog food fork.

Happy Birthday, Chase! I love you ~

Just over a year old:


At five years old:


At eight years old:


And just last Christmas:

The Big Game

Usually when the big game rolls around, I rarely have a dog in the fight (a terrible pun considering I live in Atlanta). See, in Atlanta, the only time in history that our pro team made it to the Super Bowl, all the news outlets were touting it as the biggest fluke in the history of EVER and how it was an insult to the Denver Broncos because the Falcons would hardly even give them a run for their money.

Sadly, the most notoriety the Falcons have received was not from their prowess on the field, but from the pathetic excuse for a man named Michael Vick (former Falcons QB) and his dog-fighting ring. Anyone reading this may refer to a previous entry on this blog titled "Who Says You Can't Buy Love?" to get a pretty clear idea of how warmly I might receive the idea of dog fighting. It positively turns my stomach. And we had this classless jackass leading our team and had actually hoped he might finally bring a Lombardi trophy home to Atlanta, a city previously known in pro sports circles for our baseball team but never for our football team.

Now, this year ended up being another story. Rookie Matt Ryan graced our field and surprised just about everyone as he led the team to a 11-6 season. That was nothing short of miraculous considering the typically dismal 4-12 season we had last year. Suddenly, football was abuzz in Atlanta and folks were excited to watch games; they actually attended games and rooted for the team. And boy did we ever need a successful season to cleanse the city air after the stench that was M. Vick.

And then we went to Arizona and it was over in a flash. Oh, the disappointment. So by the time yesterday's big game rolled through, you'd have thought I'd have been just another beaten-down Falcons fan, well used to the lack of any black and red jerseys on the field. And in a way, I was. But at the same time, I had a two-fold reason for wanting the Cardinals to take a nose-dive. Not only did they take out the Falcons in what was arguably the best season we've ever had considering we won games legitimately not just luckily. And two--I also happen to be a died-in-the-wool Steelers fan. Ah! So just because the Falcons were ousted, I DID still have a stake in the game. My entire family hails from the Steel city and my grandfather graduated from the University of Pittsburgh. It was my birthright to be obnoxious during the game.

You can imagine my horror when I watched the Cardinals run that touchdown during the waning minutes of the game to take their only lead. But Roethlisberger didn't let me down and that less-than-a-minute-left Steeler touchdown had me dancing in my living room. I ran naked through the streets. The subsequent arrest put a damper on the night but nonetheless, the Steelers pulled it out. And now, they again hold a Super Bowl record with the most S.B. championships under their belt (they previously held this record back when they became the first team to win four Super Bowls). So way to go, Steelers. If it couldn't be the Falcons, it had to be you.