NOW HEAR THIS

Since Little Bit seemed to be feeling better, and I had shaken off my xanax hangover from a bad night's sleep, I drove out to the high school football field tonight to watch the last half of the game from my car. There's an area south of the stadium where slackers can park. It's not exactly front row seating, but there's a clear view of the scoreboard and the announcer doesn't blow out my goofy ear from this vantage point.

While I watched the action, through a fine mist, and slurped on a cup of coffee, my mind started to wander back about 45 years when I was a member of the Fredonia High School Pep Club, loyally attending every football and basketball game scheduled. God forbid if I missed yelling a single cheer, thus jeopardizing my chances to receive the coveted Pep Club Award at the end of the year.

I suspect my inner ear damage likely got its start during my Pep Club days. There were typically between 70-80 girls in the club and we screamed like there was no tomorrow. Whenever we entered a town during away games, we'd slide down the bus windows and start off with the cheer: "We're from Fredonia! We couldn't be prouder! And if you can't hear us, we'll yell a little louder!" Of course, we got louder and louder and kept it up when entering the opposing team's stadium or gym. If we won the game, and we won a lot, then we left the defeated town the same way we entered, adding the "V-I-C-T-O-R-Y" cheer to the Fredonia pride cheer. The poor bus driver and club sponsors could not have been paid enough to accompany us.

Nowadays, teens are clueless about Pep Clubs, an archaic invention of a time when girls couldn't participate in sports and needed something to do with their excess energy besides making out with their boyfriends. The only kids who know the chants now are the cheerleaders--and even some of them are gee, like, questionable at times.

Louder and prouder? No longer in the game plan.

IT'S RAINING MISSONI

Up until I turned on the "Today Show" yesterday morning, I'd never heard of Missoni, an Italian fashion maven, maybe because I haven't spent a dime on clothing or housewares in more than a decade. Oh, I take that back. I bought two pairs of sweatpants last year. But, according to the news reports, I should be stark raving wild about owning Missoni. Apparently half of New York City is, anyway.

Target stores offered a big cut-rate Missoni sale and the rush was on to purchase anything with these ugly zig-zaggy designs that look even worse than my worst nightmare. Basically, it's rick-rack gone amok on steroids. I don't get it. I haven't worn rick-rack since 6th grade, and I have pictures to prove it, unfortunately.

I'd like to make this blog longer and rant on some more, but I've become dizzy looking at these pictures of fabulous Missoni merchandise that every stylish gal should own. I'm just going to miss out on the great deals, save a few bucks, and try to get my equilibrium restored before the end of the day.

THANKS FOR THE WARNING, GILDA

The late Saturday Night Live great Gilda Radner created a wacky character named Roseanne Roseannadanna--you remember her, don't you?--who would occasionally appear on the SNL news segment to disperse words of wisdom. Her key catch phrase was: "It just goes to show ya. It's always something."

Roseanna/Gilda would rant on and on about a pimple on her forehead, or food between her teeth, or toilet paper stuck on the bottom of her shoe--usually some minor irritation in life--and then end her segment the same way. "It's always something."

Years later, it seems that every time I think I'm getting ahead in my bank account, Roseanne's philosophical words play out in my own life. A year ago the water pipe under the front porch sprung a major leak to the tune of over a thousand dollars before all was fixed and done. Next came car repair after repair after repair. Then Critter got sick. Vet bills. More car repairs. Then the drought caused the water bill to skyrocket. Now Little Bit is sick. It's always something. Thankfully, the savings I stashed away over the years is there to bail me out.

The other night, Big Bore said out of the blue, "You know, we're lucky. We have our health, a roof over our heads, and food on the table. A lot of people don't have all that."

And we have someone to lean on when feeling down in the dumps about a sick cat or when wanting to share a bike ride to the park. Who could ask for anything more?

When the next bump in the road of life comes along, I hope I can continue to put on my game face and remember the "Roseannadanna Mantra." And when I go down to the bank this afternoon to see if my first-ever Social Security check has arrived in my account, I will dish out my own thought for the day: Money can't buy you everything. But it does pay the bills--because it's always something.

Here's to you, sweet Gilda.

NOT HIS FATHER'S SON

When my niece-in-law recently posted a pic of two-year-old William with a birthday cookie, I immediately recalled a picture I'd taken of her husband, my nephew Brandon, many years before when he was eating a cookie. His reaction was the total opposite of Sweet Will's--more of a Cookie Monster. William looks happy to share. I had asked Brandon if I could have a bite of his cookie, and "no way!" Every time I see this pic, I want to wipe away the cookie crumb on that pouty lower lip. Tough guys shouldn't need their faces washed.

FOOTBALL FEVER

I'm not as rabid a football fan as my college pal Dr. Maureen, but I still looked forward to the regular season starting up yesterday. I follow two teams--the Kansas City Chiefs, since the word Kansas is in their title, and the Carolina Panthers, since Maureen and her husband are season ticket holders. Also, I own a stylish turquoise and black, sleeveless, Panthers football t-shirt and like cats of any kind.

Anyway, it was with more than just a passing interest that I sat down in front of the TV yesterday to watch the Chiefs host the Buffalo Bills...and fumble their first play of the game, a kick-off return, which led to the first Bills score. And it all went downhill from there. Dropped balls, missed tackles, an interception, and the Chiefs had their worst home opener in franchise history, losing 41-7.

Now, since I have nothing better to do, I sometimes try to guess what the headline will be on the sports page of the big city newspaper the day following the big game. On maybe two rare occasions we have matched ideas, but most of the time the pro writers have a much better headline to summarize the game. Here were my top creations for yesterday's Chiefs game:

Opening Fright
Buffaloed
Call 9-1-1 (Okay, so I know it's in poor taste considering yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.)
Chiefs Scalped (Okay, so I know it's politcally incorrect to make Indian references.)
Oops! They did it again! (Okay, so I know it's lame to paraphrase Brittney Spears.)

Well, of course, the actual headline was much better than my efforts: Flat broke, busted

I think the Chiefs and I need to return to the practice field and get better prepared for the next game/headline.

MY 9/11 MESSAGE

IS THERE A VET IN THE HOUSE?

This past week we've been nursing Little Bit, who has been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. He's lost weight and fluids out of both ends, if you know what I mean, so we've had our work cut out for us. Not in anyone's favor is his age, 16, but we're going to give it the old veterinary college try.

I'm doing most of the at-home doctoring, but Big Bore is helping when I administer the twice-a-day anti-nausea shots because I don't want Little Bit taking off in the middle of the procedure, and I don't have enough confidence to go it solo like I do with the thyroid pill popping. "Hold him down" is all I ask. The two of them are good buddies, so it's worked out okay so far.

When Big Bore was recuperating from his arterial bypass surgery five years ago (you can see the beginning of his scar in the pic above), Bits rarely left his side, so we owe the ol' cat our best effort. My mother has told me to quit wasting my money on vet bills and have him put to sleep, but I'm not ready to do that--yet. He may not live much longer, or he may live a few more years--whatever. At least we'll be able to say we gave it our best effort.