Temps stayed up, so I guess this really was it. A little late, but better late than never. I'll start up again with the Wild Yam tomorrow.

So, was anybody else disappointed with the Super Bowl commercials this year? They were the only reason Eric and I even "watched" the thing, albeit we did so over the tops of a Cosmo magazine. We were expecting the hilarious and high-budget ads of years past, and they just didn't deliver. I did enjoy the ad that some website company did, comparing their programmers to "cat herders." Eric kept a running tally of the various commercials, listing them by category: automobile, beer, internet. For a bit, we also kept a column of Mike Ditka appearances, but they tapered off rather quickly after the first quarter.

Eric and I are not football fans. We didn't even know for certain who was playing in the game until the teams came running through their little tunnels. We decided to cheer for whichever team scored first. Hooray, go Rams! (Or, as I referred to them until I was able to consistently remember their name, "the gold guys.") At least we are somewhat familiar with the rules now. When I was in the marching band at West Virginia, I had to get one of the trumpet players to teach me so that I would know when to play our various fight songs. It took me most of the season to grasp the concept of "downs."

We never had to think about the rules much when I was in high school, because our team never managed to get to the point where we would care. They were pathetic. Every year, the coach would schedule our first game with the local private school because they were the only team we could even come close to beating. I can still remember the cheerleaders (a group of largely uncoordinated, awkward gals) at the first pep rally of every season, chanting, "Beat those Saints!" I believe that was the only cheer they knew that had anything remotely to do with the sport; their purpose for most of the games was to distract the crowd from the dismal showing on the field by singing the most provocative cheers they could invent, all the while shaking their bodies in mildly entertaining fashions:

Ooh, la la! Ooh, la la!
Shake your body and move,
And get into the groove!

I, of course, as a member of the drumline, was expected to accompany their gyrations with erotically pulsating beats upon my instrument. As a matter of habit, I chose instead to hand over my drum to the nearest interested trombone player; there's only so much they could make a gal do.

Don't misunderstand and think I was never an athlete. I went through a brief period in junior high wherein I signed up for every sports team available. I did basketball; my team, coached by my prison guard uncle, won the league championship. I played softball for three years, and was starting catcher. I ran cross-country; I played intramural volleyball.

I didn't do any of that because I was interested in it. I did it because it was the only way to get noticed by my father's side of the family. If you're not an athlete, sadly, then Grandma and Grandpa pay little attention. My brother is an athlete, and as such is the favored grandchild. At Christmas, he receives thoughtfully selected clothing and sports gear; I get a gift certificate, because they "have no idea what to get."

The family game is golf. I wanted to learn, but my father refused to teach me. His reason? I am female. According to Dad, females don't belong on a course unless they are caddying or keeping score for their mate. Mom is willing to accept this, because she hates golf. I'm not so fond of it myself, though perhaps if I'd been given a chance, I might have been able to appreciate it.

One year we went on vacation to Oglebay golf resort in West Virginia. It was the worst vacation of my life; every day, my father took my brother out on the courses with him, while Mom and I were left behind to fend for ourselves. One evening, as a concession, Dad let me come with the men and putt the occasional ball into a hole. I felt patronized, yet pathetically grateful.

Eric says we should learn to play golf together, just to show up my father. I'm not sure I even want to make the effort. Perhaps I might be more interested if the sport involved cheerleaders.