Calling all numbers

So I received a new cell phone for Christmas. While this might not seem all that exciting to those of you out there who have owned cell phones since they were invented, it is big stuff in my purse. You see, my husband did not believe that I ever needed a cell phone. When I was childless and working full time, he told me to use my work phone.

Me: "What if I need to call some clients regarding their lessons?"

Tom: "Pull over and use a payphone."

When I gave birth and quit my job::

Me: "What if I'm in an accident?"

Tom: "There will be 30 other people around you with cell phones. Let them call 911."

Then, of course, came the Big Day. You know that day, the one of foreshadowing in books. The day where everything changes and the husband is proved wrong.

I was pregnant with my second child. We were adding an addition to our house. I came home from somewhere with Madison and found that I could hardly make my through one end of my house to the other because the dust was so thick. I packed up our things, and we hiked over to Grandma's house for the night. Sometime in the night, despite the breathing of clean air, Madison began running a temperature. We were sharing a bed, and her body was so hot we could have survived the roof caving in and dumping a ton of snow on top of us. This being Florida, that did not, of course, happen, and we suffered through the night breathing clean air.

The next day I had an OB appointment, and I left the sick child behind with her loving and caring Grandmother. I had my doctor's visit, and then I stopped at my house for more clothes. From there, I went to the drugstore to stock up on fever-reducing medications, and then I headed back to reunite with my ill child.

Since having a child, each time I left her, I panicked with thoughts of everything that could go wrong. One of those thoughts included returning home to find an ambulance in my driveway. So, no kidding, but that very thought was in my head as I pulled into my mother's street.

Where I saw right away, two fire engines and an ambulance in her condo complex parking lot. Immediately, my heart began thumping three times its normal rhythm.

Me: "It's not her. It's an old person. It's not her. It's an old person."

Then, I saw my mother walking down her condo steps with Madison in her arms. Behind her were paramedics.

I'm lucky I remembered to put the car in park before I left it in the middle of the parking lot and jumped out.

Immediately, two of the firemen intercepted me dead run, each grabbing me under an arm and talking to me in quiet, soothing voices.

Them: "Whoa there. Your daughter is fine. Trust us, she's going to be just fine. We really don't want to deliver a baby out here in the parking lot. Breathe. That's it, nice and slow."

She went to the hospital by ambulance, where she was treated for febrile convulsions. Her fever had spiked to 105. She had been lying in my mother's arms when she convulsed, and having witnessed the same seizures with me in my youth, my mother knew immediately what they were. She called 911, but they would not transport her to the hospital without parental permission.

My mother, of course, had no way to get a hold of me as I DIDN'T OWN A CELL PHONE.

So, instead, my husband got the call from the paramedics to give them permission to transport her.

Within two weeks, I had my first cell phone.

Him: "To use for emergency purposes."

I was not supposed to use it to talk on, and for the most part, I didn't. After Darcy came along, I was too busy changing diapers, running Madison to and from preschool, and cleaning up toys to worry about chatting on my cell phone. I was usually at home, where I had a landline that I could use. Thus the cell phone got minimal usage, and my 100 minutes for twenty-five dollars was just fine.

Then Darcy started school, and I began making friends with mothers who used cell phones. They called me. I called them. Because I was not used to having my cell phone, I missed over half the calls that came in.

Them: "Why don't you have your phone with you?"

I changed my message.

Me: "Hi, this is Cara, and I probably don't even have my phone turned on due to an old plan where minutes are gobbled up. But do take a chance by leaving a message. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get back to you one day. Of course, by then, the message will be obsolete. Better yet, call my home phone and leave a message. I'm sure to hear that one in a more timely manner."

Then one day, the unthinkable happened: I WENT OVER MY HUNDRED MINUTES.

Not by a few minutes, but by "SEVERAL."

Master of my cell phone: "This phone is for emergency purposes only."

Information on Lucy's mother wearing a skin-tight dress and spiked heels to school was not, in his book, an emergency. Nor was making lunch arrangements at Panera Bread. 

I let everyone know I was going to be cut off at the knees if they didn't keep their calls short. My friends got really good at speaking fast,

Them: "Hey, Cara, my god, did you see Lucy's mother's outfit today? Let's talk it over at Panera's at noon. Bye."

Then, yep here it comes, the Big Day arrived again. Tom's sister had the three aneurysms, one of which burst, and my cell phone usage went over its limit in all the family phone calls regarding this event.

The hubby decided a new family share plan was in order. He included my mother, whose old cell only had fifty minutes a month. She wouldn't even bother to turn it on half the time, and if it did ring, she responded with, "What do you want? This is costing me a dollar a minute."

So, I got a new cell phone and a new cell plan for Christmas. I love my phone. It's a camera phone, and slender enough people won't ask me anymore if I'm carrying a walkie-talkie. I can stick it into my pocket. Each morning when I turn it on, Toby Keith's smiling face greets me. All my numbers are stored, and it even has a calendar where I can keep track of all my lunch dates. The thrill I get each morning just holding it in my hand is like Christmas all over again.

If only someone would call me on it.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

Land of the Homeowner's Board

I read the paper every day. The first half is read while eating my Lucky Charms, and the other half I read while eating lunch following my work out. At the beginning of the week, there was an article about a Citrus County homeowner's association that wanted a fellow neighbor to remove a 5-foot eagle statue he had in his front yard.

The association sent a letter that said the eagle was a structure and structures required Board approval. When the couple argued that the $800 eagle was not a structure, the Board countered back with a letter that said the statue was "unsightly." According to the deed restrictions, the Board had the power to require homeowners to remove any icons they regard "unsightly.

What? Are you kidding me?

I was once a member of our homeowner's association. An agreement I made during a weak moment at a party which happened to be my first social interaction since having a baby two months prior. Getting out of the house one night a month with other adults sounded terrific, and so I agreed to come aboard.

I thought I was only writing the association newsletter. Turns out, I agreed to be the treasuer in addition to the editor, photographer, journalist, and mailer of the newsletter. The Board consisted of neighbors who'd been serving for years, not because they gave a hoot for the neighborhood. It was more about policing the other hooters in our community and making sure they didn't upset the status quo.

Our Board was very laid back. We rarely cited anyone unless violations were reported by someone. We had several long-time neighbors who patrolled the subdivision for violators, providing us with a list of said violations. It always made me roll my eyes on how they found it necessary to report on their neighbors without first talking to them.

How hard was that? Your neighbor is parking his motor home on his lawn past the seventy-two time period allotted? Remind him of it instead of writing a tattletale note to the Board!

We did so on my street. Our street never had any reports to the Board because we talked. My next-door neighbor was the king of getting us to respond to violations. He would slyly volunteer to help us "cut those bushes which are quickly growing past the association's six-foot. height requirement." We C-O-M-M-U-N-I-C-A-T-E-D. Amazing how quickly we cut our bushes.

But the Board's way of dealing with violators was not face to face. Nor did we actually check on the violation. Instead, we took the reporter at his word, and we sent a letter to the offender telling him to cease, or we would release the association hounds. You can imagine how well that went over. We had threats. Angry neighbors showing up to meetings. Lawsuits.

I quit after enduring seven years of nonsense. My favorite? Two neighbors who always fought over minimal issues until both put up cameras to spy on the other. No kidding. Cameras aimed at one another, so there would be photo proof of the violations.

Now, I just read about crazy neighbors and associations in the paper longing for the days of my childhood where neighbors knew not only the names, birth dates, jobs and lives of their neighbors, but also of their parents and other family members.

We had get-together picnics without permits. We allowed free expression with statues and flags. When a neighbor was sick and unable to mow his lawn, another neighbor did it for him. If someone needed a babysitter, another neighbor volunteered. New neighbors were welcomed with baked goods, and children welcomed other children by suggesting a basketball game.

A Board did not tell us how to behave. We were neighborly on our own.

Ah, the good old days.

Do You Have Prince Albert in a Can?

Last night my husband and I watched the television special with Katie Couric regarding teen sex. These kids were telling us how thirteen the age where kids are starting to experience sex. I found it appalling. What, 13-year-olds don't have anything better to do to occupy their time?

Then this morning, while driving to the gym, I passed a golf course clubhouse. This course is a step below a country club course, but a level above the city courses. Out in the front of the parking lot, they had a banner that read, "Sunday Brunch." Then just to let us know that they are a step above a place that has to advertise their meals on a banner in the parking lot, they added, "For reservations" with their telephone number. You are welcome to join us for Sunday Brunch, but do not come without a reservation, please.

I started thinking how funny it would be to call the number and act like a real hillbilly, "Whatcha all serve over there? You gots any okra? Pork and beans?" You know just to mess with them. That, of course, led me down memory lane to my days of prank calling.

My brother and our friends would huddle up in my parents' bedroom with the door locked, asking people who answered, "Yes, ma'am, is your refrigerator running?" And then they would say, "Why yes, why?" we would fall down laughing while we shouted, "Then you better go catch it."

Juvenile. I know that now, but oh, how much fun we had. My brother had one friend who could really sound like a little kid. We would get him to call people at random and pretend he was a lost kid. He would ask, "Mommy? Mommy, is that you? Mommy, where are you? Why did you leave me?" That prank really got people going, especially the women. We could keep people on the phone for minutes with that one. I thought again how much fun it all was back then, and then I pictured myself laughing along with my kids while they prank called people. It was a fun picture until it hit me that I could not call the golf course clubhouse because they probably had caller I.D.

Today everyone has caller I.D. We cannot make phone calls without someone on the other end knowing it is us. I love this feature of my phone, don't get me wrong. I get a big kick out of people answering, "Hello?" like they don't know it is me calling when it says my name right there on their caller I.D. I like to answer the phone, depending on the caller of course, with a variety of answers like, "Speak!", "Yo?" "Joe's Bar and Grill," "Yes?" or "What the hell do you want? I'm busy here."

On the other hand, it can mess you up. Like the time, I had to call my daughter's teacher at home to ask a question regarding our upcoming field trip.

Just the thought of calling a teacher makes my hands sweat, and my heart beat faster. I don't know what it is, but when I deal with teachers at conferences or in the pick-up line at school, I feel like a kid being sent to the principal's office. I may look like a confident put-together 40-year-old should-be-voted-mother-of-the-year on the outside, but inside I'm still that kid in high school. I planned what I would say, "Hello Mrs. C., this is Cara, Madison's mother." All very businesslike.

Instead, she answered, "Hello there."

I frowned, looked at the phone, and started my spiel, "Hello, Mrs. C., this is Cara..."

"Yes," she interrupted, "I know."

It totally threw me off for the rest of the phone call.

So sometimes caller I.D. can be a pain, but for the most part, it is a handy tool to have, just like *69 which you can dial (for a fee) to find out who the little boy was who just rang you and asked if you were his mother.

But thinking on all of this made me realize that kids today cannot prank call. Well, they could if they paid to block the call or their number was unlisted, but the average kid can not make a prank call for some serious childhood fun and memories for fear they will get caught.

My god, no wonder they've turned to sex.

That's What Friends Are For

I have been going through this whiny period for the last week or so. I am not only at a loss of what to do with myself now that my children are in school all day, but I have begun to realize that the friends I have made are people who I share an interest with...that being our kids.

When the kids are in school, what do we really have to do with one another? Each of my friends has a different interest, and most are not compatible with my own. They are fun friends, and I enjoy them when we are together, but for the most part, we are together for our kids.

I start to get even weepier thinking about the loss of my steady friends who know the real me-- me before my body was corrupted--me before my hair turned gray. The me when I had something to talk about other than my children and the wonderful things they do. The me that was me!

The whole thing was causing me to come home from the gym, slurp down mountains of Fritos and chocolate covered raisins, and then either A) sleep the rest of the day away or B) bury my nose in a book until time chauffeur the kids. I didn't even want to clean!

Then last night, after returning home from ballet, there was a message from one of those reliable friends.

"Give me an E," she shouted on the recorder. "E," her husband could be heard in the background (he of the Eagles mentioned above fan that I hadn't heard from). "Give me an A," she shouted and so on down the line until she had spelled out "Eagles." "Anyway, I don't care about all of that," she said, and she doesn't really, but she is the ever-faithful wife, "Just call me back when you get a chance, and we'll talk."

I called her back, and we were off and running. We had an adult talk. We laughed and giggled and eased into our silly before-we-were-married talk. We talked about children, mine, and hers-to-be, but it was just a blip in the conversation. What we really cared about was us.

I felt the tension of my week-long worry ease. My friend was here. My friend who knew me. My friend, who somehow sensed that I needed her and picked up the phone to let me know she was there. Just like a true friend does. Today I got some cleaning done. I'm back and feeling somewhat whole. Thanks to my friend.

Thanks, Sharon. Love you.

Sigh

So I made sure to hang around people today that knew nothing of football. I am still surprised that I have not heard from my two friends who are avid Eagles fans. No phone calls. No emails. I cannot believe they are so lovely about my loss.

Perhaps they are too focused on their own win that rubbing it into my face doesn't have the same appeal as it might have seemed once upon a time.

And now it looks like I am going to have to cheer for the Eagles since I like Donovan McNabb and I am SICK TO DEATH OF THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS.

Because, how nice is McNabb's mother in those soup commercials?

The Day After

Okay, the Steelers lost. The defense allowed 41 points, our rookie threw some interceptions, our offensive line couldn't seem to give our rookie time to throw, and the coach played too safe. But can I tell you HOW MUCH FUN I HAD WATCHING THE GAME!

I have to admit that I wasn't very upset about losing because I HAD SO MUCH FUN WATCHING THE GAME!

My buddy, Scott, an avid Steeler fan, invited me to go with him to a Steeler bar. I wasn't sure what that meant, but because the game was late on Sunday and I knew that my kids would go to bed before the game was over and that my husband would keep telling me to "shush," "relax," "calm down," and "BE QUIET" I decided that a Steeler's bar was the place for me.

I found the place with no problems. It was on the corner of a strip mall, a rundown building divided into different businesses. Florida, especially where I live, is full of strip malls, and most of the companies are usually going out of business. The only activity in this strip mall was the bar, Rudy's, a Steelers bar.

I parked and passed by all the closed stores until I came to an end in front of Rudy's door. The closer I got to the door, the louder the pounding and roaring of voices could be heard. I thought that was cool, but I was still picturing booths and tables with food and drink. I got to the door, opened it, and walked into STEELERS COUNTRY IN FLORIDA.

My mouth dropped open.

I stood in the doorway and looked to my left. The bar owns the entire strip mall, and it was full of banquet tables butt up against other banquet tables down the whole strip. At one end, were five giant television screens., and to the right, a raised bar with tables and bar stools. I don't know how far back the bar went. Behind me was another room with another bar wholly filled with more television screens. It wouldn't have surprised me to see them on the ceiling.

But the most fantastic thing about the place was the people. Everywhere I looked, people of all ages, sex, size, and color, were packed into the area like sardines, and everyone wore black and gold from the top of their heads to the tip of their toes. Everyone wore Steelers outfits and waved Terrible Towels.

There were Pittsburgh Steelers caps, hats, crowns, and helmets. I saw waving #1 Steeler fingers, and light-up Steelers sticks. I saw Steelers glasses and mugs raised high in the air, and there were Steelers jerseys from Jerome Bettis, Hines Ward, Plaxico Burris to Big Ben himself. Fans wore black and gold beads around necks, Steelers scrunchies in ponytails, and Steelers jewelry dangled from ears and wrists. There were Pittsburgh keychains and tattoos.

Steelers posters and pendants and signs lined the walls, and the gillions of speakers vibrated with the Steelers' song.

Fans: "Pittsburgh's going to the Super Bowl."

Someone would send up a chant, and everyone would pick up on it, banging the tables and stomping their feet on the bar floor. The noise was unbelievable, the energy high and I was with people who UNDERSTOOD.

Throughout the game, I yelled, screamed, high-fived strangers, and rubbed my aching head when the Patriots scored. One guy kept up the frenzy by visiting every table to tell us not to get down, and he assured us we were still in it. He'd high five everyone's hands and clap until we would all get up off our feet and start chanting, "Here we go, Steelers, here we go."

It was that way until the end. Even when I left the bar and headed home, ears ringing, and clothes smelling of an ashtray, I had a smile on my face. Just knowing there are others out there like me, thousands upon thousands of Steelers fans here in Florida, made the loss bearable.

That is until I woke up the next morning and reality hit.

Shit. The season's over.

Just Pop the Damn Pill in my Mouth

I have a personal pharmacist who keeps me supplied with my bp medication. The only problem is my pharmacist brought me 100 mg of the meds, and I only take 50 mg.

Her: "So cut them in half."

My mother, who would willingly take my free 100 mg and cut them into fourths since she needs only 25 mg of the same meds, said the same thing.

Mom: "Just cut them in half."

Husband: "Cut them in half. What's the big deal?"

Well, for one, I'm not a pharmacist. I like that my local Target pharmacy gives me my pills whole in a cute little bottle with my name on it. I love that these pills are complete and small and easy to go down. The fact that they cost $25 for 30 pills is the only reason I have sought out a personal pharmacist and am willing to swallow half of a jagged-edged tablet. 

So in following their suggestion to cut the pill in half, I got out a paring knife and lay the tablet on the cutting board. 

Husband: "What are you doing? You can't use that knife. You need the butcher knife to cut that."

Me: "A butcher knife? My god, this pill is tiny."

Husband: "Doesn't matter. It will work better. Trust me." 

So, out came the butcher knife. I placed it into the groove down the middle of the pill, and I pressed down. 

Husband: "No, no, that isn't right. You have to put your left hand at the top while your right-hand holds it here at the bottom. Gently push down at the same time."

Me: "How about you show me, Mr. Big-Guy-Master-Pillcutter-Extraordinaire."

He took the knife, putting his right hand on top like he suggested. Gently he cut the pill in half. I examined the medicine. Overall, not bad except one side had a jagged area I'm sure to choke on.

Husband: "Now, you try."

I took the knife and imitated him.

Husband: "What are you doing? I told you the right hand should be at the bottom."

I followed his instructions, and he approved, nodding for me to continue. I did so. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Nada.

Husband: "What are you doing?" 

I ignored him and pressed as hard as I could with my right hand.

WHOMP! The pill broke into two pieces, one of which flew across the room. The other half fell to the floor, coming to rest beside my shoe. 

The cut, however, was perfect — no choking, jagged edges. 

Husband: "What are you doing?" 

Investing in a pill cutter, that's what I'm doing.

My Top Super Bowl Commercials

I spent the entire weekend watching football. Along with that, came watching commercials. Here is the list of ads that made me gig gig (that's a family hand me down meaning laugh):

• The advertisement for Citi credit cards where the man is dressing. He puts on an outfit, and then his wife brings him another outfit. He keeps putting on outfit over outfit until finally, he looks like the good year blimp, and his wife helps him into his coat and tells him to have a safe trip. I thought it was a commercial about how bad it is to check your luggage, but alas, it is for a credit card where you can earn points to help you get luggage (or whatever else you chose to spend your points on).

• In this commercial, a woman drives into her packed garage. It is so full of extra junk and so disorganized that she can not even get out of her car, so she climbs out of the trunk. The funny thing is that she acts like this is just the usual way all people park in their garages. I think it is for a storage company.

• This ad started with a woman and a kid pulling up alongside a scruffy man and his motorcycle. The lady asks, "Out of gas?" and when he answers in the affirmative, she screams, "Yes," and jumps out of the van to put down the seats in the back to make room for his motorcycle. Once they're all in the car, the woman turns to her kid and says, "Daddy just had to get a motorcycle, didn't he?" I loved it turned out to be Daddy because I was a little worried when she pulled over.

• The American Express commercial where a woman waits for the elevator and when it opens, Ellen DeGeneres is dancing inside to music on her headphones. The lady gets on, rolls her eyes, and the door closes. When it opens again, both Ellen and the lady are boogying down! You go, girls!

• The last one was another Citi commercial. This one had a man in sweats at the gym. Standing on the scale, it reads 249. He gets off, rolls his neck, stretches, puts on his headphones, and runs around the gym equipment in a small circle. He ends up back at the scale where he takes off his headphones and weighs himself again. Still 249. The voiceover says, "Want instant rewards?" I am dieting and exercising, and I felt that man's pain!

Children Shouldn't Play with Tweezers

In my stocking for Christmas, I received a pair of tweezers. They were needed. Santa had been watching through the year when I would traipse next door to borrow tweezers from my neighbor to pull out splinters in my children's hand. I do have tweezers, but they are rusted and thus not something I felt I could use on my children's delicate hands.

The new pair of tweezers are the best. They are coated so they won't rust, and they have a slant tip to make extracting hair easier.

I used them to pluck my eyebrows. First of all, let me say I know nothing about plucking eyebrows. I've never plucked my eyebrows until someone referred to my bushy eyebrows. Plucking to me meant standing in the bathroom before a mirror randomly pulling hairs I thought needed pulling. The results of this were sad brows.

Next, I tried reading magazines on the art of plucking. I watched make-up experts pluck models' eyebrows and attempted to imitate them. It didn't work.

Finally, I read an article that said you should leave your brows alone. The less one messed with brows, the better. I took that advice to heart. I haven't plucked my eyebrows in years until I got the tweezers for Christmas.

I have no idea what possessed me to pick up those tweezers, but when I did my brows began twitching, my eyes went to my mirror image, and I suddenly felt that they needed some plucking.

I started on my right eye. I attempted to channel Carmindy from TLC's What Not To Wear and her advice on brow plucking. I plucked and plucked, and when I stepped back to survey my work, I realized while the ends weren't bad, I hadn't done as well in the middle.

Now, my right brow has a hole in the middle. I debated doing the same thing to my left eyebrow to match and decided instead; I'd tell people I'd been in a fire because no way could I get the same hole on the other brow. I wanted to cry. This incident is the reason why I need an expert to dress me each day.

Lucky for me that I had a friend whose mother really did lose her eyebrows in a fire hazard. They never grew back, and so each morning, she draws on eyebrows with an eyebrow pencil. Unlucky for me, I don't own an eyebrow pencil. I did discover, however, that a dab of mascara in the brow covers up the hole until it can grow back.

In the meantime, I have retired the tweezers for splinter use only, and I've decided that on my next trip to the big upscale mall in Tampa, perhaps I will get some help on eyebrow plucking.

What Is wrong with wanting to watch some football?

I love football. That came to pass as my family watched football every Sunday. I can remember watching football as far back as the 1970s. My team is and always has been the Pittsburgh Steelers. I chose them because they were piped in each week back home in Indiana (the Colts still resided in Baltimore then), and I loved Terry Bradshaw and the 70s Steel Curtain.

When I moved to Florida, I brought my Steelers banner and hung it in my new apartment. Unfortunately, this area already had a professional football team, and my roommate and I (she a Philadelphia Eagles fan) could only watch on television the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. This was during their days of the creamsicle uniforms and even worse their last-place finishing days. We did not, however, give up on our teams. Our allegiance was still active. If the Bucs played the Eagles or Steelers, we rooted for the Eagles or the Steelers.

My husband was okay with my football obsession and understood where I would be on Sundays. Plopped own in front of the television. He usually left me alone and found other things to keep him busy. Each Sunday, I watched the Buccaneers. I was one of the many fans who ran screaming into the night when the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won the Super Bowl. I broke down and bought myself a Tampa t-shirt. But never once did I cheer for the Buccaneers when they played the Steelers. And never once did I not wear my Steelers shirt in the same week that I wore my Bucs shirt.

I will, and always will be, a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.

Last night the Steelers were in the playoffs. I wore my "Go to El" shirt (a reference to Antwan Randle El, a multi-talent for Pittsburgh and an Indiana college boy) and had my terrible towel at my side ready to wave. It was a brutal game to watch. The Steelers played like they hadn't a clue what was happening. I began to worry and started making pacts with the Steelers' God. I paced my living room, and then I swept my living room. I began cleaning my dining room table because sitting still as the time clocked down in regulation with the score tied was not something I could do.

My husband had left. He and the children know me well enough that they cut out to avoid my pacing, screaming, and signature LOUD hand clapping. They think I'm nuts, but they are accepting, and they leave me to my football. In the middle of overtime, my husband called to say he and the girls were at the now-closed mall with a dead car battery.

Are you kidding me? In the middle of overtime of the Steelers game? What was he thinking?

I will admit I did not handle his first phone call well. I told him I was busy, and I may have whined when I did so. I did, however, get back to him with the number of mall security so he could ask them to jump his car. 

By the time he called me back to tell me he was on the road once again, the Steelers had won. I was sobbing, and my legs shaking, and my head was pounding. I could barely talk when I answered the phone. 

Me: "We won. It's okay. We won." 

Looking back on this, I supposed he was expecting, "Are you okay? Did you get security?" 

I heard dead silence. Then--

Tom: "What is wrong with you?"

Nothing! I'm a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, and we're moving on to the AFC Championship game. 

Go Steelers!