It's In My Blood, but not in my State

I am from Indiana. I am a Hoosier. I grew up with a basketball in my hand and a basketball goal outside my house. We spent hours in my driveway playing pick-up games, Horse and just shooting free throws. Our basketball goal was regulation height with the free-throw line precisely 15 feet from the basket and painted on our driveway. When you got depressed in Indiana, you didn't go see a shrink...you went outside and shot hoops.

On the weekends, we watched Indiana college basketball. Everyone knew that you did not call our home during IU basketball games. If you did, you either didn't get an answer, or you got the cold voice of my mother answering the phone with, "Who is this? Indiana is playing basketball."

I grew up in a college town. When they had a home game, we were there. We would deck ourselves out in the school's purple and white, grab our UE #1 foam fingers, and head to the game come rain, shine, or snowstorm. We only missed a game if we were out of town on vacation, but that was rare as we did not schedule a vacation during the basketball season. When March comes, Hoosiers are inside watching basketball. In Indiana, basketball is life.

When I moved to Florida, I thought I had left the United States when it came to basketball. Basketball goals were only found at the recreation centers. The only goal I've ever seen outside a rec center was in the street, and it was one of those kid goals that could be lowered so everyone can dunk.

Hardly any natives watched basketball on television, and the only fans that came to the college games were college kids. And can I tell you how bad the college team was? Our Indiana high school teams could have played circles around the University of South Florida Bulldogs. It was a sad sight, but as long as I was able to have cable, I could get my basketball fix. When March rolled around every year, I put in early for my days off to experience the madness. I never had to worry about getting those days. I was usually the only one who requested them. I carried my basketball in my trunk, and when I got homesick, I'd head to the court across the street from my apartment. Some of my first dates with Tom were on the basketball court.

As the years rolled by, I started watching less and less basketball. Indiana was rarely shown on television anymore. I married, moved away from the courts, and eventually lost my Indiana connection. Tom and I use to have a competition each March Madness in filling out the brackets, but that stopped about 5 years ago when Tom stopped picking. I use to bet each year with a Kentucky friend of mine when Kentucky would play Indiana, but eventually, that died off. Little by little, basketball started disappearing in my life. My mother could not believe it when she would call to discuss a game with me and would discover I wasn't even watching. I tried to explain it was a Florida curse.

Last week she called me and admitted that the curse had gotten to her. She said she understood now how it happens. There is sunshine, warm days, the beach, the water, and the golf course all a stone's throw away from our homes. Basketball does not dominate the Sports section of the paper. Games are not announced on the radio. Even March Madness, unless it is played here in town, takes second fiddle to the arrival of Spring Breakers.

Don't get me wrong. I was born in Indiana. I'm a Hoosier, always will be a Hoosier, and basketball will still be in my veins. But I realized that I had become a Floridian after 16 years when I sat down to watch the final laps of the Daytona 500, listened to the Auto Club 500 on the radio, and am now wondering who will be in what pole position for Sunday's UAW-DaimlerChrysler 400.

The Tooth Fairy Is On Strike

Last week my friend's daughter discovered that her tooth was loose. Very loose. She was thrilled about it in the beginning, but after finding out that she would be the first girl Kindergartener in her class to lose a tooth, she cried. She did not want to set the trend. Now, mind you, there are only three girls in their Kindergarten class, one of whom is my daughter, and my daughter would kill to lose a tooth. So as soon as she saw her friend's loose tooth, she found a loose tooth in her mouth. "I have a loose tooth," she announced on Friday as she climbed into the van. She attempted to wiggle the tooth. "It is loose. Really. I do have a loose tooth. Really." I felt the tooth, and it wouldn't budge, but I assured her one day she would lose her teeth, but that time was far into the future. "You are still Mama's baby," I told her. "It isn't time for you to lose teeth."

Yeah, well, four days later, my baby's tooth was loose. 

MY BABY'S TOOTH IS LOOSE. 

And not one, but two. Two teeth have popped out of Darcy's gums and are waiting to take their place in her mouth.

She is ecstatic. I am horrified. She is running around crunching on apples and calling her grandmother to get the tooth fairy bag. I am running behind her cutting up the apple and telling her the tooth fairy is on vacation.

When did this happen? When did my baby start to become a little person? It feels like yesterday I was changing her diapers, nursing her, and rocking her to sleep. Now she is turning six, moving to the other side of the school and losing her teeth. It happened quickly, and I wasn't ready.

Working It...

I have my husband's cold now. I am truly miserable with heavy sneezes, soreness from blowing every three minutes and that achy feeling that makes you just want to go back to bed and pull the covers up over your head.

The difference between us, however, is that I can't just go back to bed. For some reason, SAHM's do not have sick days. We do not get paid to lop around in our bed whining about our miserable head colds.

I still have to wash the laundry so that one daughter has clean uniforms and the other daughter has her rest time blankets for school. I have to make out our menus for the week so that I can get the grocery shopping done tomorrow after I have gotten my children up, dressed, fed and taken to school. Oh, and in between that I shall make lunches so that they have nutritious, please no chocolate allowed, meals and snacks to consume.

Tomorrow is my errand day. That means I have to return library movies and books, shop for our groceries, shop for upcoming events (and those that have passed), mail any packages that must be mailed (sorry dear brother, that birthday gift will eventually make it to IN), and at some point get my sorry, fat ass to the gym so that I get in my 90 minutes of exercise that the federal government tells me I need daily for good health. Then I shall pick up my children from school and start the nightly process which includes homework, extra-curricular activities, dinner, bathing, and American Idol. Then, and only then, will I be able to tumble into bed.

Psst: I'm still in the mode of having my husband home for three days. How am I doing?

My kid is not a rock star

Today I had to go to our local recreation department to purchase tickets for my daughter's ballet recital. This is my daughter's first year in this ballet company. She's spent the past two years with a laid back ballet teacher who taught her beautiful things about the world of dance while the parents sat back and gossiped. 

It was a glorious hour for us all. When it came time for the recital, our teacher handed out our tickets, we got as many as we wanted, and the seats were not reserved. This year was a whole new ball game.

I first received a letter from the ballet company telling me that my daughter was performing on the first day of two days of recitals. Tickets were to go on sale today, and this year they would hold a lottery drawing so that it would not be necessary to have parents show up at 6:00 in the morning for a 9:00 AM ticket sales opening. Huh?

The lottery was to begin at 8:45. I arrived at 8:47, and that was only because I was awake. I had initially set my alarm for 9:00, figuring that sleep was more important than a front-row seat. The woman at the door cheerfully informed me that the doors were now closed and that I had "just missed the lottery."

I really wanted to respond with, "Yes, I came late on purpose as I don't play the lottery because I think most of the money that is supposed to be going toward children's education is being mishandled."

But I figured that joke would fall flat, so I smiled and said, "Yes, I see. I do, however, wish to purchase tickets, and I certainly hope that is still a possibility."

To which she responded by handing me a number. The number was 71. So, despite the barren parking lot, there were somehow 70 people ahead of me inside the locked room participating in the lottery.

Listen, people, this is your child's dance recital, not a concert for Toby Keith!

But I had read the letter, so I was prepared, and I sat down in a vacant chair in the corridor and opened the book I had brought with me. Within minutes the closed doors to the lottery room opened and mothers, and one father, began spilling out of the room in two groups: those grumbling about their numbers, the way this was run or their lack of breakfast, and those cheerfully clutching their low numbers and discussing how this process was much better than the year before and where should they go for breakfast in the next few minutes.

Lotto Numbers One, Two, and Three lined up in the purchasing room where Lotto Number One then proceeded to Ticket Lady Number One. Ticket Lady Number One was where LN1 chose her seats from a poorly run off copy of the theater's seating chart. LN1 then moved to Ticket Lady Number Two, where said tickets were tallied into monetary numbers, at which point LN1 then moved to Ticket Lady Number Three, where she turned in her tally and paid her bill, checks and cash only, please.

The lone father looked at me and said, "I figured out that they will probably do if we are lucky, 30 people in one hour at this rate."

Are you kidding me? Do we not live in the age of computers? I can get tickets to see Toby Keith via my computer at home, sitting in my bathrobe and sipping coffee!

But I smiled and continued reading my book, despite the claustrophobic feeling that was creeping inside me as the corridor became jammed with ballet mothers who were not willing to move an inch for other people who were here for recreation classes. I was sure that at some point in time, a brawl would break out, and I would be a police witness. Fortunately, for me, my heroine appeared.

My friend has been a part of this ballet company for two years now. She did not appear at 6:00 AM last year but opted instead for purchasing tickets the following week. She ended up way in the back where she sort of recognized her daughter's face, but she countered this by buying the video the company sells of the ballet performance, please do not bring your own video recorder as it will not be allowed in the theater.

She had arrived today at 8:30 AM and was a part of the lottery where she picked the number 8. I did a remarkable job covering up my hatred for her at that particular moment, as having a friend with the number 8 was not going to help me any as the company had limited our purchases to a total of 8 tickets, thus once more fixing a complaint from last year where those 6:00 AM mothers then proceeded to purchase 1,000 tickets for several other ballet families who were still home in bed.

However, my friend, while standing in line behind Lotto Numbers 5, 6, and 7, heard Lotto Numbers 4 and 5 purchasing 8 tickets for the Saturday performance and 8 tickets for the Sunday performance! It seems that some children perform in both recitals, no proof necessary.

She then inched her way into the corridor, whispered in my ear how many tickets did I need, thankfully ignored my loudly grumbling of "it doesn't matter that I need 6 tickets because you need 8 and we are on different days, and they aren't going to let you buy those tickets for me anyhow", and purchased my 6 tickets when her number was called, 4 rows behind the orchestra pit, thank you very much.

Guess who I'll be taking with me to the Toby Keith Concert on August 6th? Yep. Cheryl.

A SAHM's Nightmare

My husband has been home for three days straight with a head cold, runny nose, scratchy throat, etc. He moves from the bed to his computer and back to his bed again. I really feel for him, I do, but I'm seriously exhausted from all the work I've had to do since he has been home! I mean, let's face it when the husband is home we SAHMs have to run around our houses like whirlwinds, so they don't get the idea that staying home is all fun and games.

We have a code for when the husbands are home. The unfortunate housewife with the ill husband calls one SAHM, and that person, in turn, calls the other SAHMs and puts the word out. That way, no phone calls will come in via the landline. We don't want the husbands to think we chatted on the phone all day for hours. The request goes out so we can meet for breakfast or lunch to be AWAY from the house and the patient under the guise of "running errands."

The scary thing is my husband is enjoying his time at home. He is still working, and he is finding that he is getting much more work done since there is no one to bother him. "I think I could get used to this," he said while I quaked inside.

So today, I am off to meet some SAHMs for lunch, where we will plot how to make it so miserable at home that the husband will BEG to return to the office. Any ideas? Let me know.

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.