Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Submarine

The end of an actual bedtime conversation I just had with my husband:

"Alex, I am warning you now--I swear, if I EVER wake up, and find out I've been on a submarine without my consent? I will be SO pissed."

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

BECAUSE, That's Why!

I get a lot of flack about my dogs. There are too many, they're underfoot, they live in the house and sprawl on the furniture, they steal my expensive goat cheese, they require frequent haircuts, they eat better than most people, and they're ninjas. Why? Why, Belinda? Why do you have all those dogs? Why do they live in the house? I never quite know how to answer that last one, because I have no idea why people who keep their dogs exclusively outdoors even want to have a dog. And I'll be the first to admit that, yeah, according to most peoples' standards, I do have "too many" dogs. Could I get rid of one? Well, no. But you'll notice that I haven't added any more since the numbers have been at this level. Can't we just call that progress?

But see, last night was a bad night for me, as many nights are, lately. I was agitated, anxious, and couldn't relax and go to sleep for love or money. I was really stressed. And then, at some point, the old dog at my feet stretched out and laid her head across my legs. She breathed an enormous sigh, and with that exhalation, relaxed and sank the whole of her weight into my legs.

All at once, I felt better. Yes, just like that. I immediately felt my blood pressure lower, my heart rate slow, and my jaw unclench. I felt at peace. All the things I'd been trying in vain to achieve all day long, a dog accomplished in one well-timed breath, and I went right to sleep.

And THAT is what good dogs do, and why it's nice to have a few (or more) of them around.

Monday, February 16, 2009

In Which I Learn A Valuable Lesson

goat gettin' her beer on...see next photos / This is Today 25

Last week, Bella was invited to her very first sleepover party. At age six. I was stunned. I can't remember going on a sleepover before I was eight or nine years old, and I think I called my mom to come get me from the first one of those. But, as you might guess if you know her even a tiny bit, my daughter was beyond stoked for this event--no hesitation whatsoever. So, we RSVPd, got the address, and headed over at the appointed time on Friday afternoon.

Right before we left, I went out to the henhouse and gathered the morning's eggs, and packed a new carton with a fresh dozen. Alex asked me, "You're taking them some eggs?" I said, "Sure." I didn't honestly think twice about it--it just seemed a natural thing to do, like sending Bella to her first day of school with a jar of watermelon pickles for her teacher. I knew from our hosts' address that they lived in a subdivision that almost certainly didn't allow hens, so super-fresh eggs would be a nice thing to have, I thought.

We left our house, which was piled with laundry (both dirty and clean) and hosting an incubator full of hatching chicks. The Christmas tree had still not made its way down to the basement storage area (St. Patrick's Day is the the traditional hoist-the-tree-downstairs deadline, right?), and the house was full of riotous poodles. Dishes soaked in the sink. The living room floor was dominated by Bella's work-in-progress of a lifesize person, rendered in two dimensions out of multiple sheets of copier paper, which gave it an air of "crime scene."

Outside, dead leaves lay in foot-thick drifts all around the property. Broccoli and Brussels sprouts plants sat propped against the window, waiting to be planted in the garden. Random junk lay scattered, well...everywhere. More poodles ran riot in the yard, backdropped by a pile of scrap lumber. Roosters crowed constantly, and turkeys gobbled, also constantly. Chickens darted this way and that, scratching up every bit of living greenery they could find. Feed sacks awaiting trash day sat in a tall stack next to the fence.

As we pulled out of our driveway and onto the street, we passed the ramshackle tree "fort" that some neighbor boys are building in the woods so close to our property that it gives the appearance of belonging to us. On this day, the fort was newly festooned with attractive plastic tarps that had been salvaged from somewhere after what looked like a lifetime of hard use. On our street, we drove around pothole after pothole, caused by runoff from the goat farm...OH, the goat farm. A true spectacle of country life in all its glory, with its frequently-escaping goats and the trash they'd tear into and scatter on the street (as depicted in the photo atop this post--that is the street side of the fence the goat is on, mind you).

Of course, I didn't really notice these things at the time--not consciously. Who would, when they see it all, every single day of their lives? No, I didn't notice it in the present...but it all floated to the top of my mind as we made more progress into their neighborhood.

The subdivision. Wow. All of a sudden, the streets were wide, and perfectly paved. Instead of dodging random livestock, you had only to slow for golf-cart crossings. Instead of semi-feral dogs padding down the road, there were bicyclists riding on either side of the grand streets, in specially-constructed bike lanes. Whoa. The yards were perfect, one after another after another. So much perfectly manicured grass! So many artfully-sculpted boxwoods! Paving stones, sidewalks, fountains... As we drove on, we began to see gated communities, smaller subdivisions within the subdivision. Houses got bigger and more stately. I'd never known this world existed, and it was only moments away from my own home.

Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of myself in a way I hadn't been before. My just-washed hair and unmade-up face. My jeans and sweatshirt. The distinct possibility of something worse than dirt on my shoes. I felt the way I imagine the hillbilly wives often featured on "Wife Swap" must feel in the opening moments of their adventures. I mentally inventoried everything that Bella was wearing, everything she'd packed, the way I'd braided her hair, the gift she was carrying and the way it was wrapped. That all checked out, I hoped. Her father and I, however--we looked fine for OUR house, which was located, apparently, in another universe five miles away. I'd be lying if I said all this wasn't causing me to wonder if we were denying our daughter something critical to her development--a real neighborhood, where she could go outside and play with other children at a moment's notice. Where neighbors just walked across the street to chat when they saw you outside--my mind boggles. I mean, sure, it's one thing for her father and I to declare ourselves hermits, but are we doing her a disservice? Oh, my self-doubting brain, how I love you.

As we pulled into the party hosts' driveway, Bella, in a matter-of-fact voice, announced, "Well, this house is preeeetty fancy." At first, I thought it was two houses with a shared driveway. Nope. Here was garage space for no less than five cars, while I myself enjoy garage space for NO cars. In fact, our living room is (or was) a garage. The house was huge, with a sweeping, two-story entryway. When we rang the doorbell, I was in full country-mouse mode, standing there clutching (and re-thinking) my carton of eggs, and feeling plainer than a mud fence. Bella was, of course, oblivious to any such inner struggle, and I'm pretty sure Alex was, too.

We met the host parents, who were perfectly lovely and gracious people. I may have been stunned momentarily silent by the spotlessness of their gorgeous home, because I found myself dumbly shoving a dozen eggs at them. The mom looked momentarily puzzled, and laughed, "You're giving us eggs?" I must have looked stricken, because she immediately recovered with, "Oh, you're seriously bringing us eggs?" She wasn't being unkind, just caught off-guard, I think. I said, "I just gathered them this morning, and thought you might like some fresh ones..." At this point I was rescued from my discomfort by the dad, who grabbed the box, opened it up, and began rhapsodizing on the joys of fresh eggs. They began asking us lots of questions about our chickens, and we told them how many we have, and about the turkeys, and that we're hatching chicks all the time, and many of the life choices I'd been feeling insecure about moments before. Then the dad looked me right in the eyes, with an expression that must have looked similar to my expression when I saw that glistening banister rushing upward into the light-filled foyer, and asked, "Where do you live that you can have all this?"

I returned to my chaotic home that afternoon feeling pretty much OK, and even smiled as I passed the goat farm.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

There Are Some Things In Life You Just Don't Anticipate

EE cross chicks

Setting: Our bedroom, midnight.

...peep peep peep peep PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP! PEEP! PEEP!...

What is wrong with those chicks?

It's not even all of them--it's just ONE. Listen.

I know, it's that one with the weird-looking head. He won't shut up.

Do you think he's brain-damaged?

I don't know. I'll go see. They don't make noise like that unless they need something.

(I go into the hearthroom, retrieve Loudmouth Chick, and bring him back into the bedroom, in a paper towel. He is cheeping his tiny, fuzzy head off. LOUDLY.)

What is wrong with him? What is wrong with you, little dude?

Here, set him down on the towel.

Oh, look at his feet! His toes are all curled up--he can't uncurl his toes! He has toe cramps! That's why he's peeping--his toes hurt! Or he can't make his way to the food and water, and he's hungry and thirsty.

*blink, blink*

Well, he's deformed. We should probably cull him now...

Yeah...should I...?

Wait, lemme look for something first.

What are you doing?

I'm searching "chick curled toes" on Chickenpedia. Watch, there will be 100 posts about it. Yep, here's a picture that looks just like it.

So, what do we do about it?

We have to put it down.

Oh. OK.

WAIT--let me just check a few more threads...

For what, tiny corrective shoes?

Maybe. AHA! (I get up, and come back with scissors, cardboard, duct tape, and the deformed chick.)

What? Are? You? Doing?

I am making a tiny pair of corrective shoes for a baby chicken.

Are you kidding me?

Do YOU want to snap his tiny, fuzzy little neck? Feed him to the dogs?


And that is how I came to be sharing a house with a clutch of chicks, one of whom is currently wearing some stylin' little boots.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

All Over The Place

And all of a sudden, I'm everywhere. I'd be ever so beholden for some comment-love at these other sites, if you have a minute to spare:

As of next week, I'll have been with BlogHer for three years. I've just posted my very first "official" piece for them, a movie review: "Coraline" in 3D A Real Gift For The Senses. I'd be honored if you'd check it out, and touched if you'd comment.

Over at RealMental.org, Just In Time For Valentine's Day: The Suckiest Wife Ever. (In case you haven't guessed, it's ME.) This might also explain a lot of those of you who've been wondering where I've been.

I've even made an attempt at sliding inconspicuously back into the rotation over at The Arkansas Times Blog, with Hey, Arkansas--Long Time, No See!

And if anyone would like to pop in to our place for quiche or omelets, we have GOT YOU COVERED.

eggs

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Kerplode!

Overheard from the backseat of the truck, my daughter discussing with my nephew--her older, wiser cousin--how she would spend $100:

Bella: "Well, $20 I would use to buy candy. Then $10 on toys."

Grayson: "Bella, $10 would buy one or maybe two toys--that's not many toys."

Bella: "I already have plenty of toys, so I don't care for more than one or two. And for the next $10...I would probably go to IHOP."

Grayson: "That's only $40. What will you do with the rest?"

Bella: "Get a tattoo."


Overheard from the bathtub one night:

"AaaaahhhHHHH! I just have! So! Many! Ideas...I think I might KERPLODE!"


Pancakes and tattoos. It's enough to make a mom kerplode.

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Women Bloggers to GoDaddy: "ENHANCE THIS."

That rallying cry from the super-sharp Glennia Campbell, immediately following Sunday's Super Bowl. Glennia, like many of us, decided that she'd finally had enough of GoDaddy's objectifyingly sexist, puerile, and all that aside, just plain stupid boobalicious ad campaign. We're also fairly disgusted at Danica Patrick's willing involvement in same.

We're tired of women not being taken seriously as human beings--for much of the advertising world, we're only as good as how much our bodies can be used to sell things. Heaping insult on injury is the fact that, as GoDaddy MUST SURELY KNOW, women make up a commanding portion of the heavy Internet-using demographic. So they're insulting and demeaning a market to which, by all good sense, they should be catering. It's baffling. As Consumerist's Ben Popken noted, it's as if their motto is, "GoDaddy: Because chicks never register domains!"

When asking why a company would behave this way, we can only conclude that it's, well...because they CAN. Because this idiocy works. Because their bottom line, carried on artificial breasts, is strong.

Well, Glennia had finally had enough. She wrote to GoDaddy, expressing her dismay at their ad campaign, and cancelling her several domain registration accounts with them. They didn't care.

I am another woman who, being cheap and all, has multiple domains registered through GoDaddy. No more. I'm answering Glennia's unintentional rallying cry, and dumping GoDaddy like a bad habit...which is, essentially, what it is. There's no good reason to use a company like this. According to Glennia's update as of today, another registrar, Register.com, has proactively stepped up to the plate and is being smart, acommodating, and respectful in helping GoDaddy deserters transfer their domains to the care of a company whose directors have unscuffed knuckles and are able to breathe through their noses.

If you're a woman, and you have a domain or domains registered through GoDaddy, won't you join me, and Glennia, in a form of protest that makes a difference? If you're a MAN with a domain or domains registered through GoDaddy, hey, they're not exactly complimenting YOUR intelligence, either. Let them know that you are too smart and too civilized to have your decisions informed merely by the presence of boobies. Because you ARE better than that, guys.

Right?

If you're like me, and slow to make nit-picky technical changes (because, really, isn't the status quo always easier than doing what's right, at least in the short run?), Glennia has helpfully posted a detailed step-by-step guide to transferring your domain(s) away from GoDaddy. The folks over at Register.com are ready, willing, and able to help out.

Let's let GoDaddy know that there's no way to enhance crap to make it look like anything but crap. We're better than this. AND this.

EDITED TO ADD: When I hit "publish" on this post, and the site came up, I saw, through a delicious twist of fate, that the BlogHer sidebar ad on the right was for Register.com. I didn't even know that they were a BlogHer advertiser, but am thrilled to learn that they are!

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Live-Blogging The Stupor-Bowl! Really!



Started off by attempting to get here via "globber.com." That's got to be a good omen. Yeah...I've been away a while.

Commercial: OK, right off the bat, Doritos' "YOU DON'T KNOW ME!" commercial laid me right out on the floor laughing.

Oh, man, Journey still sucks SO HARD. I hate them soooooo much, I do. I have no idea of the identity of Young Native American Steve Perry, but he's not helping. The sucking, it still goes on and on and onnnn AND OOOOONNNNNN.

Is Bruce still The Boss? I don't know who runs the day-to-day operations. I think he just named Coldplay as his successor, though I can't be sure. Costas just explained "omerta" to everyone. Why do I feel like he's a tool? I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I forgot to apply a fresh hormone patch today, because, hello? CRANKYPANTS.

Watching Larry Fitzgerald warm up. If he had on a tutu instead of those shorts with that ensemble, he would look like the baddest ballerina on the planet.

If we're going to have to relive forty-leven other stuporbowls during the breaks, I am not going to last long before I strangle on my own drool.

How many Mannings are there? Are there more? Someone tell me now if there are. I've had enough Mannings. Did I mention CRANKYPANTS?

OK, so, this is...the Tough Guys Saying Tough Things Cliche Montage? I love men. Testosterone makes you silly.

Commercial: If "Medium" is coming back this season stronger, faster, better...does that mean she'll finally be a "Large?"

Jay Leno on the NFL. Thanks for nothing, NFL. Geez, I can't stand watching or listening to Jay Leno.

Yeah, I think it's time for the hormones.

Or Obama! Turns out that works just fine. Lauer-Obama interview. Nice. Thank God--literally, THANK GOD--this is our president. How comforting it is simply to listen to him make small talk, and to know how smart, capable, and level-headed he is.

Commercial: Yep, the e-Trade talking baby is still funny to me. "Shankopottamus." HA.

I'm being noticeably weakened by this eternal pre-game show. I think I'm going away until it's REALLY game time.

I think it constitutes some sort of football-based blasphemy to be leafing through the latest copy of Mother Earth News while the Super-Bowl is on. Oh, well.

Sportscaster: "Ben Roethlisberger has very unique feet." Well, NO, HE DOESN'T. He has unique feet? OK, sure. 'Unique' = 'one of a kind.' You can't be more the only one of something than being THE ONLY ONE of something. People who get paid huge amounts of money for talking on my TV should not use words unless they know what they mean. Just saying. No one is "very" unique. The end.

The hormones should kick in any minute now. But right now? I want Keith Olbermann and Tiki Barber to go up into that press box and clear it out, and just call the whole game themselves.

Wow, Chris Collinsworth has a whole lotta forehead. I know, I'm still annoyed with him for teaming up with Costas to try and wreck my Olympics-viewing experience.

HEY, here we go! The teams are actually entering the field. Can anyone tell me how we, as sports fans, began the decidedly odd tradition of waving dishrags around at sporting events? I can't remember this happening before I was college age.

Walter Payton Man of the Year Award goes to Kurt Warner. Montage illustrates that obscenely highly-paid professional athletes contribute charitably to their communities. Maybe they should give ethics lessons to Wall Street.

Faith Hill sings. What, you think I'm gonna snark on Faith Hill? Lady's got pipes.

Sully the hero pilot gets props! Good deal.

Jennifer Hudson, anthem. My guess is 62. She adds 62 superfluous notes to the traditional anthem, is my bet. Or higher. Anything above 62, I win. OK...I missed the new-note count, but she did end on a totally different note than is written, so that counts. She's got serious chops, and gets bonus points for getting big tough football boys all choked up.

Commerical: G.I. Joe movie? Dennis Quaid is G.I. Joe? Or is this the version where "G.I. Joe" is actually a unit consisting of many people? Does it matter?

Let me get this straight: We're 26 minutes in, and just now getting to the coin toss? I've always suspected that football causes odd stretches in the space/time continuum. Petraeus tosses. Wait--shouldn't he be, I dunno, overseeing something somewhere? Also, in some attic somewhere, there is a portrait of an aging Lynn Swann, because, DANG. Dude looks GOOD.

No one who looks anything like Kurt Warner has ever bagged MY groceries. What's up, Kroger?

Commercial: Smashing Pumpkins are selling Hyundais now? Wait, what?

Story from my past regarding Vince Lombardi: Years and years ago, my best friend David got some really nice Louis Vuitton luggage, and I infuriated him for months on end by always referring to the logo as "Vince Lombardi" instead. The end.

Judging from my husband's bellowing, something good just happened. Apparently there's a game being played in between all the commercials. Alex has promised to run the DVR back for me if there's an extremely repeat-worthy play today.

John Madden just said "penetration" 5 times in once sentence. I am not even kidding.

Commercials: NBC makes internet/text lingo joke, 10 years too late.
Bud Light tossing-guy-through-office-window spot FAILS.
Audi scores, because, well, Jason Statham.
Nostalgic/patriotic/whatever from Pepsi.
"Angels and Demons," because "The DaVinci Code" didn't suck ENOUGH, apparently.
Jack Black and Michael Cera just lost 65% and 90% of their credibility, respectively.

Score is now 3-0, Pittsburgh. Lots of chest-thumping going on. I love men.

First quarter is over! WOW, this goes a lot faster when you're blogging!

Potato-Heads commercial for Bridgestone plays on hip, current theme of nagging, back-seat-driving wife. Way to keep up with the times, Bridgestone! Maybe you can run this spot during "The Honeymooners!"

In other news, Vin Diesel still, apparently, exists. And is up to NO GOOD, making more fast and/or furious crap.

Wow, Castrol, you just flushed 3 million dollars!

Holy objectification, Doritos (have you guys hired the geniuses behind the AXE ads?) and GoDaddy. Ouch. DANG. Danica Patrick escorts American women one step forward, ten steps back. Oh well, Doritos, you can always fall back on the hilarity of guys hurting each other and smashing stuff.

Speaking of gender issues, Pepsi is marketing a diet soda for men? Wha--? Oh, well. Men like seeing other men get hurt! WIN!

I think there was a cameo by a Rocky Horror character in that last Budweiser spot. Seriously. See? I don't know how many Budweiser Clydesdale ads we're gonna get this year, but so far, these aren't great--the stick-fetching one was just plain weak.

You know, I like Will Ferrell as much as anyone, but I'm sorry, the success or failure of this project relies solely on the quality of the sleestaks.

Oh, the ball game. Yeah...looks like 10-7 Pittsburgh, with 6 minutes left in the half. Meanwhile, Pedigree's "Maybe you should get a dog" adoption-drive spot ROCKS.

Hey, turns out we needed MORE STAR TREK! Who knew? Oh, and I forgot about that Toyota ad earlier. Apparently, the Venza looks like your face, so you should buy one. Now.

Bud Light continues its lame "drinkability" series. Can someone explain to me how "Hey, this liquid beverage is totally drinkable!" is a selling point? I mean, can you imagine a restaurant aggressively marketing its food as "edible?" I am obviously not cut out for advertising. Still, bonus points for using Conan O'Brien in that earlier spot. Speaking of "drinkable" things, how come Gatorade, with all their money, can't come up with anything better than this?

On the other hand, the Teleflora ad with the boxed flowers that say, "No one wants to see you naked" did make me laugh, right at the end. At least it was better than H&R Block's lame "Death and Taxes" spot. Death. Does his taxes. GET IT? It is subtle, no?

You tell 'em, Hyundai. We are really socking it to the international automakers, no? No. I didn't think so.

Good heavens, there's Jay Leno again. Do we have to keep looking at him? Oh, see, he's driving one of his 8,472 sports cars, and its license plate says, "FALL." Which, I'm sorry, I glanced at and saw "FAIL," and I'd bet everyone else who uses the internet more than a half-hour a week flashed on the same word.

I think John Madden just said that Pittsburgh has "an ethnic backfield." That can't be right, can it? Still 10-7, still in the first half. Football is LONG.

Yes, Cheetos, we get the whole "karmic justice" angle...except that's not what this is. This ad campaign of yours is telling us what, that when people act like total nozzles, we should just be double-nozzles back at them? I don't buy it. Or Cheetos.

Better than a talking baby? Two talking babies. I guess. I admit I'm not exactly tough on the talking babies. They crack me up.

Still looking forward to "Up," but wishing Disney-Pixar could've given us a little more of a peek. Additionally, "Monsters vs. Aliens," from Dreamworks, looks fun, and leads me to wonder just how much 3-D we're gonna be subjected to in upcoming months.

LOOK OUT--it's the first Alex-mandated replay of the evening! Interception by James Patterson? What? That can't be right--he's busy writing those fairy-tale-titled murder mystery novels. Oh, wait, maybe it was Harrison. Alex likes it when defensive linemen get to score big. So, "something" finally happened. 'Nother touchdown + field goal, and the score stands at 17-7.

HALFTIME! And the part of the game where the talking heads explain fundamentals to me, such as the fact that the team who scores the most will win the game. Thanks, guys.

I just have this to say about the SoBe 3-D commercial. I would happily watch NFL players dance around in UnderArmour ALL DAY LONG, so please point me to the standard HD version of this commercial, OK? Ah, asked and answered--here we go!

It's not new, but the commercial where roadies run the world? I love it. Even if it is Sprint-Nextel.

Halftime shows are kinda...I dunno...tragic. I don't really wanna see Springsteen reduced to this.

NBC's ads have been pretty lame tonight (3-D! 3-D! 3-D!), but the Heroes + Favre spot was pretty cute.

I'm a little confused as to why, given the state of current events, Toyota would use their Super Bowl ad buy to show us giant gas-guzzling trucks pulling heavy loads up a steel spiral...that is on fire. Toyota? Um, you're just about the only automaker doing business in this country that has your head above water right now, and that ain't because of your truck sales.

Can the stadium not find any more current music than Ozzie Osbourne's "Crazy Train?" What's going on, NFL? Oh, yeah...the game's back on, and the talking heads have now had time to gather enough data to bludgeon us senseless with statistics for the next two hours.

All right, fine, I admit it--I laughed out loud at that stupid Bridgestone ad with the dancing astronauts. I think it was the song choice that did it to me--I mean, come on, who among us isn't a slave to Marky Mark and/or his Funky Bunch? And I LOVE the Coke commercials that are adapted from video games. This latest one isn't as good as the Grand Theft Auto-based one from last year, though. That one was my favorite. But why are they referring to it still as "Coke Classc? Didn't they just announce recently that the "Classic" tag is being retired?

Clydesdale commercial #3, again weak. I hate to break it to all the fans of anthropomorphized horses, but "three generations ago?" It is to laugh. There have been 20 generations of Clydesdales in this time frame, at least.

All of a sudden, here in real life, it is pouring down rain (I know, as opposed to all the other things it could be pouring down). In buckets. I told Alex it was raining. He looked at me funny. I said, "Can't you hear it raining?" He asked, "Is it raining?" and I said, "Either that or our house is on fire." And that is the funniest thing that's happened in our actual life tonight. You're welcome.

Holy crap--first Vin Diesel, now The Rock, also apparently still working. I THOUGHT OBAMA WAS GOING TO FIX STUFF LIKE THIS!

On TV, something has gone HORRIBLY WRONG with our reception. Is it a transmission problem from the network, or a DirecTV problem? We have no idea. Ah, there. Fixed. Guys are still running around and falling down, without going anywhere, a lot, looks like. Whew.

Hmm...somewhere, some more points were scored just now. Or several minutes ago. I have no idea. Score's now 20-7. Also, somehow, another Transformer movie got made. Seriously, did we need that, Shia?

FIRST LAUGH OUT LOUD FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS EVENT OF THE NIGHT Award goes to CareerBuilder.com. I can't begin to describe it, but if you watch it, it's the guy walking by and saying "Hi, Dummy" that does it. Alex held it together until the koala got punched.

And that pastoral Coke ad was pretty good, too...with all the bugs? Yeah. Like you need Coca -Cola. You also do not need Frosted Flakes, but they will help build parks for your kids if you buy their cereal, which will help make your kids too sluggish and fat to play sports in the parks. Not sure I'm following the logic on that one. If they were helping to buy your kids video games, sure...

John Madden: "Nickel, nickel, nickel defense, nickel offense, blitz, nickel, nickel." Remaining talking heads have obviously decided the outcome of this one, because they're spending a whoooole lot of time talking about each other at this point. Hey, I just looked up and saw a fumble. Woo-hoo.

Wishing I had started keeping score at the beginning of the game, counting how many times an announcer says, "This is the Super Bowl."

Looks like you're gonna need 3-D glasses to read the paper in 2009.

Holy everloving snorting grasshoppers--Ed McMahon and MC Hammer are shilling for cash4gold.com, which apparently shelled out $3mil for an ad buy. I am just...this is simply wrong on so many levels, that I can't even now remember the Coke "Mean Joe" homage ad I just saw. Cash4Gold! Where we'll buy your gold for 25%-35% of its actual pawnable value! Can't beat that! With a stick! And while we're on the topic of suspension of disbelief, here's a gem: The ladies love some Taco Bell, fellas.

Hey, another touchdown just happened. So now the score is 20-14, with a million and a half or so years to go. And that Alec Baldwin Hulu.com ad was really creative. And with a lot of punch around here: "What are you going to do, turn off your TV and your computer? HAHAHAHA." Indeed. Let's hear it for "cerebral gelatinizing" television programming. And then they scoop it out with a melon-baller and gobble it right on up.

Football is still happening, and I swear there's the same exact time on the clock that there was a half hour ago.

Commercial with kid scooping up a jarful of air, to illustrate GE's wind energy initiative...I thought for sure it was gonna be an ad for the Keeling curve...though I'm not sure who would've sponsored that. You know, because of the glass flasks he took up onto the volcano...oh, never mind.

MacGruber Pepsi spot gets points just for using the term "mouth-hole."

"5 minutes to go" in the game. STILL. Astonishingly, Hulu's servers have not failed for me one single time today. Kudos to them!

I want to see someone defend their roughness as "necessary." Although, it ain't gonna be THIS guy.

Hold the phone--something may have actually just happened in this game. All of a sudden the announcers sound like they care, and Roethlisberger looks mightily perturbed.

The problem I have with televised football is that, unless it's a passing play, by the time I figure out where the ball is, the play is over. And we have a ginormous TV in this room. No excuse for my old-lady eyes. And the score is now 20-16, because of something I totally missed while typing. WHOA--and we have an Arizona touchdown, putting them in the lead for the first time in the game, 22-20. And I care precisely as much as I did all during the time that Pittsburgh was ahead. Which is to say, lots.

This just in-- Football announcers are given to hyperbole. Here's the formula: "That [thing that just happened] might just be the [superlative superlative]est [thing like that thing that just happened] in the HISTORY OF FOOTBALL!" And someone squeezed in another point while I was having that revelation. 23-20, Arizona.

GoDaddy. Seriously. You're killing me here. Do you really not know what percentage of intense internet users are female? Really? Also, Danica? KNOCK IT OFF, Sister.

And here we go again--Santonio Holmes somehow wound up within the 5-yard line, so Pittsburgh could conceivably flip this thing again. 43 seconds to play, and...the pass is good. Alex is happy. 35 seconds left. This is the point in a football game where I start chanting, "Go, go, go, GO!" inside my head, but not for any particular team...I'm rooting for an end to the game. With no death, serious injury, or overtime.

27-23, Pittsburgh again. HOW MANY TIME-OUTS DO THESE PEOPLE GET? 22 seconds left to play, which is the real-world equivalent of 6.25 hours. Now it's down to 5 seconds. But it's taken 10 minutes to get there. 3...2...1.

Wow, that is a lot of confetti. Who cleans that up? OH NOES, the sad defeated boys camerawork! I hate this part! I am lousy with major sporting events, simply because someone has to lose. It's not nearly as painful in pro sports, though. The losers still get paid, right?

And now, we're done. Until next year, chumps! Actually, I'll most likely be doing this again for the Oscars. You're thrilled, I know.