This post is long. An Ode to Puter.

I’m going to venture outside of my comfort zone, yes, that would be "venting" and touch on something that happened to my family and me over the weekend.  You’ll have to bear with me as I usually try to hide my sappy-sapness underneath all my fluff and portray this hard crunchy shell exterior – otherwise known as – ‘bad-ass’.  But this weekend, we had to put our beloved Siamese cat to sleep. 

Puter, our 24 pound Siamese dog trapped in a cats body.

My fiancé and I swore up and down that he was more of a “best friend” to us than he was a cat.  He was our ‘Welcoming Committee’ anytime anyone, friend or foe, would walk through our door.  He was not prejudiced, he was not stuck up, and he was very trusting, loving and charismatic.  If he had thumbs, he would have probably welcomed you with a hug and a fresh baked tuna pie. 

I first met Puter five years ago when my fiancé and I started dating.  I was a ‘non-cat lover as my ex husband was very allergic to cats and in the 12 years we were together, his odium towards cats rubbed off on me. 

I walked through the front door of my fiancés house and within seconds, Puter was weaving in and out of my legs as if I was a new obstacle course for the testing.  He threw his body up against my shins and in one, rather impressive move; he curled his body up, positioned his head towards the floor and sort of flipped his body and slid down my feet.  Landing on the floor, he spread his legs and if he could talk, his Antonio Banderas voice would say “Everybody look at me”. 

It took me a while to warm up to the idea that Puter and I were going to have to see eye to eye.   Before sitting down on anything, I would take the cat hair roller and vigorously roll everything!  Everything.  The couches, chairs, bed, clothes, anything. It was rather rude and obsessive on my part, but I had this thing with cat hair.  I was like one of those crazed out germ-a-phobes that you see on the “WTF” channel.

It wasn’t long though that Puter had me completely wrapped around his nub (he had no front claws) and we came to an understanding.  He would randomly make me laugh by doing the things he was known for, and I wouldn’t run around rolling the furniture in front of him. 

On Saturday, we lost Puter to old age.  His system was starting to shut down and we made the choice to put him to sleep.  This was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. In reality, he was a staple in our family, and I am about to tell you why.  In honor of Puter I have elected to compile a “Top Five Favorite Memories” list.  A list of activities that were a part of his daily routine or, more often than not, randomness that made us laugh – hard.

5)  “Da cat cannot hold da moke – dat’s what it is”: I don’t know of a cat that doesn’t like catnip, or simply referred to as “kitty pot” in our house.  However, there was one particular evening that we gave Puter a fairly healthy dose of it.  He inhaled his share and sprawled out on the floor in his usual manner.  We poked fun at him and when he passed out, we went to bed.  However we forgot to put the bag up (out of reach).  We woke up the next morning to an O.D. of sorts.  Puter was sprawled out on his back in the middle of the living room and there was catnip all over the living room and kitchen.  Flakes of it were embedded into his fur and his eyes were rolled back into the back of his head.  The catnip bag had teeth marks in it and was completely empty.  Gone.  I think we actually heard the words “Just one more hit” come out of his mouth.

4)  “Nothing to see here”:  Our cat experienced more embarrassing moments than not.    If he pooted and you acknowledge it, he would curl up into a ball and hide his eyes.  If he fell off of something (which was often), he would act as if he meant to do it.  But the best blooper that he pulled involved the chair that he called his ‘home away from home’.  This chair was his favorite chair since he was a kitten.  It was one of those rolling dining chairs with the soft cushions that appeared in every mobile home from here to Kansas.  He would take a running jump onto the back of the chair, use his nubs to knead the back of the chair, then straddle the seatback and flop while purring up a storm.  On more than one occasion his own brute strength would get the best of him.  He would run, cheetah style, leap onto the back of the chair and in one intrepid motion the chair would flip over – tossing Puter across the room.  Of course we would feel bad for him, but only after we almost peed ourselves from laughing and carrying on like children.  We tried telling him, "Puter we're not laughing at you, we're laughing with you".  But he wasn't buying it.

3)  “So…when you said ‘no’, did you mean ‘NO’? Or just not right now?”:  Puter was forever challenging our decision to not let him eat people food.  Any meal, especially pizza or French fries, Puter felt it was his own personal invitation to join the party.  My fiancé would use his pack-leader voice to inform Puter that he needed to go to his spot (our loveseat) and mind his manners.  We would be eating and all of sudden you would see this stealth maneuver of his, tiptoeing nonchalantly past the food, stopping for a brief, yet satisfying, sniff.  “P-u-t-e-r” with dominant force coming from my fiancés mouth would signal panic into Puter and he would scatter from the scene.  Not even a minute later, here he would come again, tiptoeing across the room, and before he could even get near the goods – “PUTER!” this time more forceful and boisterous.  Like a cartoon, feet leaving puffs of smoke – he was gone.  And…again, a minute later…he came in a 3rd time in an army crawl, yes a cat army crawled.  Belly to the ground with his hind legs sprawled out behind him.  I’m not sure if he was just that much of a go-getter, or if he was experiencing short-term memory loss. 

2)  “Puter’s on one”: Every morning at 10:00 a.m. on the nose, and every evening around 9:00 p.m. Puter would do this random spastic licking/cleaning regimen followed along with this burst of energy that sent him through the house like a maggot on a hot skillet.  This usually started from the top of his kitty tower and in the blink of an eye he was off.  He would Superman through the cat door to the garage, barging through again, skidding across the kitchen entangling himself up in our vertical blinds.  Then it was off through the living room; pouncing from couch to loveseat, back to couch, back to the cat tower – into my son’s bedroom.  With hardwood floors, you could hear his back claws skidding to a stop but not in enough time before knocking over all the toys – thus spooking him back into the living room.  All followed by this animated ‘meow’.  One morning, his routine remained the same; except for some reason he opted to introduce the bathroom into his regimen.  I was sitting on my couch, observing the comical behavior when he took off towards the bathroom.  Instead of coming to a screeching halt before hitting the bathtub, he hurdled the bathtub and flew face-first into the shower curtain, bringing down the entire bathroom with him.  Shower rod ripped from the walls, soaps and soap dishes crashing to the bottom of the tub and the shower curtain plummeting down and burying him.  Either from embarrassment or from being scared out of his fur, he disappeared into the garage for some counseling and momentary reflection time.

1)  “Please pass me a tissue”:  This memory comes from my fiance.  I did not witness this but I wish I could have.  My fiancé had been away for a couple of days and upon returning home, he was welcomed with open paws and miles and miles of paper towels sporadically torn apart everywhere.  The ‘chair’ was strategically placed underneath the paper-towel dispenser and the roll was empty.  Puter and his accomplice (Baby) had partied it up while ‘Dad’ was away.  Paper towels were everywhere, ripped from the perforated edges and then mutilated into tiny bits.  Under the furniture, in the sink, across the floor – little micro-bits of paper towel in every nook and cranny.  I asked my fiancé if he was pissed when he saw the mess and he said “No, how could I be?  Puter and Baby had so much fun, and it was so funny, all I could do was laugh”.

Honerable Mentions: 1) Puter’s favorite jeans – by laying a pair of men’s jeans flat on the ground, this became a group activity for all to enjoy.  My fiancé would crouch at the leg opening and I would hold open the waist.  Puter would position himself by me and anxiously await the arrival of my fiancés finger.  My fiancé would wiggle his finger by the pant leg and Puter would hoist his hinny up, shake it and bolt through the pant leg – lodging his entire 24lb frame at the bottom of the leg – with just his head poking through.  2) Paper or plastic – Every cat is a fan of bags, or at least ours was.  Any bag really, paper, plastic, duffel – it didn’t matter.  If Puter could squeeze into it, it was perfect.  However plastic grocery bags were his preference.  During one of his love affairs with a WalMart bag, Puter managed to poke his head through the handle, while leaving the rest of his body cocooned in the bag.  Upon enticing him with a kitty treat, he popped up off of the floor and came running into the kitchen with the bag in tow, wearing it like a cape.  It bothered him at first, especially since we were laughing so hard it embarrassed him, but he eventually became accustomed to his attire and preferred to wear it.  3) Casual Friday Tie – While at Target® one afternoon, my fiancé and I ventured down the kitty aisle.  We were discouraged at the overabundance of doggy toys, treats, apparel and beds, while the cat aisle had only one or two goodies that we could make good use of.  We found these ties that were just for cats.  Really?  A tie?  We’ll take 3.  We giggled all the way home and couldn’t wait to dress Puter in his new digs.  After placing the tie on him we chortled and gawked as he sat there – pouting and grimacing at us.  “Are you fricking serious?  I’m a cat! You dressed me in a tie?”  He never meowed, he never attempted to take it off, he just sat there and took the abuse like a champ.  He was a very good sport, in our efforts to entertain ourselves at his expense.

As with any owner of a pet, everyone has stories, memories, and fond moments with their little companion.  And I’m sure that my memories weren’t all that significant, after all, cats are known to do some crazy stunts.  But Puter made it very entertaining for us.  He will be greatly missed, as he was a huge part of our lives. 

We love you ‘Bubba’!

STOP SAYING THAT!!! My head hurts.

People who know me, know that I get frequent headaches.  I’m not sure why I get them so often – it could be a variety of reasons.  I did attempt to throw myself through a windshield once.  Ok well not on purpose, I wasn’t even driving.  My ex-sister in law (slash) now dear friend of mine was driving.  And it wasn’t even her fault either, but the Readers Digest condensed version of this is – we were in a car accident together and the numb-nuts Neurologist that I went to later on told me that if I didn’t put hot chili peppers (not even kidding) on my shoulder/neck that I would experience headaches the rest of my life. 

I did flip over backwards off of my neighbor’s porch too, as a child.  No, not voluntarily.   I landed on my head.  Oh!  And there was the time that I was knocked unconscious by a 6^th grader when I was ten.  At any rate, like I said, there are a variety of reasons why I get headaches.  Regardless.  It’s early – way too early for my lazy ass to be up, but I am and I cannot sleep because I was awakened at 2 am with a flippen headache.  So, naturally, I logged onto Facebook and decided that it was time to address the issue that I have. 

I cannot STAND the phrase – “I KNOW! RIGHT?” 

Did I miss something on this?  Is it the new "like" in pop-culture?  It’s amazing to me how perfectly respectable adults can revert back to pre-adolescent, hormone raging, 16 year olds when using that phrase.  I don’t know who started it, but it’s an exclamation or a sentence (depending on how you use it) AND a question – all in one.  Really?  It’s totally caught on too.  It’s everywhere. 

Me (to a friend of mine): “Oh my gosh, I love these shoes!” (OK, right there I’m kind of setting myself up for disappointment, but they were really cute shoes.)

Friend: (very excited) “I know! Right?”

Me: “Ok you just ruined the moment”

Friend (total mood change): “I know, right?”

Me: “No really, don’t say that.  It doesn’t mean anything.  Are you agreeing with me? Or are you asking me if I’m right?  Or if you’re right?  There’s no right or wrong.”

Friend: “I know, right! Because people say it all the time and I have no idea what it means but it’s so addicting!”

Me: “Then don’t say it around me -  please.  Not trying to be a bitch, but it reminds me of annoying Paris Hilton-esc ditzy girls who aren’t intelligent enough to say anything else”

Friend: “OMIGOD I know! Righ- er, totally!”

It’s everywhere!  Commercials, T.V. shows, movies, Facebook.  Where in the hell did it come from?  English teachers everywhere are having conniption fits as they hear this in their classrooms and hallways.  Or at least I would be if I were an English teacher.  Obviously I don’t stand a chance of that since my writing skills are far from par. 

Moving on.

The second phrase that I cannot stand:  “GIT-R-DONE”

Really?  Thank you Larry the Cable Guy for proving that men of your stature cannot form complete sentences.  What is that? I’ll admit.  The first sketch I saw him in that he used that phrase, I chuckled.  I didn’t fall all over myself laughing nor did I rush out and airbrush my Ford Taurus in “Git-r-done” garble like every other red-blooded American did hearing it for the first time.  But after the 4,557^th time of hearing it in a 3-hour period – it got old.

Ok, I’m off my soapbox for now.  Just wanted to throw that out there in case you ever wanted to know how to get completely under my skin.  Please don’t though.  Really. 

No Sugar Added

In a recent conversation with my sister we reminisced about our childhood.  No, this didn’t involve sappy stories about how loving we were towards each other, or about how she was my older, more sophisticated, adoring sibling – that’s another blog.  There isn’t enough time or space to write about her tormenting ways.  However, we did agree on one thing and that was the odd and downright nearly obsessive compulsive eating regimen that our mother had us on.  Let me just be clear on one thing, I love my Mom.  I love her for who she is and what she has inspired me to be.  That being said, her earlier years of motherhood and food choices were a bit questionable.

I was 6 or 7 I believe, and my sister was nearing 10 or 11, and my Mom got this bright idea that eating “organic” was going to be our new way of life.  I’m all for home-grown veggies and fruits, and for trimming the fat off of a slab of beef – but for the love of all things living, I cannot condone shunning a gallon of milk and being excited for powdered milk and carob chips.  Our pantry dissolved into this co-op of spinach noodles, powdered milk, puffed wheat cereal and a massive dehydrator that was used for our “snacks”.  Home Pride bread was replaced with homemade wheat bread and cookies and sugar snacks were a thing of the past.

I’m not sure what prompted my parents to splurge and purchase a bag of Keebler Grasshopper Cookies®, but they did.  My sister and I were elated with this new arrival of lard and chocolate all wrapped up into one yummy minty goodness and the eyes said it all. Mom immediately set ground rules for the cookies (to which I cannot recall what they were, but they were serious rules probably involving a lashing of some sorts if the cookies were touched) I’m actually surprised that she didn’t secure the pantry door with a siren alarm.  My sister, being the ridiculously mischievous little girl that she was already had a plan conjured up in her head on how we were going to enjoy the forbidden chocolate goodness.

That night my sister and I went to bed all giddy and excited that tomorrow could be the day that we get to experience all the rave that our friends were accustomed to.  Yes, we were sheltered children.  We shared a bed, except I cannot remember why because I distinctly remember having my own bed at one point.  At any rate she whispered to me “You want a cookie?”  My little ears perked up and my mouth spit out something like “We aren’t allowed and Mom will get mad and how will you get the cookie and I don’t want to get caught and Mom will get mad and ….” Before I could finish my 1^st grade thought she was gone and back with the whole package of cookies. 

We sat in our bed and ate the entire package of Grasshopper cookies.  Twenty something cookies and a major sugar – my head won’t stop spinning and why do I have diarrhea of the mouth – episode later and we were officially in a diabetic coma. 

My sister must have put the empty cookie package back in the pantry, yeah because that’s not obvious or anything; because I woke up to “Who in the BEEP ate the BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP cookies??!!!”  My sister and I jolted out of bed and immediately ran into the kitchen to investigate the cookie hijacking.  My Dad entered in as nonchalant as usual, and both my parents stared directly at my sister.  Forgetting I was an accomplice to this horrific act of betrayal I blurted out “Oooooh you’re in trouble!!”.  My Mom shot a glare at my Dad, back to my sister, over to me and off in one giant leap for mankind she was in our bedroom.  She ripped the covers down and in one regrettable moment I realized “Oooooh I’m in trouble….”  Now, as children often do when they’re busted, we both immediately started crying.  My sister was tap-dancing around trying to come up with one lame excuse after another and I followed along. 

Mom:  “What were you thinking?”

My Sister (crying and babbling):  “I don’t know”

Me: (following my sisters routine): “I don’t know”

Mom: (madder than a hen) “You ate the WHOLE PACKAGE OF COOKIES!!!”

My Sister (still crying and babbling): “I know”

Me: (sobbing at this point): “She made me do it!”

It was that little remark right there that got us both a one-way ticket to the “Choose Your Punishment” game.  I can’t remember what I chose, or what my sister chose, but I definitely remember the disappointment in my Mom’s voice when she spoke the words “I will never buy cookies again, you girls have proven to me that you can’t handle it.”  We were doomed to carob chips and dehydrated banana’s for the rest of our lives, along with the occasional uneventful trip to the local Co-Op for all natural liquorice – mmmmm.

After my parents divorced my Mom took a job with a local grocery chain doing some advertising bits.  The whole organic phase fizzled out.  However my sister and I were still somewhat deprived of sweets.  A vendor gave my Mom a box full of Ghirardelli baking chips complete with bags and bags of White Chocolate, Milk Chocolate, Peanut Butter, Dark Chocolate – anything chocolate chips.  Bags of them!  In the course of a day – yes, a day, my sister and I managed to polish off 8 bags of baking chips.  We stuffed the chair with our spoons and empty wrappers and proceeded to run around the house like striped ass monkeys on crack until Mom came home. 

Mom couldn’t figure out what we got into but she knew something was up.  I’m not sure but I think the fact that we were swinging from the ceiling fan.  It gave her a pretty big clue that our usual after school snack of cheese and tortillas was not a key factor. 

Later that night my Mom went to the cabinets to make some chocolate chip cookies and there was that oh so familiar tone – “I cannot BELIEVE you ate ALL the chocolate chips!!  How do you eat 8 BEEPING bags of chocolate chips!?” Déjà-vu all over again.  My sister started balling, I started crying and there we were tap-dancing around trying to come up with excuses as to what possessed us to be so indulgent and inhale all those chocolate chips. 

As a parent of a sugar-deprived child myself, I now know that my Mom was only trying to be more cautious of what toxins we put into our bodies.  I see that glazed over saliva forming look that my son gets when a donut enters our house.  This momentary manipulation kicks in and random shit like “Oh, I’ve never had a glazed donut before” comes out of his ingenious little mouth.  In hopes that I would say “Really? You poor thing, well who am I to stand in your way of sugar and carbs, please, enjoy all twelve of them!” 

It’s no wonder my hips are the size of Oklahoma with all the crap that I vowed I would eat as an adult because my Mom wouldn’t let me enjoy it as a child.  I actually remember telling her “Well when I’m grown up I’m going to buy all the candy bars I want!”  As if I was crushing her dreams of making me a sugar-free kid.  I’m learning how to control my Grasshopper cookie and Ghirardelli fantasies.  And in the interim, it’s good conversation for my sister and I.  I find it – therapeutic.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

Well it’s been almost a year since I started my attempts at running and, well, I’m still at the same place I was a year ago.  Although I must say, my couch appreciates my loyalty.  I struggle.  It’s my own fault really.  I’m clumsy, un-motivated at times, accident prone, and I am the queen of procrastination.  If I were to be in a “Bet You Can’t Complete That Task” competition I would so win!  I took 1^st place in not eating 6 meals a day, not following through with tracking my caloric intake, not monitoring what I eat, giving up totally when I felt sick (instead of going to the doctor) and quitting altogether.  Yep, those were my arms flailing aimlessly into a mini-tyrant followed by foot stomping and pouty lips while whining, “Why can’t I lose 10 friggen pounds!”    

Now, I am motivated and ready to go – more than I’ve ever been, but because I chose to hibernate rather than embrace the local gym, I’m back at square one – and worse off.  In December I managed to give myself whiplash and a herniated disc and I’m still paying for that little stunt.  I found out at a recent doctors visit that I’m deficient in Vitamin D (Hello! I live in Idaho!!  There’s no sun here in the flippen winter!!) Which explains the serious fatigue I had been feeling.  And then I realized through trial and tribulation that I am lactose intolerant.  So, yes, half and half and cheese is not my friend.  Fortunately for me, there is currently no shortage in powdered coffee creamer. 

So it’s back to the drawing board.  I’ll start over again and see what I’m able to accomplish.  I really don’t have much of a choice, I can keep going on this path of self-destruction and eventually burst out of my non-skinny jeans; or I can start slow and work my way up to eventually feeling somewhat accomplished as a 30+ female.  I have many family members and friends whom are entering half marathons, full marathons, boot camps and yoga sessions, and while all those things could potentially be a goal for me, I’m embarrassed to say that the only “a-thon” I’ll be contributing to this month is the “don’t fall on my ass a-thon”.  I have to convince myself, daily, that I am not those people.  I simply come from a non-athletic gene pool and I’m OK with that.  However, I need to not be a quitter and focus on the bigger picture here – I’m too broke to buy bigger pants.  So my choices have been laid out before me.  Walk off the winter-goodies that have attached themselves to my thunderous thighs, or become a regular at the local Goodwill, trading in my not-so-skinny jeans for the less fashionable “I’m 33 going on 72 polyester was so last year” pants.

I’m opting for walking.

It's All In Your Head

I think I need to be hypnotized.  I mean, there’s hypnosis centers out there that will brain wash you into thinking you don’t need cigarettes, or you can change your eating habits.  How about you just don’t shove in the whole pack of chocolate in your mouth, let’s start there.  If you can stop at 22 candy bars, then surely you can make your way down to, oh I don’t know, 10 or so a day right?  Well my issue(s) are far more dramatic than smoking or chocolate.  I have this weird thing with my neck being touched and my stomach is, quite honestly, the world’s weakest stomach. 

I’m pretty sure my stomach issues started when my older sister and I would be eating peas at dinner and when Mom wasn’t looking she would say “Psst…Sande.  Look! (Followed by a horrific display of food mutilation, she would then smash the peas with her fingers) DEAD SQUIRREL!”  It would then be at that point that what mouthful of dead squirrel guts I did have in my mouth would be impossible to swallow.  I would spit it out right there, onto my plate and my Mom would get so incredibly pissed off.  Instead of laughing and carrying on like a 5 year old should, and realize that it was mind over matter, I would take her words literally.  “Really? You mean these aren’t PEAS?!!? EWWWWWW!!!”  It’s completely uncontrollable.  Now, 28 years later, I’m still struggling with what’s real, and what isn’t.  There is nothing worse than being hungry – starving for that matter – and seeing or hearing something that even remotely references, animals, blood, guts, hair, spit, vomit or bugs. 

My fiancé keeps insisting that it is mind over matter, but it’s anything I eat.  Not just peas.  The other night I was eating a cold-cut sandwich, complete with mayo, mustard and pickles – the works and we were watching the movie Angels and Demons.  We got to the part where one of the victims was being burned alive and all that I could think of was the meat I was eating was human flesh.  What is that???  Really?  I choked down my 5^th or 6^th bite and had to throw it away. Gross!

I know what you’re thinking, “well dumbass, why don’t you NOT watch a movie while you eat”?  Well, either that or watch something less traumatic, like the Smurfs or something.    I hold my older sister, largely responsible for this.

My neck issue – well that’s just weird.  Ever since I can remember I’ve cut the necks out of my shirts.  So that could be one of two things.  One: I’m stuck in the 80’s and I’m a secret Flashdance meets Fame wannabe, or Two:  I was a witch in a past life and I was hanged.  I get this unnerving feeling that I’m suffocating and can’t breath if I even attempt a turtleneck and scarves are absolutely out of the question.  So, all of my t-shirts have to have a built-in ‘V’ neck, or out come the scissors. 

I truly think hypnotism is something I should look into.  It would be much easier if I had a problem with chocolate or donuts and it was a simple case of willpower.  Or if my fear was heights, I could just load up in a twin propjet and jump out, but I’m also not about to eat a tarantula while wearing a turtleneck to ‘face my fears’ either. 

I did do some research on the Internet of some hypnotists in the area, but quite frankly, I don’t have $200 per session (6, to be accurate) to drop.   I could use my weak stomach as motivation to lose weight as well though.  I’ve thought about turning on National Geographic right before sitting down to eat a bowl of spaghetti and viola – guess what, not hungry anymore!

I guess for now, I’ll just not watch television while eating (I know, how un-American); and I’ll probably continue to cut out my shirts.  That’s just too embarrassing to go to a hypnotist for.  I’d rather lie and say I have a chocolate problem. 

We ARE the Champions

If I were a sports columnist and I had to write an article about the 2010 Tostitos Fiesta Bowl, it would pale in comparison to the hypocritical, BSC-biased opinions of those who work for ESPN or those whom possibly offer lip-service to the BCS guru’s. In fact, it’s pretty safe to say that I am a full-blown Boise State supporter and absolutely thrive on the invalid opinions of the Kirk Herbstreits (ESPN Sports Caster) and the Gene Wojciechowskis (ESPN Sports Columnist). If I were a sports columnist and if my opinion mattered, I would absolutely have no problem slapping the cold hard facts in Mr. Herbstreits or Mr. Wojciechowskis face. See, the issue here is, these ritzy over-paid sports commentators or journalists deem it fit to ridicule legitimate sports programs like the Boise State Broncos, only because we don’t have a fancy-schmancy BCS backing behind our name.

We don’t get the recognition and non-biased opinion that we deserve based on talent and academics alone – no, instead we get compared to schools like Alabama (the BCS poster child). Well if you would like to get technical, of course we aren’t Alabama, or Florida, or USC for that matter (thank God). We never will be that ‘caliber’ as we are not given the chance to show what our program is made of. The BCS is for the ‘elite’, the ‘prime’, the ‘second to none’ - sorry, I’ll speak English – in other words, the BCS is a special club, made up by a bunch of grouchy old men who thought it would be important to categorize a select few programs such as the SEC, PAC 10, BIG EAST etc. and only allow those ball programs play for what is known as the “BCS National Championship Bowl Series”. Everyone else, in the minds of most, aren’t even worthy of a BCS Bowl because they aren’t part of “the cool kids”.

So, because we are the redheaded stepchildren, our stats and our facts don’t matter. We don’t get a “pat on the back” article; instead, we get “that was comparable to watching paint dry…”

There is an excuse for everything with these BCS lovers that are out there. It doesn’t matter that we are #1 in the Nation in Offense for points per game (that would be 44.2 in case you were wondering). It doesn’t matter that our Defense is #1 in the Nation for most interceptions (25 to be exact). While we ranked 13^th in points allowed per game and our opponent, TCU was ranked #1. We ended up winning the game, keeping TCU to just 10 points and completely shutting down their offense with 3 interceptions, one of which resulted in a ‘pick six’. Our punter was 1/1 for pass completions to our tight end as well. However, I’m not allowed to mention that because that’s known (in ESPN land) as “trickery”. Mind you, if USC were to successfully pull off a fake-punt option, that would be known as “a well thought out play call” by their coach, Pete Carrol.

All I have read, watched and listened to today is arrogant, mindless nonsense regurgitate out of the mouths of the over-paid BCS supporters in how Boise State won by “pulling out their bag of tricks” and how we got “lucky”.

The fact of the matter is Boise State and TCU were selected by the BCS to play in the 2010 Tostitos Fiesta Bowl last night. Both teams portrayed a fierce competition in the battle of defenses and while it wasn’t the 2007 Fiesta Bowl that everyone wanted to see; Boise State out-played and out-coached who could arguably be the #1 NCAA Football team in the Nation.

I’m not a columnist. I’m not a college football guru and I don’t even pretend to understand the legalities and rules outlined when it comes to the BCS. I am, however, a huge Boise State fan and I am proud of our boys! Great job Boise State!

Happy New Year

What to say, what to say. Well it’s the beginning of a New Year and I suppose I should be like any other typical human being and list out the impossible “New Years Resolutions” that people do. You know… lose weight, eat healthier, create world peace, and adopt a pet. However, as many times as I try, I am never able to stick to my New Years Resolutions. So this year I’ve decided to stick with something simple. Ready? My New Years Resolution is to “BE MORE CAREFUL”. It’s no secret that I am accident-prone, so this seems like a logical choice to make in selecting my resolution for the New Year.

The Sunday before Christmas my fiancé and I were invited up to a friends cabin for some sledding, snowmobiling and fun. Of course we will go! I had ‘never-worn before’ gear - which I had purchased two years ago for such an occasion. I am an adrenaline junkie and I love going fast, so naturally I was excited to see the massive hill that was nicely groomed just for sledding purposes. The company I was with thought it to be a good idea if we made a jump for the sleds, that way we could not only possibly break our necks, but also do it while drinking Hot Buttered Rums! So there I sat next to my friend, sipping on my 2000 calorie drink and observing the men grunt and applaud their sled-jump efforts. Video was being taken, pictures were being snapped and drunken cheers were coming from those of us who weren’t yet intoxicated enough to attempt the potential body cast that would result in one wrong landing.

Finally, my fiancé and my best friend were encouraging me to give it a shot. Oh what the hell, why not – right? I’m warm, feeling fuzzy, absolutely cannot let a bunch of boys show me up and besides, girls can do anything boys can do right? I climbed the hill, positioned my waxed - Styrofoam sled between my legs and squatted down. My new gear, as fashionable as it was, didn’t exactly allow me to perform as gracefully as I would have liked, but I managed to let my legs go and have my hiney cushion the blow onto the sled. One of the boys stayed on top of the hill to guide me in my sled steering and give me a bit of a push. And off I went, twisting, turning, snow flying everywhere, the jump is getting closer and closer – my heart is racing and without missing a beat the words just flowed out of my mouth, “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, F*CK!!!” Tttthhhhwop!!!! I hit the jump, maybe cleared about 3 inches off the ground, landed on my tooshy and watched my sled make its way down the rest of the hill without me. That’s it? That’s what I was nervous about? Shoot, get me back up there; I can do better than that! So I did, four more times, with each jump getting easier and easier and still not able to clear the amount of air that the boys were doing. But I did it! I didn’t wuss out, I proved my point, and I played the same game and accomplished a huge feat!

The rest of our day consisted of snowmobiling (in which I apparently am not equipped to do as I spent most of the time falling off the machine rather than staying on), we found a 30-ft tree that ended up being butchered until there was practically nothing left, we drank copious amounts of hot-buttered rums and we finished the day tired, sore and content.

Fast forward to the Sunday after Christmas. I spent the previous week complaining of a pinched nerve in my back, only to find out that my heroine experience on the sledding hill left me with a herniated disc and whiplash. Yes, a hospital emergency room visit, x-rays, MRI’s, 2 doses of Valium and 2 doses of painkillers later, and I am completely immobile. For the last 9 days, I have been sentenced to my recliner with no ability to move my neck, my arm or my back. I rang in the New Year with a donut pillow, muscle-relaxers, painkillers and a bruised ego.

This is the reason why I have chosen my New Years Resolution to be “more careful”. I have learned in these last 9 days, that an injury (albeit repairable) as frustrating as this is a valuable lesson. I don’t do well with being ordered around, I am not the type of person that wishes to rely on others, and I’m not a patient woman. All of these quirks have been tested and therefore it is pretty apparent that this is the only body I’m going to get. I can’t trade it in for a new one. I can’t upgrade for a newer model, and if I abuse what has been given to me, I’m responsible for the outcome. I may not be as lucky next time.

Happy New Year Everyone! I wish everyone good health and great happiness for this New Year.