This Blog Isn't Just About Kids, People.

I realize, looking back over the last few posts, that not much has been said about my two little boys, the title sponsors of this rodeo.  If you come here to read nothing but cute stories about young children, you've come to the wrong place.  This is pretty much my pet project/ventilation system/stream of consciousness, so you'll just have to deal with it, and get your kiddie info as it comes.  For "inquiring minds," I offer the following:

Sam:  Tonight, while I ate my face-charring-spicy-bowl, Sam played contently with the paper bag that it arrived in.  (He was unharmed while I consumed molten lava.)  He seemed to really dig the paper bag, so we'll revisit that toy sometime soon.  I now recall that Jack at this age always loved "non-toy toys" and, if you recall, his first taped session of ongoing belly laughter was created with the assistance of an Old Navy shopping bag.  [Editors Note:  Despite this, my requests to return to Target ALL of the stuff we gained in baby showers and use that money to buy an Xbox 360 continue to go unheard.  Alas...]  He is still suffering from on and off constipation issues, but I've saved you from "Poop-watch 2009" because my posts would have been a stream of complaints about his fussiness, and you've all heard that before.  He's such a cute baby (yes, a picture would be nice) and, when he's not eating/crying/sleeping/fussing, he's a joy to be around and lights up the room with his smile.  To quantify it, he's awesome 2/5ths of the time.  Another 2/5ths of the time, I let him live.  The remaining 1/5th, he's sleeping.  

Jack:  Still not potty-trained.  Underwear is just another fun "dress up" item.  I'm sure he thinks, "Hey look, Lightning McQueen occupies space on my rear!"  To add to the complications of life, he's now slowly dropping his nap, which means that some days, he naps (and can still rock a 2 + hour nap, yielding a bedtime around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m.) and sometimes he doesn't (yielding a battle royal and, mostly, a 7:30 to 8:00 p.m. bedtime).  He's a stellar baseball player, though, and I assure you that he'll win a batting title when he's old enough for tee ball.  He's got two tee-ball tees, and one that even shoots balls out at him which he then smacks back at me.  His fielding is still rough, but we're working on it.  Also, he's starting to get the hang of chipping golf balls in the back yard (much to my delight) but likes to steal my golf balls and then hit them toward me or the house/windows (much to my chagrin).  Don't tell him, but pretty soon, he'll get a bike with training wheels.  That should be fun, since I love to bike, too, and hope to get him into an active lifestyle (since, you know, I am the poster boy for active lifestyle).  

Jack and I are all alone this weekend, as Ashley and Sam leave for a Beth Moore (I just threw up a little in my mouth) conference with her good friend Jamie from college.  We've got some things on the calendar, but it's going to be interesting.  Thankfully, when Ashley leaves, Jack knows that he has very little rope and I have no patience for destructive frivolity, so he's generally very well behaved.  So I've got that going for me this weekend.

Konnichiwa Jalapeno?

Tonight I bought takeout because I had a late meeting and Jack needs to eat "promptly" at 6:00 or he turns into a gremlin.  

I love Japanese and so I stopped for some spicy chicken teriyaki and a set of California rolls.  As I popped open the top on my chicken, the waft of freshly grilled chicken, bathed in the mysteriously scrumptious brown sauce caught my nose.  But there was something more.  Something sinister awaited me.  I took a bite.  My lips, tongue, gums, frontal lobe, a bevy of ferrule cats and a small church in Uzbekistan caught fire, the latter two simply by coincidence.

Sure, I did order "spicy" but usually that means the addition of a few sprinkles of the red chili powder the Japanese restaurants are fond of, providing a needed "flavor boost" but by no means a torch-like effect.  No, this was radically different: A spice assault even a kamikazi of a Japanese diner would have been astonished by.  

As I ate more (starvation had a key role in my self inflicted injury), I noticed small green bits.  They were too light to be pieces of scallions.  Then it dawned on me: the cook behind the counter was not of Asian descent, but most likely of Hispanic origin.  (Not an assumption, but an observation.)  The mysterious green chunks, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, were shredded bits of jalapeno, assaulting my mouth bite after bite.  

Do they even import or grow jalapenos in Japan?  Does this constitute false advertising?  Should it be called Juan's Shogun Express or Yoshi Gonzales'?  This must be why people don't go out to eat Mexican food in Iowa: it's made by Norwegians. 

I. Am. A. Cardinals. Fan.

I cannot express my feelings right now.  Expletives are about the only thing I'm left with now.  (I'll save you the stream of four-letter filth.)  [Deep breaths and pilates.]

I watched the game in detail.  Examined every play (HD-DVR provided it).  We matched the Steelers play-for-play.  We hit them in face.  We smashed them in the mouth.  (Darnell Dockett is my hero.)  We tipped passes, we stuffed runs, we sacked "Big Ben."  We ran the ball (better than usual) we threw the ball (as usual).  Fitz made the game winning play. We lost. 

What happened?  

My only answer: We met our match.  

9-and-7 doesn't define us.  The trips the the East coast were worthless, and useless.  Painful, but worthless.  Does the NFC suck? Hardly.  We fought until half-time.  A fluke play took us into half-time down 1o, but we had the lead with two and a half minutes left.  Why? Because we come from a terrible division?  No.  Because we belong here.  Because we have all the talent of New England with less than one tenth of the f***ing East-coast attitude.  We just want to play "beat your face in" football.  And I couldn't be happier about it.  

How many counted us out?  The worst team in the Playoffs?  We're in the f***ing Super Bowl.  Suck on it.  And we made those 30 second commercials worth the millions you spent on them  bankrupt America.  

I guess the last the word is:

Dear People of the United State of America with High Definition Television: You're welcome.  We made a game of that which you said was not to be.  We took a would-be blowout and made it a nail-biter.  We took a Steelers-Vikings snore-fest and made it the game of the century.  You can give us the respect we deserve now.  If you thought the Alzheimer's patient and the Z-Street Polk band at half time were was the highlight?  You were wrong.  We came to play.  We came to WIN.  And in the next five years, WE WILL.  

I've never been a football fan.  (My wife will attest to that fact.  If it was Sunday afternoon, I was watching golf on CBS.)  Two years ago, a good (nay, dear) friend took me to the Browns-Cardinals game.   I learned to hate Browns fans (they are IDIOTS).  He bought me a #7 jersey.  (Who? Oh, him.  Maybe someday he'll be worth the draft pick we spent/wasted on him.)  Ultimately, I humbled my University of Arizona pride and traded it to my father for a Tillman jersey.  Tillman embodies not only the legacy of a fallen warrior, but also the wounded pride of Arizona Cardinal Football.  And I support it, with all my heart. 

I was a skeptical football fan.  I am now a painted-face, season- ticket-holding, tail-gateing football fan.  

I. Am. Now. A. Cardinals. Fan.  And forever will be. 

Who wants a piece of me in Fantasy Football next year?  

BRING IT.

(and, oh yeah, F U Vegas.  They didn't cover the spread.  If you bet the AZ CARDINALS, YOU WON.)

SUCK IT TRABECK.