Strong vs Weak Words ~ Part 42 ~ “And” vs “To”

Tags

editing, editing tips, Self-editing, Strong vs Weak Words, Strong Words, Try to vs. Try and, Weak Words, writers, writing, Writing Advice

I was about to fire off a post about my pet peeve when people say “try and” rather than “try to.” “Try to” carries a different meaning than “try and.” Let’s look at two examples . . .

I try and find value in Robin’s blog.

The above sentence means you find value here. You are welcome.

However, if you mean you tried but failed miserably to find any value here, the sentence should read:

I try to find value in Robin’s blog, but it is a vast wasteland of rubbish.

See the difference?

Given my recent misuse of the word “gerund,” I thought I should do my due diligence and research the “try and/try to” issue on Smarty-Pants Google.

What I found by consulting Mr. Know-It-All was a firestorm of controversy over the so-called “and vs to” grammar rule. I’m glad I didn’t trip over my panties on that one.

The rule is mushy and it is a matter of style preference. There are cases where “and” and “to” work equally as well in sentences, but “and” comes across more folksy.

Come to see me after cooking class.

Ooh, what are we making?

Come and see me after the cooking class where I use teaching as my excuse for overeating.

~~~~~

Watch to learn how I make potpie.

Yeah! Potpie! I love potpie!

Watch and learn how I make a potpie with more calories than your recommended daily allowance.

~~~~~

Exercise hard to work off your potpie induced weight gain.

Damn you. I hate exercising.

Exercise hard and work off those extra pounds caused by our caloric orgy.

Brilliant writing here? Nope. Not even close.

But I hope it makes you think about when you want to use “to” as opposed to “and.” Each has their place, but if you aren’t careful, using the wrong one changes what you are saying.

 

Spring is Springing Here

Tags

writers, writing

Spring is springing in this neck of the woods.

Robin Coyle, aka Peeping Tom.

The birds have a dance party going on in our backyard today. The robins (no, not me and my multiple personalities) are doing shots at the birdbath. Three are using the fountain as a Jacuzzi. A randy mourning dove is chasing some poor girl and he hasn’t picked up on her birdy language that she just isn’t interested. Our yard is like a bird speed-dating session with a lot of flirting, drinking, and carousing. Club Med at Spring Break doesn’t get more action than this.

The daffodil bulbs in the garden pushed tender shoots through the soil to check the weather. They liked what they found and decided to lift their frilly yellow petticoats over their heads. After last week’s frost, a few of the less hardy plants in the garden understand what George Costanza meant by “shrinkage.” But in today’s warm sun, they are raising their plant-y faces to the sky and singing, “I Will Survive.”

All ready for the Easter parade.

The trees are celebrating this glorious spring day by wearing their pink bonnets while bees hum a summer tune in their ear. I love this time of year where the days get longer, the nights get stronger than moonshine. Oh wait . . . I can’t use that. Those are the lyrics to “Ventura Highway.” But I do love the longer days and not looking at my watch at 5:30 to see if it is time for bed.

This all makes me a tad nervous though. It is only the end of February and Mr. Winter might just be on a cigarette break. But in the mean time, I think I shall go dig in the garden and look for worms. Hey, I’m a Robin. It is my job.

Bad Manners

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Bad Manner Pet Peeves, Bad Manners, writers, writing

Let’s talk about manners. Specifically, bad manners.  More specifically, bad manners that make me peevish.

We all know to say “please” and “thank you.” Those good manner policies have been around since Eve asked, “May I please have an apple?” When Adam handed Eve the apple, she said, “Thank you, my fig leaf-festooned friend.” To which Adam said, “You are welcome, darling Eve, but I think you better start packing your bags.

What are some of your bad manner pet peeves?

Do you see any cell phones here? Of course not! Well, maybe the guys on the stairs are texting. Hard to tell.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Here’s one of mine . . . people talking on their cell phone while they pay for their groceries. It is disrespectful to the clerk who feels invisible, and rude to the folks who are forced to listen to the inane phone conversation.

While we are on the subject of the grocery store, where I spend most of my waking hours, why do people leave their carts in the middle of the aisle and make passage impossible? Their carts must come with blinders and earplugs because they don’t seem to notice my discreet, “Ahem. Move it, lady.”

If I have a full cart of groceries and the person in line behind me is buying a pack of gum, I let them go ahead of me. Why do they rarely say thank you?

Back to cell phones. Sure, we all need to use our cell phone in public places, but why is it some people feel the need to talk on their phone so all the world can hear what they are saying? What about cell phone use in restaurants? Public Restrooms (ew)? What about those nearly invisible Bluetooth dealies? More than once I’ve thought someone was speaking to me only to discover they were on the phone with Aunt Mabel.

Or, how about when you break your neck to arrive on time for an appointment with a doctor, lawyer, or Indian Chief and are informed he/she is running an hour behind schedule. Couldn’t they call to let you know you had an extra hour to read blogs?

Don’t get me started on thank you notes. Too late. Our niece was married in November. I purchased a lovely gift and had it sent to her house. To this day, I have no idea if it arrived. Sure I can ask her about it, but why no acknowledgement? Not a Tweet, Facebook comment, email, text, note, phone call, carrier pigeon  . . . na da. Not that it really matters, but the dang gift was expensive.

I always stop to let people cross in front of my car while driving in a parking lot. Always. Most people don’t look up, wave thanks, or nod their head. When someone stops for me, I acknowledge their kindness for not running over me.

Why is it some people think it is hunky-dory to let precious Fido poop on your lawn and leave it for you to deal with?

My husband is a big guy. When we travel by plane, it never fails that the person in front of him reclines their seat, thereby ruining our vacation because my husband’s kneecaps are broken. Sure, the seat is designed to recline, but it doesn’t mean you are required to hurt the person behind you.

I sound like Andy Rooney here so I’ll stop. Let me put a twist on bad manners so they are good manners.

Hang up the damn phone.

Call when you are running late.

Make room for people.

Acknowledge kindness of any kind.

Don’t let your dog ruin someone’s green pastures.

Oh, and hang up the damn phone.

 

I’ll save bad table manners for another post.

What’s on your good/bad manner list?

Strong vs Weak Words ~ Part 41 ~ Word Endings

Tags

editing tips, Self-editing, Strong vs Weak Words, Strong Words, Weak Words Editing Advice, writers, writing

We’ve talked about words that have cancerous growths on either end. The good news is, dear writers, the growths are operable. What words, you ask? Here are a few.

Irregardless

Orientated

Preventative

Combatative

Argumentative

Exploitative

You get the idea.

But there are some Mr. and Mrs. Webster approved words that don’t need to be . . . well, so wordy.

I challenge you to look at your words that end with –ical, -ity, -ize, and –ive.

Let’s try some on for size.

Robin is a wiz at doing mathematical problems in her head.

Not the last time we split our lunch bill.

Robin can’t do math, even with a calculator, abacus, or on all her finger and toes.

~~~~~

Is there any potentiality Robin will be Freshly Pressed again?

Nope.

Is there any potential Robin will be banned from Word Press?

~~~~~

Robin utilizes her blog as a place to educate, enlighten, and amuse.

Oh, please.

Robin uses her blog to blather on about inane subjects.

~~~~~

Robin gave me a definitive answer when I asked her to be a guest on my blog. She said, “NO.”

She is funny that way.

I gave Robin a definite answer when she asked me to read her book. I said, “No way, Jose.”

As we’ve heard before, don’t use a big word when a diminutive word will do. Make that, don’t use a big word when a small word will do.

Love, Las Vegas Style

Tags

Valentine's Day, writers, writing

No one ever accused Las Vegas of being politically correct.

Let’s take the kids to “Sin City,” hon! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember the short-lived campaign promoting Vegas as a kid-friendly destination? Yes, bring the kiddies to a God-forsaken flat place in the desert where gambling is legal!  (I was under the misguided understanding that prostitution was legal too, but I stand corrected. Sorry Las Vegas locals. ) The casino moguls built video arcades, staged swashbuckling pirate shows, and installed elaborate pools where little Johnny could get an eyeful of fake bazooms. Big Johnny enjoyed that too.

Why travel to Paris, New York, or Venice when you can visit all three dream-vacation spots in one day? And lose your shirt at the roulette table, take in an all-nude male revue, and wonder if you can sneak little Johnny into the all-you-can-eat buffet?

The kid-friendly campaign was replaced with “What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas.” Oh, and it is best to leave the kids home.

The debate over gun control hasn’t phased Las Vegas. Nope. They embrace the discussion and say, “Heck, let’s use it as a promotional tool.”

I know I am late in sharing this wealth of armed and dangerous Valentine’s Day celebration ideas for this year, but you can plan your trip with your one true love for next year.

Where else but Las Vegas can you go to a shooting range and partake in a “take a shot at love” package for Valentine’s Day? The special offer includes 50 submachine gun rounds. At another range, loving bride and groom couples can pose with an ammunition belt and Uzi. Brings a whole new meaning to “shotgun wedding,” doesn’t it? And a third (good lord, how many shooting ranges does Las Vegas have?) offers hopeless romantics the chance to renew their vows by the “Pistol Packing Preacher” and shoot a paper zombie in the face. Ain’t love grand?

These tempting wedding/vow renewal offers aren’t limited to Valentine’s Day. The shooting ranges will take your money any day in exchange for a chance to pose with your blushing bride while you hold an AK-47.

Or, if love isn’t in the air for you, you can shoot a fully automatic weapon at your ex-wife’s photograph. Nice.

Let’s not get into a heated debate about gun control here. Let’s just stand back, scratch our heads, and say in unison, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

Related articles

• As others pull back, Vegas amps up gun promotions (sacbee.com)

Valentine’s Day Traditions

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Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Beer Contest, writers, writing

Aren’t holiday traditions grand?

Like leaving Christmas cookies out for Santa, and carrots for his reindeer on Christmas Eve. Santa always stops at the Coyle house because we also leave him a shot of Jack to warm his cockles, whatever those are.

Or dying two dozen Easter Eggs, staging an Easter Egg hunt in the backyard, and recovering only 23 eggs.

Then there is always the bewitching evening of carving Halloween pumpkins at the kitchen table and my annual fear of having to make a trip to the emergency room to reattach a severed finger or two.

Around Chez Coyle, Valentine’s Day is also rich in tradition. Ever since our three girls could say “Balentime’s Day,” my husband would get up before anyone was stirring and put together a breakfast extravaganza. The family party included heart-shaped pancakes, flowers and balloons at every place at the table, the candles lit, See’s candy, and a book. The books were always a classic. I love that man for good reason.

When our oldest daughter went off to college, she said in a wistful voice with a far-off look in her eye, “You know what I’m going to miss most about home?”

My mind raced through a myriad of possibilities.

1. My warm embrace.
2. Sleeping in her own bed in her room that looks more like a war zone than an inhabitable space.
3. My home cooked meals.
4. Gas money.
5. Being grounded for two weeks after going to a beer bash.

Nope . . . none of the above. She said (cue far-off look), “Dad’s Valentine’s Day breakfasts.”

Now that the girls are scattered in three different states and because heart-shaped pancakes don’t ship well, my husband sends them a mini-celebration that always includes See’s chocolate hearts and cash.

Last year he started a new Coyle Valentine’s tradition. In addition to candy and money, he issued a challenge.

“Cool beer in cool places . . . take some of this money, buy an interesting beer, and take a photo of yourself drinking the beer in a cool place.  Submit your photographs and I will judge the competition.”

My husband is the only guy I know who can take the day to celebrate love and romance and turn it into a cutthroat competition.

What do the girls make of this? They are all over it. The deadline to enter the contest is next weekend and I’ll post the photos once the battle is over.

I thought you might like to see last year’s entries.

Daughter One: On stage at a comedy club in Los Angeles. No, she isn’t a stand-up comedian but was dating one at the time.

Daughter Two: Snowboarding in Vail. Yes, she is a snowboarder.

Daughter Three: Fishing the Snake River in Boise. Yes, she is an angler. And beer brewer.

Husband: Striking a goofy pose in the backyard of Chez Coyle.

Happy Valentine’s Day folks!

Five Seconds of Fame Costs Twelve Hours of Waiting

Tags

writers, writing

I watched President Obama’s State of the Union speech tonight. Don’t worry; I’m not going to get all political on you. I said I watched it, I didn’t say I listened.

Michelle went for the no sleeve thing. Note to self: Go to gym. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I watched to see what everyone was wearing. Some people watch the Grammy Awards for the fashions. I watch the State of the Union. How else would I know that lilac, periwinkle, and Pepto Bismol ties are all the rage? For women, sleeves, or no sleeves? If you are Michelle, sleeves be gone! Or should we wear polyester pantsuits with a jaunty bow at the neck to hide the ravages of time?

No, this post isn’t about the fashions either. It is about something I learned today.

You know those guys and gals who are on the aisle and meet and greet the president as he makes his way down to the podium? They aren’t the inner circle. They aren’t the favorite children and next generation of leaders of our great country. They aren’t the next best thing since chocolate martinis.

Those enviable people are on the aisle because they had nothing better to do than save that seat for up to 12 hours before the speech. I kid you not. And, they can’t place their napkin on the seat, put a note on it that says, “saved,” or have an unpaid intern sit there. If you want to have 5 seconds of fame on TV while you shake the hand of the president as he comes down the aisle, your sorry ass has to save the seat.

My first question when I heard about this was, “Can they go to the bathroom during that 12 hour wait?”

Marco Rubio (R) didn’t drink water for 12 hours while he was saving his seat on the aisle. He was obviously dehydrated, hence the big drink of water during his rebuttal after the speech. Give the guy a break. (I have no idea if he was on the aisle or not, but he was thirsty.)

 

 

Me, an Adoring Daughter

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parenting our parents, writers, writing

Dad and his adorning idiotic daughter, me.

As many of you kind readers might recall, my dad fell ill in September and spent the past 5 months in ether the ICU, hospital, or nursing home. At the same time, I learned my dad hid the extent of my mom’s mental deterioration due to Alzheimer’s. I put life on hold while I attended to their health and affairs.

The good news is Dad is much improved. The bad news is Mom and Dad moved back home and Dad wants to take care of Mom on his own. Brilliant idea. But he is a stubborn coot and there was no talking him out of it.

We are all friends here, right? If I pour us a nice glass of wine for you, can I whine, whine, whine on your shoulder about something?

It is a strange when, at the ripe old age of fifty shades gray and mildew, you realize your parents don’t give a rip about you. Not strange, I guess. It is more like knife-through-the-heart hurtful.

What caused this revelation, epiphany, come-to-Jesus moment that helped me understand they don’t give a damn about me?

Here is a Reader’s Digest version of what happened today.

Ring. Ring.

Me: Hi Dad. How ya doin’?

Dad: I’m okay. I’m throwing a 67th anniversary party for me and your mother on the 5^th. Can you come?

Me: No, Dad. I’m so sorry. I am out of town on the 5^th. But I love you to the moon and beyond!

Dad: Whatever. Talk to you later.

Two hours later . . .

Ring. Ring.

Me: Hey Dad . . . everything okay?

Dad: No. Something terrible has happened. Your sister Kathy can’t get off work on the 5^th so I changed the date of the anniversary party to the 9^th. Can you come?

What the heck? I can’t make the party on the 5^th . . . no big deal. Kathy can’t make the party on the 5^th . . . let’s change the date!

That is when I had a talk with myself and decided I am either a (Pick one):

a)    Slow learner

b)   Cock-eyed optimist

c)    Dingbat

d)   All of the above

Your votes will be tabulated and I will report the results in a future blog post. However, none of you will see the post because you will unfollow me after reading this episode of indulgent wallowing in self-pity.

My next “I am an idiot” moment came later today.

While dad was in the various institutions recovering from every illness known to man, I cleaned their house from top to bottom to left to right. Oh boy, did it need it. I am ready to run a marathon after all the trips I made up and down the stairs with garbage and stuff for Goodwill. The washing machine may never recover and a dermatologist is treating my dishpan hands.

Call three from Dad today:

Ring Ring.

Me: Okay, Dad. Now something must really be wrong.

Dad: Yes. I don’t know if I should thank you or be mad at you.

Me: Why, daddy-o mine?

Dad: Because of all your cleaning, I can’t find my golf shirt.

Me: You have 50 freaking golf shirts!

Dad: I know, but I can’t find the golf shirt with the big stain on the front, the hole on the sleeve, and a frayed collar that curls up around my ears in a beguiling manner. You know, the one that smells bad?

I spent 2,457 hours cleaning their house, put my life on hold, and spent thousands on travel expenses to be at his and Mom’s side, and he doesn’t know if he should be mad at me or thank me?

I give up.

Thanks for listening. Would you like some more whine wine?

Snapchat Chatter

Tags

Snapchat, writers, writing

Have you heard about the latest social media outlet called Snapchat? Maybe it isn’t all that new and I am behind the times, as usual.

With Snapchat, you can send a photo to your closest 1,000 friends and the image self-destructs within seconds after it is opened. I haven’t seen Snapchat in action so I consider myself an expert on the subject. Or at least I pretend to be one.

From an article in today’s paper, “Snapchat is being embraced as an antidote to a world where nearly every celebration and life moment is captured to be shared, logged, liked, commented on, stored, searched, and sold. For people who don’t want to worry about unflattering pictures or embarrassing status updates coming back to haunt them, the app’s appeal is obvious.”

I should know. The photo of me with a lampshade on my head at LouAnn’s virtual New Year’s Eve party has gone viral.

One of Snapchat’s founders, at the wise old age of 22, said, “It became clear how awful social media is. There is real value in sharing moments that don’t live forever.” Peter Deng with Facebook’s copycat of Snapchat called Poke adds, “People want something that is more lightweight than a message and less permanent.”

Come again?

Robin winning at Beer Pong, again. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I look at it this way. A High School girl can now sext racy pictures of herself to her English teacher and the poor guy doesn’t have to worry about a jail sentence. The photos of Susie are zapped from the face of the digital earth. College frat boys can capture and send images of their drunken debauchery around the world and future employers will never know they hold their state championship title in Beer Pong. Cougars now have a way to seduce the pool boy via provocative facelift and boob job photos and their husbands will be none the wiser.

Anthony Weiner probably wishes Snapchat was around when he felt duty-bound to send sexually suggestive photos of himself to young women. He might still be in office.

This quote from a Shapchat investor has me scratching my head. “People are looking to communicate in a real way. The real self as opposed to the projected self.” Huh? How does Snapchat work this miracle?

If you are really on your game when someone sends you a Snapchat photo, you can capture a screenshot of the image before it goes into oblivion.  When a screenshot of your photo is taken, you are alerted that the picture of you wearing ladies underwear was captured for all time. Snapchat calls this a “feature,” or added value of the service. You can’t do anything about it, but you will know you need to line up a lawyer well in advance of being a victim of extortion. Phew. Thank you benevolent Snapshot for this service to mankind with a thing for lace bras and panties.

My question is this . . . If you are sending a photo you want destroyed, for whatever reason, why take the photo in the first place?

 

Managing Female Employees The Right Way

Tags

writers, writing

We’ve come a long way, baby. When I say we, I mean you, men.

Transportation Magazine published an article in 1943 titled “Eleven Tips on Getting More Efficiency Out of Women Employees.”

The throes of WWII caused a shortage of males and companies needed to backfill their work force with the dreaded female of the species. Some Neanderthal wrote the article in the Dark Ages. I know, I know . . . Neanderthals didn’t live in the Dark Ages.

I canceled my subscription to the magazine after I read the article.

In short, the ever-so-helpful advice on how to manage female employees is thusly:

Pick young married women. They are less flirtatious and still have the pep and energy to work hard.

When you have to use older women, hire ones who have worked outside the home. Older women who haven’t been in contact with the public are inclined to be cantankerous and fussy.

“Husky” girls – those who are on the heavy side – are more even-tempered and efficient than their underweight sisters.

Retain a doctor to give women “special” examinations to reveal whether the employee-to-be has any female weaknesses that would make her physically or mentally unfit for the job.

In breaking in women who haven’t done outside work, stress the importance of time. Until this point is made, service will be slowed up.

Give female employees a definite schedule of duties for the day so they will keep busy without bothering management every few minutes. Women make excellent workers when the job is spelled out for them, but lack initiative in finding work themselves.

When possible, let the female employee change from one job to another during the day. Women are inclined to be nervous and are happy with change.

Give every girl adequate rest periods during the day. She will have more confidence and consequently be more efficient if she has time to tidy her hair, freshen her lipstick, and wash her hands several times a day.

Be tactful in issuing instructions or criticisms. Women can’t shrug off harsh words like men do. Never ridicule. It breaks their spirit and makes them less efficient.

Be considerate about using strong language around women. Their husbands and fathers may swear vociferously, but she will dislike the company if she hears too much of this.

Get enough size variety when ordering uniforms. This can’t be stressed enough in keeping women happy.

Are you freaking kidding me?  I didn’t make this up. Head over to Snopes to check it out.

Since I haven’t had time to tidy my hair, freshen my lipstick, and wash my hands several times today, I feel cantankerous and fussy. I’d like to sic Rosie the Riveter on the numbskull who wrote the article.

Fast forward to 1951, IBM, that bastion of women’s lib, the right to vote, and bra burning, issued this memo:

The forward-thinking execs at IBM had the sense to make it a “temporary modification” to their employment policies. Yeah . . . married women on the staff might not work out and IBM was smart to give themselves the opportunity to renege.

Good Grammar Makes You Sexy

Tags

Grammar, writers, writing

Heads up to all my single friends out there. Want to find your soul mate in time for Valentine’s Day? Not sure how to be a babe- or bro-magnet? No need to head to the gym to sculpt your abs. Never mind surfing singles bars or Internet dating sites under an assumed name. Big wasters of timers.

Here is the only thing you need to do. You can thank me later . . .

Take a grammar class. And yes, members of the opposite (or same, if you prefer) sex will flock to your doorstep. I kid you not.

A survey commissioned by Match.com showed that 55% of men and 69% of women judge a potential love-bug on their grammar. You can read the article if you don’t believe me.

After you take that grammar class, you might want to stop by the dentist for teeth whitening, braces, or dentures. The most important factor in the evaluation of a future baby-making partner is their teeth . . . 58% of men and 71% of women love them pearly-whites.

Good grammar and good teeth. Maybe they surveyed only dentists and writers. Or dentists who want to be writers. Or writers who want to be dentists.

I have my share of grammar pet peeves (here and here) and irregardless of what you might think, I am not a grammar snob. (I used “irregardless” here to see how many of you scream. There, their, they’re. I won’t do it again.)

Here is a sign of the times . . . 9% of men and 10% of women judge a prospective bedfellow by the electronic device they carry. Oh please. Really? Character, smoking-hot body, and whether they call their mother on Sunday matter not.  Whip an iPad Mini out of your pocket and the world is your oyster.

Remember Sunday’s Super Bowl ad for Go Daddy where the geek scores with the sexy chickadee? It was because he had a beta version of the iPhone 6 in his pants. I can hear all my male readers saying, “Whoa. Where can I get one of those?”

Strong vs Weak Words ~ Part 40 ~ Take the “Ing” out of “Boring”

Tags

Strong vs Weak Words, Strong Words, Weak Words, writers, writing

And here you all thought my Strong vs Weak Words bag o’tricks was empty. I hate to disappoint, but you are wrong-o!

Today’s fun lesson is all about “ing.” Whoopee!

Think “Ing” = “Boring”

I won’t get all technical on you about the finer points of “ing” words and their role in prose. I don’t do technical . . . I do farcical.

In a nutshell, I am talking about words with “ing” tacked on the end. Sure, these words have their time, place, and two tickets to paradise in writing, but sometimes they make a sentence all mushy inside.

Will a few examples help?

My job as a blogger is to be entertaining and enlightening.

Job well done, Robin!

My job as a blogger is to entertain and enlighten my minions.

~~~~~

I am sharing words of wisdom every day.

Bah!

I share foolish words every day except on Mondays.

~~~~~

I am managing to keep up with Robin’s blog even though she never comments on mine.

Mine either!

I manage to avoid Robin’s blog at all costs. 

~~~~~

Like the next best thing since Strunk and White, Robin sits at her computer offering bloggers writing advice

How annoying.

Robin offers writing advice like she knows a dangling participle from a spit infinitive.

~~~~~

Robin found it embarrassing when WordPress banned her for life.

Thank GAWD.

WordPress embarrassed Robin when they shut down her blog.

If you are searching for unneeded “ing” words in your work, let me know what you are finding. I mean . . . Let me know what you find if you search your work for unneeded “ing” words.

~~~~~

Don’t forget the entire Strong vs Weak Word series can be found under the cleverly named “Strong vs Weak Words” link on the left sidebar.

Super Bowl Rioting Fun For All!

Tags

Humor, Super Bowl Rioting, Super Bowl XVI, writers, writing

It is an age-old, time-honored tradition. Your team wins the Super Bowl, World Series, or Stanley Cup. Or, Athletic Cup. Or, your 6-year-old daughter’s soccer team wins their first game.

What’s next up on the agenda? Why, rioting and looting, of course!

The Super Bowl is upon us. Note to Police Departments in San Francisco and Baltimore . . . dust off the riot gear.

Years ago, when the San Francisco 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals in Super Bowl XVI (that is 16 for you non-Romans), my husband and I lived 20-ish miles from downtown San Francisco. We watched the game on TV and after the heart-stopping win we hopped in the car to celebrate the victory with our fellow crazies Niner fans.

There was dancing in the streets, one air horn per male, and joy and jubilation throwing up spilling out of every bar. San Francisco knows how to party.

The frenzied fans shouted, “We won! We won! Now let’s turn over a city bus!”

And they did.

I kid you not. My husband and I took one look at each other and, as my mother would say, with head up and tail up like a bedbug going to war, got the hell out of there.

The news reports were embarrassing. If my timeworn brain remembers correctly, cars were set on fire, storefronts were vandalized, and the drunk-tank had a waiting list.

I don’t understand it.

My idea of a celebration is popping open a bottle of champagne and having my husband drink Moet out of my shoe, not wracking a police officer over the head with said stiletto.

My husband and I have close ties to the 49ers of old.

~ My husband played under Coach Bill Walsh (stop giggling, you know what I mean) at Stanford.

~ Ronnie Lott’s uncle lived across the street from us.

~ Ray Wersching, the 49ers famed kicker, became an insurance agent after retiring from the NFL. He sold my husband’s company insurance until he was charged with four felonies for embezzling millions of dollars. Ray, not my husband. The charges against Ray were dismissed, but his business partner was sent to prison. Ol’ Ray is now a CPA. Charges dismissed or not, imagine hiring him to do you taxes.

~ We are proud owners of a regulation football signed by the 49er team that beat the Bengals. Too bad you can’t read any of the signatures, otherwise we could retire.

~ One last way we are best friends with the 49ers . . . my girlfriend once saw Jennifer Montana (Joe’s beautiful wife) at a shopping mall.

Don’t get me wrong here. I am not a football fan. I don’t hate it; I just don’t like it. However, I do watch the Super Bowl. I look at it this way  . . . why read a whole book when you can read the last chapter to find out what happens? Why watch hours of grown men banging into each other, game after game. And they wonder why their head hurts?

I am one of those annoying women who talk during the game, walk in front of the TV on the way to refill the guacamole bowl, and look at my guests funny as they work their way through a keg of beer.

Sorry, football fans.

And yes . . . I watch the game for the commercials. You knew that was coming.

That is one super bowl! (Photo credit: sinosplice)

Click here for my famous bean dip recipe to put in your super bowl. Go Niners!