This past Sunday was probably the most low-key football Sunday ever. Probably because I was feeling pretty low -- with a stomach virus. Welcome to back-to-school time. When whatever germ is rolling around the classroom will be coming to your home soon.
Man! I spent Saturday in bed, feeling pretty much like who-did-it-and-ran. And the one thing about being too sick to move is, you end up watching commercials because you just can't be bothered changing the channel. One commercial started to stand out. It was for an insurance company, and I must have seen it five times--two guys on a roof with a rope tying them together. The one guy apparently needs to repair the siding, I'm guessing, and he's going to rappel down the side of the house while the weight of the other guy keeps him from plunging to the ground. He jumps, they both go flying off the roof, and one guy does a swan dive into a tree.
By the third time I saw it, I was thinking, "The one guy really looks like he's going into the tree." On the fourth viewing, I'm waiting to see him go into the tree again, thinking, "Is he REALLY going into the tree, or is he going behind it?" On the fifth viewing, I'm thinking, "Did they use dummies or CGI to make it look like the guy really went into the tree? Because it REALLY looks like he went into the tree."
And this is what happens when you're sick to your stomach. Your head aches, your back aches. Of course your stomach aches. The fever kicks in and then -- you get crazy thoughts going in your head about the making of insurance company commercials.
Normally, I never even watch TV before 9 p.m. And what I DO watch is TiVo'd, so I skip the commercials. Therefore, I submit the following theorem: A stomach virus was planted in our school district by the New York ad industry in a dastardly plot to get everyone so sick all they can do is mindlessly watch TV, and NOT change channels. (But seriously, it looked like a REAL GUY flying into a tree.)
So, Sunday afternoon, I was feeling a bit better, and I decided to take Cara to the high school track -- so SHE could run and get in shape for soccer. Nothing like pushing somebody else to exercise. I felt like a head coach. She gave me three laps and announced that it was too hot (is 86 degrees too hot -- when you're a kid!) and too muggy (I kind of thought it was residual illness that was making my breathing labored) to go any further. I told her to walk a lap to bring down her heart rate safely. She circled the team bench and crabbed, "Let's go!" Which led to my big lecture about health, exercise, and cooling down properly. To which she replied, "Turn up the air conditioning!"
Ryan, meanwhile had been at a buddy's house. I called the friend's house to say Cara would be coming over to walk him back home. The dad said he was about to take them all to a park to play soccer--and Cara was welcome. "I'll go!," she says. Enthusiastically! Huh!? She runs to their house but was back in five minutes, with Ryan.
"It's too gross out there to play soccer," he crabs.
"Can you believe him!? He doesn't want to play. You're crazy," Cara says to him, and takes off.
Cut to me, slackjawed, "...And I thought the insurance company musings were crazy."
...Week two...done!
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Back In The Saddle Again
Well, you know NFL football season is upon us because I'm looking for fun things to do with the kids while the games are played for about 67 consecutive hours every weekend.
But, most interestingly -- as I found out this week -- the NFL and DirecTV offer a special package where viewers can watch a whole game in 20 minutes. It's just the plays--no color commentary, no sideline reactions, no huddles, NO COMMERCIALS. And the game boils down to 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES!!
Only men could dream up a way of turning a 20-minute game into a three-hour odyssey that somehow becomes a national pasttime involving enormous beer consumption, which leads to an endless barrage of beer commercials featuring lusty, scantily clad size-4 models who will run their fingers over the heads of leering jerks, pathetic dorks and bald, fat men in checkered shirts IF they're downing the right suds. Ah, but ain't that America?
Meanwhile, I spent Sunday doing that all-American thing with the kids--attending a food festival. In this case, an Italian food festival in Hoboken, NJ. ...In Frank Sinatra Park, baby.
I mistakenly parked farther away from the park than was necessary, so we ended up cutting through Stevens Institute of Technology, which, VERY surprisingly, has a really beautiful campus with fantastic views of Manhattan and the surrounding towns. I mean, you're walking through an urban neighborhood, and then you're surrounded by rolling green hills, Adirondack chairs, ivy-covered buildings. So we were strolling, and Cara and I were talking when Ryan, who pretty much keeps a running commentary going, became more insistent with whatever he was saying until we finally tuned in to hear him saying, "LOOK, a GROUNDHOG, a GROUNDHOG!" Sure enough, a chubby little groundhog was snuffling around not five feet from us. A groundhog lives in Hoboken. And he wasn't like a country groundhog, scampering off as soon as we came near. He was a city animal. We looked at him, he looked at us. He ran his paw over his head and said, "Yo, how YOU doin'?" Okay, that part I made up. But he DID hock a loogie and light up a Marlboro.
Anyway, we found the park, which is situated right next to the Hudson. What a setting. Sinatra would have loved it--the Hudson River at your feet, Manhattan in the background, sailboats gliding back and forth--and the smell of sausage & peppers and zeppoles in the air. Of course, Ryan got edgy with his food choice and went with pizza. Cara got a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich --which is a great choice when you have braces--from the Michael's Salumeria stand. We know the owner so he also gave the kids free gelato. Ryan said he was too full to eat the gelato, so he let me have it. Until two seconds later, when he realized what he'd done, yelled that he was still hungry and took the whole thing back.
We watched grape stomping, listened to music, and the kids played some arcade games. Ryan could not BELIEVE he didn't win a prize at either of the games he played. I tried to explain the phrase, "That's how they get ya," but that only made it worse.
Since we'd been festivaling for a few hours at that point, I decided to pull the plug on the day. I got some "butterfly fries," french fries that look like long ribbons, for the walk back to the car. As we noshed on fries, Ryan scared me by almost getting hit by a driver who ignored the police barricades and drove at regular speed among about 100 pedestrians. We noshed some more, and then Ryan made a wild dash for an eight-inch opening in the railing that keeps kids like him out of the Hudson. We walked and noshed some more, and then Cara twisted her ankle on the edge of the sidewalk. Feeling nauseous from the combo of fries, near misses and whining, I chucked the fries and decided to settle my stomach with some Starbucks. Which, of course, didn't work because that stuff could chew through steel cables.
Man, I can't wait for next Sunday!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
But, most interestingly -- as I found out this week -- the NFL and DirecTV offer a special package where viewers can watch a whole game in 20 minutes. It's just the plays--no color commentary, no sideline reactions, no huddles, NO COMMERCIALS. And the game boils down to 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES!!
Only men could dream up a way of turning a 20-minute game into a three-hour odyssey that somehow becomes a national pasttime involving enormous beer consumption, which leads to an endless barrage of beer commercials featuring lusty, scantily clad size-4 models who will run their fingers over the heads of leering jerks, pathetic dorks and bald, fat men in checkered shirts IF they're downing the right suds. Ah, but ain't that America?
Meanwhile, I spent Sunday doing that all-American thing with the kids--attending a food festival. In this case, an Italian food festival in Hoboken, NJ. ...In Frank Sinatra Park, baby.
I mistakenly parked farther away from the park than was necessary, so we ended up cutting through Stevens Institute of Technology, which, VERY surprisingly, has a really beautiful campus with fantastic views of Manhattan and the surrounding towns. I mean, you're walking through an urban neighborhood, and then you're surrounded by rolling green hills, Adirondack chairs, ivy-covered buildings. So we were strolling, and Cara and I were talking when Ryan, who pretty much keeps a running commentary going, became more insistent with whatever he was saying until we finally tuned in to hear him saying, "LOOK, a GROUNDHOG, a GROUNDHOG!" Sure enough, a chubby little groundhog was snuffling around not five feet from us. A groundhog lives in Hoboken. And he wasn't like a country groundhog, scampering off as soon as we came near. He was a city animal. We looked at him, he looked at us. He ran his paw over his head and said, "Yo, how YOU doin'?" Okay, that part I made up. But he DID hock a loogie and light up a Marlboro.
Anyway, we found the park, which is situated right next to the Hudson. What a setting. Sinatra would have loved it--the Hudson River at your feet, Manhattan in the background, sailboats gliding back and forth--and the smell of sausage & peppers and zeppoles in the air. Of course, Ryan got edgy with his food choice and went with pizza. Cara got a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich --which is a great choice when you have braces--from the Michael's Salumeria stand. We know the owner so he also gave the kids free gelato. Ryan said he was too full to eat the gelato, so he let me have it. Until two seconds later, when he realized what he'd done, yelled that he was still hungry and took the whole thing back.
We watched grape stomping, listened to music, and the kids played some arcade games. Ryan could not BELIEVE he didn't win a prize at either of the games he played. I tried to explain the phrase, "That's how they get ya," but that only made it worse.
Since we'd been festivaling for a few hours at that point, I decided to pull the plug on the day. I got some "butterfly fries," french fries that look like long ribbons, for the walk back to the car. As we noshed on fries, Ryan scared me by almost getting hit by a driver who ignored the police barricades and drove at regular speed among about 100 pedestrians. We noshed some more, and then Ryan made a wild dash for an eight-inch opening in the railing that keeps kids like him out of the Hudson. We walked and noshed some more, and then Cara twisted her ankle on the edge of the sidewalk. Feeling nauseous from the combo of fries, near misses and whining, I chucked the fries and decided to settle my stomach with some Starbucks. Which, of course, didn't work because that stuff could chew through steel cables.
Man, I can't wait for next Sunday!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
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