Thwwoooooonk.

It sounds like a busy harbor here at Smoot Central. Little Smoot and I have been under the weather, so when we breathe we make sounds normally only associated with the shipping industry. My nose sounds a lot like a foghorn. I'm surprised I haven't had seagulls landing on my forehead yet.

Little Smoot will sit there watching TV and she'll start sniffling like crazy, and that drives me nuts. I'll tell her to go use a Kleenex and take care of it before I go absolutely bonkers listening to it. But at the same time, it's a wonder that I can hear her sniffling over the nasty noises I'm creating with my own personal nasal passages.

Let's just hope that Little Smoot doesn't eventually recognize the hypocrisy I'm creating by getting mad at her for sniffling while I'm sitting there sounding like the All Star Snot Band on my own.

When I get a cold like this, my body likes to hold onto it for unusual periods of time. But at least I'll eventually probably get over it. Mrs. Smoot has had a nagging cough since before Thanksgiving. I can always tell when she's getting up in the morning because it sounds like she's trying to extract a lung through some extraordinarily painful sounding process.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: bah.

Mmmm. Velveeta.

Is there any meal in existence that can't be enhanced by the presence of Velveeta cheese? I think not.

I often wonder what our founding fathers did when they first arrived in this great land. They survived harsh winters, wore dorky hats, and fought numerous battles. But on top of all of that, they somehow managed to live without Velveeta cheese. I'm not sure how they were able to survive up until it was invented in 1918.

I am happy to put Velveeta on most anything. Melt it over french fries or nacho chips... put it on vegetables... hamburgers... or just eat it right out of the box. Heck, I may even eat the box itself. I haven't tried it yet, but I don't see why Velveeta wouldn't be great on top of my breakfast cereal.

I must admit that the one weird thing about Velveeta is that they never really come right out and tell you what exactly it is. When they advertise it, they don't call it "cheese," the box calls it a "pasteurized prepared cheese product." I suppose that should worry me a little bit. I mean, I'd probably be concerned if I were eating steak and they called it a "meat-oriented product."

But Velveeta is just so delicious I guess I don't care what it really is. I do think it would be interesting to visit the Velveeta factory just to see what goes on there, though. I can't help but picture a bunch of plastic cows roaming around on artificial turf, or some such thing.

The Coming of a New, Depressing Season

Well, the Pirates are set to play their first pre-season game today as they prepare for yet another losing season. It’s lucky we have the Steelers around, because if our area’s collective emotions hinged on the success of the Pirates, we’d be doomed.

It’s a bit of a shame that you have to be somewhat elderly to remember the last time the Pirates had a winning season, let alone remembering the last time they were anywhere other than at the bottom of the league like they’ve perpetually been lately.

I realize that the lack of a salary cap is pretty much the root of the Pirates’ problems. All of the wealthy teams shell out oodles of cash to buy the best teams they can get, while the Pirates apparently try to find the crappiest players they can so they can hope to turn a healthy profit off of people who just love the game by selling them $7 Cokes.

Every once in a while the Pirates will accidentally hire a good player. As soon as they realize their mistake, they’ll trade the player away, sometimes so they can acquire several crappy players.

This year I haven’t even heard the usual optimistic speeches by the coaches and ownership. They are usually overflowing with optimism and talk about how “this is the year” that things are going to turn around. Nope, haven’t even heard that this year!

This is also usually the time of the year that they unleash a new, lame marketing campaign, too, but I haven’t heard what the new one might be. Most recently they used the catchy slogan, “We Will.” Of course as fans we were able to fill in the blank to complete the phrase, like “We Will Stink,” “We Will Lose Every Game,” etc. Can’t wait to hear the new slogan!

Scrabbled

Scrabble is a fun game, but only if I'm playing it with Little Smoot. At 10 years old, she is actually getting very, very good at the game, but I can still consistently kick her butt. Therefore, it is fun. I'm sure that within the coming months, she'll be able to beat me once in a while, and the game just won't quite be as much fun for me. For now, I enjoy it though.

If I want to lose at Scrabble in a pathetic manner, all I have to do is play against Mrs. Smoot. Playing Scrabble with Mrs. Smoot has become no fun at all, even if she lets me double my points in a futile attempt to permit me to be competitive.

I made the mistake of agreeing to play Mrs. Smoot this weekend. She had over 100 points by her third turn. I was still struggling to find words like "of," or maybe "the," while she was whipping things up like "rebranding." And of course she was dominating all of the triple word score locations.

She has some sort of gift where she can just look at a bunch of letters and words will simply jump out at her. For example, if she had ZEQLAUT as her letters, she'd instantly recognize that QUETZAL is a tropical bird, and she'd figure out how to stretch it onto a quadruple word score, plus finish a few other words, and she'd accumulate a score of 312 on that turn. And that would be one of her weaker turns.

Given the same letters, I'd grab the dictionary in hopes that "Zeqlaut" was a word, and then I'd say the heck with it.

And if you really want to scream in agony, try playing "Boggle" with her.

Stay in Your Own Context!

I’ve been thinking about it a lot this weekend, and I am going to have to ask everyone to please, stay in your own context from now on.

I suppose I should explain.

I’m pretty bad at remembering names, and oftentimes I will recognize someone’s face but I’ll have trouble remembering why I know a person. And it can be embarrassing when I see someone and they say hello to me by name, and I can’t quite figure out why I know this person.

Just such a thing happened to me this weekend when I took my daughter, what’s-her-face, to her Girl Scouts meeting. As soon as I got there, one of the other moms said hi to me, and I knew I knew her, but I couldn’t immediately place her. So I wandered away from her pretty quickly, as though I had just remembered an important appointment at the other end of the Girl Scout room. Once I finally realized who it was, I went back over and had a semi-intelligent conversation with her. But still.

The problem was that she is a friend of a friend, and under normal situations I would only see her in the presence of our mutual friends. I wouldn’t expect to see her at Girl Scouts. So seeing her out of context was horribly confusing to me, and she probably sensed that I had no idea who she was until after I had given it some serious thought.

So from now on, I am asking everyone to please, for heaven’s sake, stay within your own context. If you are a friend of a friend, please always be sure to stay within an arm’s length of the mutual friend. That way I’ll have a visual reference to trigger my brain into knowing who you are.

If you belong to our church, and I only know you from there, please never leave the sanctuary. If I see you in the grocery store, that will undoubtedly confuse me, and I’ll probably have to hide out in the cheese department until I figure out who the heck you are.

If I normally talk to you at my daughter’s school while I’m picking her up at the end of the day, I’m going to have to ask that you always remain in front of the school, 24-7. If you’re an old acquaintance from high school, you’re just going to have to stay put at our reunion until our next gathering.

There are some cases where you can feel free to travel from one place to another. For example, if you go to our church AND I see you when I pick my daughter up from school, feel free to travel between church and the school since I know you in either context. But you may not stop at the gas station in between church and school, and you'll need to have heavily tinted windows on your car.

If for some bizarre reason you can’t stay in your proper context all the time, at the very least please buy a shirt that explains your regular context so I can recognize it when I see it. For example, a shirt that says, “Hi Hank! My daughter is on your daughter’s softball team!” would work pretty well. Or, “You have been my husband for 17 years!” That would be good, too.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

41: The New 40?

I just had a birthday. Really. It couldn't have been more than just a few weeks ago, I swear. If I could remember where I keep our calendars I'd prove that there's no way I'm due for another one so soon. But everyone seems to insist that tomorrow is the Big Day yet again.

Last year I turned 40, which was fun in that there's a brand new number at the beginning of my age, and Mrs. Smoot threw a kick butt surprise party for me. But what's fun about turning 41? Well, I hear that 41 is "the new 40," but I don't think that means I'll get another party out of the deal.

We've made reservations at my favorite Japanese steak house for tomorrow, and I'm sure someone at the table will quietly remind the staff that I'm the Birthday Boy or Girl. And that means that at some point they'll flip a switch and the scary disco ball light will illuminate and the music will shriek away in the background as Japanese people try to sing Happy Birthday, but it always comes out "Happy Borss-day!"

At least I'll get a Polaroid picture out of the deal.

I Think I Hear My Bushes Snickering

I bet that at least one of our newspaper delivery dudes hides out in the bushes every morning because he enjoys watching me search for the newspaper.

We get three daily papers (one of which comes in the regular mail, so I can generally expect to find it in the mailbox). The other two are delivered by Mystery Delivery Dudes in the early hours of the morning, and they certainly can be creative.

One of the newspapers routinely winds up underneath my car. That drives me nuts, frankly. Sure, first thing in the morning, I'd just love to crawl under my car to find the newspaper! What a fun way to wake up in the morning! Wheeee! Other times I'll find one in the bushes, probably just a few bushes down from where the delivery dude is hiding out to watch me.

I also find it somewhat ironic that on perfectly dry days, the newspaper will be wrapped in six or seven of those giant plastic newspaper condom things… but if it's raining out, they'll just use a single one. On those days I have to forensically dismantle the soggy paper and then reconstruct it, similar to how they reconstruct plane crashes and whatnot.

I'm going to start getting into the habit of kicking each bush as I walk out in the morning, just to see if any of them scream.

Cat-astrophes

Yesterday was the cat's annual trip to the vet, which would be obvious to anyone who sees the giant scratch across my face today.

This is the only time Murray gets to go for a car ride, so it's always an interesting experience. Little Smoot just loves this occasion, because she thinks it's hilarious to watch the cat roam around in the car. I think it's less hilarious than she does, especially when he decides to find a highly inappropriate place to hang out, such as underneath the brake pedal.

At one point, he managed to climb around on the dashboard in front of me, and he eventually somehow figured out how to turn on the windshield wipers.

Murray has been biting at one of his feet lately, as though he doesn't eat enough other stuff around the house. The vet says that he apparently has an infection where one of his claws was removed, so he put the cat on antibiotics. That opens up a whole new world of fun for me!

The cat doesn't seem to understand the idea of taking a pill, so I have to put butter and the pill on my finger, and jam it down his throat twice a day for five days. Needless to say, we have both been greatly enjoying this experience.

The Mail! The Mail!

I'm just a few days away from turning 41, which begs the question: Am I too old to get excited about the mailman coming? As I'm typing this, I'm on the edge of my seat because it's later than the time the mail usually comes. And with Presidents Day yesterday, that means I've gone extra long between visits to the mailbox.

What do I expect to get in the mail today? Absolutely nothing, actually. It's too early for birthday cards, and chances are the most exciting thing in the mailbox will be an ad for Staples or something. But there's something that's just exciting about the anticipation of the mail coming, isn't there?

I'm much worse when it comes to the UPS guy. It's fairly rare that I order stuff that comes via UPS, but it's really exciting when the big brown truck comes, I think. For one thing, it creates somewhat of a spectacle for the neighbors. When they see the truck pull up to your driveway, they know you're likely getting something in a box. Oooooh! A box! That can only mean you're getting something exciting!

I've often thought that it would be fun to have very trivial things sent via UPS, like boxes of Kleenex for example, just for the sake of having them delivered in the big brown truck. Uh oh… I'd write more about this, but I can hear the mailman coming… gotta run!

Ties That Bind

I can remember our early Valentine's Days. Mrs. Smoot and I used to buy pathetically mooshy cards for each other, and we'd go out and have a nice dinner, or something along those lines. Funny what 17 years of marriage does to this holiday.

This year we decided the heck with going out to eat since we'd undoubtedly be standing in long lines behind the pathetically mooshy people. So we agreed that we'd just hang out at home all day, watching a marathon of episodes of House while eating junk food. We enjoyed it thoroughly, and the house still smells somewhat like the kitchen of a TGI Fridays as a result.

But the real measure of how much a couple can grow to be alike can be determined by the cards purchased for this special occasion. It's somewhat humorous that we both abandoned the idea of getting each other serious Valentine's cards (last year I bought Mrs. Smoot a card that was in Spanish, but I believe it was meant to be serious).

It's more humorous to note that we bought each other cards that had farting as their main theme. And it was even more hilarious when we realized that we bought each other the same fart card. We were simply meant to be together.

Our Cat, the Genius

I'm beginning to think that our cat is not exactly a genius. Ok, I've been thinking that since the day we got him, but I really have to wonder about Murray some days.

For one thing, he allows Little Smoot to torture him on a regular basis, and he just doesn't care. She'll pick him up and wander around the house with him, basically wearing him as a scarf, and he'll joyfully tag along. And every night he curls up with her to go to sleep no matter how much she chased him around the house earlier.

Murray also has a very strange fixation with Ben Gay. I've been having a little bit of back pain the last couple days, undoubtedly coinciding with the fact that I'll be turning 41 next weekend, so I've been putting some Ben Gay on it. When Murray smells Ben Gay, he absolutely goes bonkers.

I put some on yesterday morning, and Genius Cat followed me around no matter where I went. He jumped up and down off my lap probably a dozen times while I was sitting at my computer, interrupting me while I was doing very vital work, like updating my blog.

Once he figured out that the Ben Gay was on my back, he started licking the back of my sweatshirt. Swell. Later I caught him licking a pillow I had earlier been leaning on. These are not traits belonging to a genius, I don't think.

My Life Is Complete!

In the past I have had some of my photos appear in some pretty cool places. I had a shot in People magazine one time, and one of my shots was used in a Chevy ad a few years ago. But I have managed to top that, hands down!

I learned this week that one of my shots was used on The Price Is Right! During this year's Groundhog Day episode, one of my photos was used to introduce the final showcase, which included a trip to Punxsutawney. I can only imagine the excitement and pressure the contestant must have felt when she learned she could win a trip to my hometown for five days.

Where does one go, photographically, after having a photo appear on The Price Is Right? I assume that the only way to top this will be to ride on the space shuttle and photograph the Earth from space, or something along those lines.

As you can imagine, it's hard for me to walk down the street now as people bombard me with questions about this experience: "Did you get to meet Drew Carey?" (No.) "Do you keep in touch with the hot babes who demonstrate the showcase products?" (No.) "Did you have any idea the picture was going to appear on the show until nearly two weeks later, when it was way too late to record the episode?" (No.)

If anyone needs me, I'll be updating my resume, and the wording I want to have on my tombstone. If you're as excited about this as I am, you can watch the full episode here. You'll want to fast forward to the showcase at the end of the show.

Progressively Annoying

I'm really not a violent person. But there's a part of me that really wants to inflict some sort of harm upon that obnoxious Progressive Insurance lady.

Surely you've seen the commercials. Some innocent person will wander into a spooky white room, and before they can figure out what's happening, this insanely chipper woman jumps out and starts assaulting them with gleeful salesmanship tactics.

If I were one of her victims, I'd most likely try to make a run for it, but I doubt it would work since she'd probably instantly attach herself to my leg. Because of her, I have already had to move all large solid objects away from my TV viewing area for fear that I'm going to throw something at the TV when she appears.

Here's another thing. In one of the commercials she talks about Progressive's "concierge claim service." Have you noticed how the advertising industry has latched onto the word "concierge" nowadays?

The dictionary defines concierge as, "A staff member of a hotel or apartment complex who assists guests or residents, as by handling the storage of luggage, taking and delivering messages, and making reservations for tours." But now concierge means "annoying person who will continually call you by your first name as though you've known each other for years, and who will quickly drive you insane."

Bah.

:Cough: AAAH! :Cough:

Great. I have finally gotten Mrs. Smoot's nasty Cough of Doom that she has been suffering through for the past several months. The symptoms are easy to identify as they all begin with the letter C: Cough, Crankiness, Continue Coughing.

I feel fine otherwise. My nose is clear, my throat doesn't hurt (yet), and my head isn't on the verge of exploding. But the coughing thing is a little ridiculous. I find that I can stop coughing so long as I'm neither inhaling nor exhaling. But as soon as I do one of those two things, I'll need to cough for a while.

I've been experimenting with various remedies, including your basic NyQuil, your basic cough drops, your basic Primatene Mist, etc. I'm thinking of moving along to another well-respected remedy: beer.

And I'm spending a lot more time being cranky. What fun!

Estrogen Fueled Mayhem

Mrs. Smoot is having one of those "women parties" tonight. You know the ones… a bunch of women come over, and a hostess lady will show them the latest in candle technology, or whatever. And then they buy a bunch of stuff, eat and bash men, I assume.

Guys never have parties like this. I think it would be an interesting idea, though. Imagine if a bunch of guys got together, and a host guy would be there to demonstrate the latest in remote controls. We'd love it!

I probably sound like I'm putting these parties down, but that would probably be hypocritical. I can remember attending a Pampered Chef party with Mrs. Smoot a number of years ago, and at the end of the day I wanted to purchase everything the woman had in the catalog. It might be best if I find a good hiding space tonight, lest I decide I suddenly "need" a whole bunch of Tastefully Simple products.

The one bad thing is that I'll be spending the next couple hours mopping and vacuuming. When Mrs. Smoot allowed me to travel down to the Super Bowl, in return I hastily agreed that I'd complete any list of tasks she stuck to my computer keyboard from now until the end of time.

Hey There, Blimpy Boy!

I knew that security was going to be "super" tight when I made the trip to Tampa, and it was interesting to see what sorts of reinforcements were in the city during the weekend I was there.

On Saturday I took a ride up to the stadium area, which happens to be in Tampa's Sleeze District. The stadium is conveniently sandwiched between dozens of strip clubs on the Dale Mabry Highway. I don't know who Dale Mabry was, but judging from the businesses on his road, I can only assume he must have been a famous pimp or something.

Anyway, it was interesting to see how many police and military helicopters were circling over the stadium all afternoon. And obviously there were tons of police guarding the stadium (and nude clubs, I guess) too.

So taking all of the security into account, I have to relay a story about my brother from earlier in the week. As many of you know, my brother is a photographer for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and he spent the whole week covering the game in Tampa. Early in the week he had an opportunity to do a feature story about the Goodyear Blimp, and they took him for a ride in it.

At one point, they actually turned over the controls so that he could pilot the blimp for a while! I admit that if I had been given that opportunity, I would have instructed my loved ones to inscribe something on my tombstone about the experience when I bite the big one, and it would have rightfully been at the top of my resume.

But from a security standpoint, that seemed a little bizarre, especially if you know my brother. You would think that during the planning for the security, all agencies involved would have some sort of priority list. You would think that the top of the list would say something like, "Don't let terrorists screw with us." And right below that it should say, "Don't allow a Smoot to pilot a blimp."

I guess everything turned out alright nonetheless, and no innocent bystanders were hurt. And my brother now has something cool to add to his tombstone.

Hey, Hawaii Five-O!

Whew! I'm finally home from Tampa and I'm slowly recovering from my severe case of Black & Gold Fever. What a trip! I'll share some snippets of my Big Game experience in the coming days.

For now, I'll share my most memorable quote of the week. Since I'm on a media e-mail list, I've been getting dozens and dozens of messages from the NFL Media Center with quotes from various press conferences. But my most memorable quote came from a drunken fan in a bathroom at Raymond James Stadium during the game on Sunday.

Since I was there as a media person, I was allegedly "neutral" as far as which team I was rooting for, so it wouldn't have been proper to wear my Steelers attire. So I wore a rather festive, tropical sort of shirt to the game.

Between quarters, I headed to a restroom that was filled with drunken fans who were chanting for their respective teams as they waited in lines for each precious urinal. After a fairly long wait, it was finally my turn to expel my $7 Coke from my body. Midway through this task, one of the drunks waiting in line behind me yelled, "Hey… Hawaii Five-O… how 'bout speeding it up?"

Normally I'd probably find that somewhat offensive, but I think my shirt was emitting some sort of festive rays to the degree that I found it pretty amusing.

Live From Tampa!

I've never blogged live on location before, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.

I have made it to Tampa... wooooo! I'm writing this from the Media Center, which is eerily empty at the moment. At 1:30 I'll catch a shuttle bus to Raymond James Stadium (its friends just call it "Ray Jim Stadium") for the Big Game. So far the black and gold far outnumbers the fans wearing Arizona colors. Something like 5,000 to 1, I'd estimate.

I've enjoyed bumbling around the city since yesterday, mostly in an attempt to figure out where I parked my car. It's pretty sad that I had a hard time finding it, even after marking its location with my GPS.

This morning I enjoyed a big media pre-game brunch at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I knew it was a classy affair because they had three omelette dudes making custom orders! I also decided it was a classy affair because Andy Rooney from 60 Minutes wandered in so he could enjoy free food, too. You know how old he looks on TV? He looks to be no younger than 130 when he gives his cranky commentaries. Believe it or not, he looks significantly older in person... perhaps a few years older than death.

Speaking of classy, I just went over to a vending machine here in the media area, equipped with several crisp dollar bills so I could buy a can of Pepsi. Much to my surprise, the Pepsi was free. I may move in and just live here!

I guess that's about it for now. I may wander outside since it is actually sunny. We probably won't see sun again in Pittsburgh for several more months, so I should take advantage of it...