Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Sassy-ness.

When the "c word" debacle of 2020 (aka; that which I dare not let myself write about...yet), hit full throttle and I lost all of my fitness jobs, my husband decided to pull the trigger on an idea we'd been tossing around for several years. 

He built me a building on our property. My very own place that will never shut down. A place for me to work out, dance with my friends, host our family gatherings, and give the grand babies the best playhouse I could possibly dream up for them. 

Ron and a contractor spent 3 months building my vision, and in May 2021, 'Sassy's Bounce House' was born. (My grand babies call me Sassy in case you're new here.)

It's everything I hoped for and I'm so grateful to have this place to share. So when my son-in-law Nick mentioned looking for a sponsor for our 5 year old granddaughter's soccer team that he and his dad were coaching, it was a no brainer. "Sassy's Bounce House will sponsor you!"

I know what you're thinking, right? 'Sassy's Bounce House' on a bunch of 5 year old's soccer shirts might raise questions. 

Calm down. We'll get there.

My main responsibility as the sponsor was designing and buying the t-shirts. Designing t-shirts is nowhere in my wheelhouse, so I handed that job off to my super crafty and hilarious daughter-in-law Barbara, and this is what happened.

Not exactly a Zumba dancer, but considering she almost used a silhouette of a lady upside on a pole to represent my FlyFit Bungee classes, I thought this was a great choice.

The t-shirt lady asked if I wanted to include my phone number.

Good lord, NOOO. Suddenly I could see one of 2 things happening.

1. I'd start getting phone calls for children's birthday parties.

2. I'd start getting phone calls for bachelor parties. 

So I added the words 'Zumba Fitness' below it because I've learned to think ahead and proactively avoid involving myself in anything scandalous, right? Let's keep telling ourselves that. 

The shirts arrived in time for team picture day. I asked Nick what time I should be there and he slowly and awkwardly explained that sponsors don't usually participate in team pictures which was fine because I was totally kidding and never mind that I ordered myself a matching shirt because I'm just a jokester like that.

But thankfully I wasn't there, because that night Nick received a text from the head of the league stating there had been "multiple complaints" about it appearing his team had been sponsored by a strip club.

Ok. Let me stop you right there, "head of the league." FIRST of all, if I were a stripper (and let's face it I could be), I wouldn't sponsor my 5 year old granddaughter's soccer team. That'd just be inappropriate. SECOND of all, and let's be clear on this point for anyone in the community who has questions on the topic, I'M NOT A STRIPPER. Making money dancing fully clothed is totally different, obviously.

I sat staring horrified as Nick told me what happened and I said, "Oh my gosh. Is everybody going to be thinking I'm the slutty grandma at all the games now?" To which my son Zac replied, "I thought that was a given."

Who raised this kid to think he's funny?

Ron tried to put my mind at ease and said, "It's not like anyone will look at you and know that you're the Sassy of the Bounce House."

Well. Except...I might've gotten carried away at the t-shirt counter. I pulled out my shirt.

Ron- "Well there goes that then."

Nick returned to the t-shirt place with Addie's shirt and asked if anything could be done to appease any parents who might have a problem with the decal on their kid's shirt. He sprayed it with something and off came the stripper dancer. That night at practice, he went to each parent and explained that if they're offended by the picture, the t-shirt place will remove it. And guess what- NONE OF THEM WERE OFFENDED BY THE PICTURE.

Hold up. Did we just discover that the ONLY person offended by a picture of a leaping dancer on a 5 year old's soccer shirt was the "head of the league" who misled my son-in-law with the phrase "multiple complaints" when in fact she was the only one who had a problem with it?

That's exactly what we discovered.

She thought my dancer was bad? How I would've loved to see the look on her face when one of the 5 year olds on our team nicknamed our team "The Booty Holes" and it stuck. 

Flash to our team in their huddle yelling, "Goooooo Booty Holes!"

My stripper shirts don't seem like that big a deal now, huh?

But to everyone's credit, nothing more came of the scandal, the kids learned a lot and made many fun memories. Nick and his dad were rockstar coaches who taught the kids how to play soccer AND have fun at the same time, and my business carries on as usual- successful and seemingly untainted by it's name and I have what I hope is the first of many sponsor plaques proudly displayed.

And of course the trophy my daughter Aubrey had specially made...

I have just one thing to say to the easily offended of the world. Thank you! Nothing like an unnecessary scandal to boost my business and expand into a line of Sassy's Bounce House Merch, coming in January. 

Speaking of the easily offended,

LETTTTTSSSSSSS GOOOOOOOOO.....

Booty Holes.

Bet'cha thought I was gonna say Brandon, huh? 

Carpal FUN-nel

You know how it goes. You're going about life, minding your business, and WHAM...you wake up feeling like your right hand fell into the depths of hell at 2am every night. That's called Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and 18 years of doing deep tissue massage is the culprit. 

When I scheduled my surgery, I was given 2 options. I could go to the hospital and be put under anesthesia like a normal person or I could opt to have it done right there in the office, fully awake. 

With flash backs of my emotional instability from anesthesia side effects that became known as The Mrs. Grass's Soup Incident of 2016 (that Kearstin caught on video and still plays at parties) and since "like a normal person" never describes any decision I've ever made, I opted for the stay awake thing. 

The closer the surgery date came, the more nervous I got. What does a needle in the wrist feel like? What if it doesn't totally numb my hand? Do they check first or roll the dice and slit my wrist and see if I scream? These are things not even google can answer.

They said my husband could come in with me as a distraction which raised a whole new set of questions. Distract from what? Do they want him to distract me or them? Have you met my husband? Do you realize the magnitude of the distraction you're inviting into my surgery here?

I needed to calm my nerves. So I decided to trust them and show up for surgery like they told me to let Ron run experiments with CBD oil and then document the effects it has on my anxiety, as you do. And don't even sit there and act like you've never thought about letting your spouse dose you with over the counter marijuana plant oil. Or maybe you haven't. Don't get hung up on this one point because there's far more important questions you should be asking.

Where did he get CBD oil? His toolbox in the garage. 

Why does he have CBD oil in his toolbox in the garage? Approaching 29 years of marriage, I've learned the fewer questions I ask him, the better. 

Where were we? Ah. Calm my nerves experiments. 

I filled the dropper. He told me to squirt it under my tongue because it would "probably take effect faster." I lifted the dropper to my tongue, asked him what it tastes like, and as I squirted it into my mouth he answered- "I've never tried it before, but it probably doesn't have a taste."

That's the last thing I heard before the house echoed with the sounds of me violently vomiting into the bathroom sink while Ron screamed from the bedroom- "DON'T SPIT IT OUT! YOU'LL RUIN THE EXPERIMENT!" 

When he finally heard silence, he walked into the bathroom and found me on the floor beside the toilet with my shirt pulled over my head. He asked- "How do you feel?" From under my shirt, I replied- "Like killing you."

He said- "It's ok. I've got this." And he pulled out a tub of CBD cream. This quote from the movie 'Meet The Parents' came to mind as he began rubbing it on my wrist- Are you a pothead, Focker?

No more marijuana supplements. 

I briefly entertained the possibility of leftover codeine, but the last time I took Codeine after a surgery, Ron found me patrolling the house protecting our family from the BTK killer. You know, the guy who's been in jail since 2005. 

It's almost like I'm overly-susceptible to addictive substances or something. 

So I did the one thing I knew was a safe and fool-proof relaxation technique and at 9:30am on the morning of my surgery, I drank a margarita for breakfast, and besides Ron asking the surgeon if my feet should be in stirrups during the surgery, it was smooth sailing and drama free. At least that's how 'Tipsy Shari' remembers it, anyway. 

That should be where the story ends. This is us. The story never ends where it should...

The following day, we left our house for 2 hours. When we arrived back home, AFTER TWO.SHORT.HOURS, we found our pool halfway empty. After an in-depth investigation, we discovered that in those 2 freakin' hours, a wild animal roamed into our yard, fell into our beautiful salt water pool, and clawed it's way back out, leaving behind a shredded pool liner. 

Before you wonder if it was one of our dogs, we thought about that. But all of our dogs were completely dry and if you know anything about German Shepherds you know that it takes them at least 3 days to dry after they swim. Or fall off the boat into the lake. They ran their own stupid experiments to teach us that.

The following TWELVE freakin' DOG DAYS (AND NIGHTS) OF SUMMER consisted of DRAINING our 36,000 gallon pool, patching countless RIPS, TEARS, and CLAW HOLES all over the liner, then REFILLING our 36,000 GALLON pool with WELL WATER, from our GARDEN HOSE, then REPEATEDLY vacuuming and emptying the PILES OF IRON off the bottom of our pool, trying DESPERATELY and UNSUCCESSFULLY to return the pool to BLUE, with ONE USABLE HAND and RON OUT OF TOWN for SEVEN of those days (and nights!).

I don't know what the animal was, but I've cursed the existence of every coyote, possum, raccoon, and cat just to cover my bases. How 'bout next time you use the stairs you stupid son of a b****. 

So I don't wanna hear any lip about cancelling my 2 week post-op appointment because I removed my own stitches with a pair of scissors on day 10. Considering my state of mind, I didn't trust myself to sit across from a medical professional when they ask me if I've been taking it easy since my surgery.

As for the pool, in a moment of sheer disgust at looking at the color green with a test strip that read perfectly balanced chemicals, I dumped in 4 giant bags of salt and then when my husband got home I sat silently listening to him lecture me about never pouring in that much again.

But the very next day, the pool was blue.

Moral of the story: Don't ever tell an Italian woman she used too much salt.

The 4th of JuWHY!?!

Last year, we made it through July 4th with no gaping wounds, public intoxication, or run ins with the boat law...looking at you 2019...So I mistakenly thought we'd graduated to being like a normal family.

Enter 2021. 

On Friday the 2nd, we participated in a sunset kayaking photo shoot. With 2 dogs even. Other than Kearstin and Caymen being unable to steer their inflatable kayak and having to be towed behind Ron all evening, it was smooth sailing. The girls blame the kayak. Let's just say the rest of us...don't blame the kayak. 

And if you happened to be there, there were 12 of us, so don't come at me if we bumped into your group and ended up in your sunset pictures. We can't control everything and it could've been way worse. Just ask the paddle board lady wearing the giant hat.

But let's not digress.

The 3rd was a typical Saturday around here- all the kids were over, tons of food, swimming, volleyball, and hanging the babies from the ceiling on bungees. 

I said typical, not normal.

That night, we took the boat to watch the fireworks and nothing eventful happened. No, seriously. We didn't even get called a**holes. Oh, wait. There was that guy recklessly speeding through the anchored boats not paying attention, so Zac blasted our insanely loud Trump Train horn as he passed and the guy almost jumped out of his boat...and from the look on his face, might've crapped his pants. He probably called us a**holes, but don't start none won't be none is our motto. 

My point is, there was absolutely nothing abnormal to report that day.

On the 4th, we took our new tube out for the first time. Yes, it looks like a giant couch being pulled behind our boat, but that's the consequence of Ron letting a 6 year old boy choose whatever tube he wanted at the boat show. Ridiculous, yes. Also normal.

For dinner we boated to a local burger place on the water, parked beside a boat that had 2 dogs, and our 4 dogs wreaked havoc and turmoil on their dogs until they finally left. 

I never said our dogs weren't a**holes.

At 10:30 that night, we boated back to our dock and everything went great, right? 

Of course not, why are we here?

Ron pulled the boat into the dock. Close enough to the side dock where we could get off the boat, but he kept it pretty far from the front dock because our engine was still down. Zac was the first person off the boat because he helped guide it into the dock. 

So. Knowing the drill, the dogs raced to the front of the boat to get off next. Quincy led the way. Then I saw Zac look down into the water between the boat and the front dock and yell, "Quincy!"

 And I calmly said, "You're lying."

Here's what you need to know about Zac.  He knows my dogs are my babies and both Bam Bam and Emma still have PTSD from last year when on separate occasions, they each ended up in the dock water trying to get off the boat. Also, he pushes my buttons every chance he gets and he has a poker face to back it up. Thus my reply. "You're lying."

But then he disappeared with a splash into the water between the boat and the front dock and everybody started screaming. 

Okay. He's probably not lying.

I threw my stuff down, climbed off the boat, knelt on the side dock, and began trying to pull my soaking wet grown man/son out of the water while he clutched my soaking wet Quincy.

That's when we heard the second gigantic splash followed by a second round of everybody screaming.

Before we could say what the hell, we heard a third giant splash as Barbara plunged into the black water after Emma, the 150 pound German Shepherd who had either panicked and tried to make the jump from the boat to the front dock...or she was trying to help. 

My money's on panic. 

There was no "third round" of screaming, because everybody was still screaming from the second round, except now there was crying and also peeing. 

Listen. Two of my kids were in the bottomless black dock water saving 2 of my fur babies while I was on one dock trying to pull 2 out and Caymen was on the other dock trying to pull the other 2 out and the rest of my family was on the boat screaming and there ain't a Kegel in the world strong enough to hold a bladder's worth of urine under those circumstances, so yeah. I began peeing freely on the dock and that was the least of our worries, so no need to focus your judgment on me.

Ron was finally able to get off the boat to help pull everybody out. Emma being the biggest issue as she rapidly absorbed the lake and bloated to a hefty 300 pounds of wet fur and water. Poor Barbara came out of the water bleeding from the sharp barnacles on the dock as she fought to keep Emma's head above the water. 

Where's the boat police when everybody's sober and you actually need 'em, am I right? 

So that's how our 4th of July weekend ended...5 of us riding home soaking wet and smelling of lake, wet dog, and urine. 

Nothing new here. Just us being normal.

Happy Mudder's Day To Me

It was Mother's Day weekend and all the kids and grands were coming over on Saturday to celebrate. Incidentally, that was the same day we were having concrete laid in front of our new outbuilding beside the pool. The concrete was being laid at 8am. The kids were coming over at 2. 

Charlie the concrete pro mentioned doing a broom finish, but we said no because we didn't want a broom finish around the pool. We wanted it smooth. So he instructed us to stay off the concrete for 24 hours and he left.

Quick backstory. The last time Charlie told us to stay off the concrete for 24 hours, he returned to find we'd carved our names into it. Alllll 17 of us, including 4 dogs and 1 boyfriend who's now committed to marrying our daughter because it's concrete official. I don't make the rules here Trevor.

But speaking of the dogs, that's where our Mudder's Day story begins...

This is Emma, nicknamed Menard, because on Black Friday 2019, Ron was at Menards browsing through the box of dog sweaters, as you do, when a lady approached him about a dog who desperately needed a home and voila. Home comes this gentle giant, with hypochondriac tendencies, who sheds clumps of back hair, fakes ear infections for attention, complains of hip pain to get massaged, and prefers laying down to eat when at all possible. 

Good lord, Ron found his canine twin at Menards. 

She gets her perpetual state of worry face from my side of the family.

Where were we? Ahh. Yes. Concrete.

We did a really good job of keeping the dogs inside until the kids arrived. It had been 6 hours since the concrete had been laid, which in dog hours is practically like 24, and they have a huge yard so it's not like they're just gonna be drawn like magnets to the one strip of fresh concrete, right?

Yeah. About that.

By around 6pm, we'd eaten our 30 inch pizza, opened all the Mother's Day gifts, and things were winding down. The girls headed out to sit in the hot tub when someone mentioned seeing foot prints in the concrete.

That's not possible because Concrete Charlie told us not to do that and we can be trusted. Sometimes.

But to our shock and dismay, deeply embedded into the hardened concrete, were prints from a giant animal who'd very obviously and methodically paced back and forth across the concrete in every direction, and from the size of the prints we could narrow it down to either a full grown polar bear or more likely, Menard. 

I desperately tried to rub them away with my hands, but they were already dried.

What now?

Plan A:  Text Concrete Charlie and admit what happened.

Don't be stupid.

New plan A: an electric sander. That's right. I took an electric sander to our fresh concrete and you're in no position to judge me until you've walked a mile in Menard's crater prints. But it didn't work and I was as surprised about that as you are right now.

Plan B: Text Concrete Charlie and admit what happened.

I'm not gonna tell you again.

Another plan B: Suggest we hose down the concrete while everybody stares at me like I just said something stupid. 

Noooo. Stupid is suggesting we drag Concrete Charlie into this.

The new plan B: Panic uselessly while my son in law Nick runs to his house to get some old concrete tools he's never used before, my husband leaves for Lowe's to buy a trowel, and then I'll burst into tears when Zac tells me that Concrete Charlie has been texted and he said there's nothing that can be done because it's completely ruined. 

And then he tells me he's just kidding.

If your kid doesn't try to make you cry on Mother's Day for no reason, does it even count?

When Nick returned, the tedious process began. I'd squeeze a sponge full of water into each paw print and then Nick would scrape over it with his concrete floater tool while I furiously wondered what in the crap was taking Ron so long at Lowe's.

But miracle of all miracles, it was working...with a few minor glitches of running out of daylight and having to work by way of Kearstin's phone flashlight while Zac, Aubrey, and Caymen ran amok looking for our outdoor work lights, leaving new dents in the concrete with the plywood Nick was kneeling on, and the frustration of turning around to discover all the dogs back on the concrete every time the grand babies would let them out of the house again. But it was working!

We were almost completely done by the time Ron arrived back home with a new bucket, a lid for the bucket, and a super comfy knee pad. 

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I sent you to Lowe's for SAND TOYS!!!

For our finale, we wetted down the entire surface and our daughter in law Barbara went over it with a giant push broom. Then she turned around, accidentally knocked me in the back with the broom handle, and my life flashed before my eyes as I barely escaped falling into our pool. And I do mean barely. 

Party's over, everybody. 

The next morning, I forced myself to go look at the concrete in the light of day and I've gotta tell ya, I was pleasantly surprised at our job well done.

That broom finish around the pool is just what it needed. Glad we thought of it.

                               

Trump Train Wreck

This post is not about a political stance. So it's totally cool if you don't agree with mine, but if you're willing to agree to disagree, and might enjoy an entertaining story and maybe even a laugh at our expense, continue on. Or, exit now if you're already mad. No hard feelings.

It's September and this will be the first blog I've posted in 2020. But, see, I try to keep my blog humorous and let's be honest, there hasn't been very much humor in 2020. I mean, there's been 'ha ha they're trying to mandate our lives away and I'm suddenly responsible for homeschooling my child' humor but is anybody really laughing? Probably not. Forcing a blog isn't my favorite thing, so I usually wait to feel a spark when something needs a blog of it's own, and that just hasn't happened for me this year. Well, until Labor Day weekend that is, when we almost caught our boat on fire. See what I did there? Spark...boat on fire? Forget it. Let's start from the top.

Our lake was putting on a Trump boat parade. (You've come this far, don't get triggered now.) So naturally, Ron designed PVC flag poles to fly flags off the back of our boat. 

Because we're incapable of keeping things simple, he also ordered a giant train horn. Get it? Trump Train? No need to get testy, I'm just making sure.

He and Zac spent 2 days wiring this thing together. I don't understand anything about it, but it involves a giant boat battery and large compressor, all of which are down inside a huge cooler strapped to the back of the boat. That setup became necessary the first night when we were given instructions not to touch certain parts of the battery because it'll "light you up" and seeing as we have four children under the age of 6 and one Sassy who is prone to getting electrocuted, it was decided that further safety measures were in order so as not to light anyone up. Mainly me. We all know it'd be me.

This train horn is (((LOUD))). Like, heart-stopping-brace-yourself-your-brain-believes-there's-a-train-on-the-lake loud. Kayakers hate us. Fisherman want us dead.These are things we found out in the first 10 minutes of our trial run the day before the parade.

On parade day, we arrived at our dock at 9am. Two hours early because the previous evening Ron dropped one of our flag pins into the lake under our dock and he had to fish it out with a giant magnet on a long rope, but that 's the only thing that would go wrong that day, said no Courter ever. 

We'd arranged to leave our dock at 10am on the dot because there will be no running late, speeding through the crowded lake, being called assholes for us that day. More lies.

We left our dock on schedule and since our 15 foot flags on the back of the boat prevented us from going the fast way under the bridge, we began our slow trek through the canal. No biggie. Plenty of time.  

But then. 

No good comes from but then.

But then, Zac tried to honk the horn and nothing happened. Not one sound. We stopped the boat and the boys went to work checking every wire and finally came to the conclusion that the battery was dead. Wait, what? A battery needs a charge? Since when I ask you in outrage? 

We were left with a choice. We either arrive on schedule and participate in the parade without a train horn or we frantically tear down our flag poles and speed the fast way toward the bridge to race back to our dock to jump start the dead battery, veering around Trump boats headed in the opposite direction toward the parade, while Ron yelled incoherent words to them about train horns and batteries, lest they mistakenly think we might be ridin' with Biden.

Guess which one we chose. 

The not being called assholes thing was out the window and it wasn't even 11am. 

Since Ron has a reputation of requiring no less than a 14 point turn to pull our boat into our slot, Zac jumped from our boat onto our dock while Ron continued his boat parking dance. 

The boat police would have another field day with us, but on the upside, I wasn't drunk and we didn't bring our unleashed dogs, so it's almost like we're learning lessons.

Zac came back with his jumper cables and he and Ron went to work on the battery- stuff I didn't understand about jumping the battery, swapping the horn and the boat batteries, whatever. They'd be fine. But I had to pee. The port a potty was a good distance from our boat and nobody was around because boat parade and so why not just climb onto the front of our boat and squat off the edge while all the grand babies peer over the side at me waiting for Sassy to fall in the lake. But fear not kids, Sassy's got the balance of a cat. What she doesn't have is x-ray vision that would've showed a lady walking around the corner of the docks and headed in our direction. Sweet mother of nooooo...

I'm 48 and have birthed 4 kids. There isn't a Kegel in the world that could've stopped my pot-of-coffee flow, so I did what any normal person would do. I looked her in the eye and casually said- "I'm sorry. I'm peeing." You know, in case the squat and sounds of a stream of liquid hitting the lake water didn't give me away. On a scale of 1 to please shoot me, this moment scored a 9.

In the meantime, Ron had gone to our car to get something the boys needed, when Zac- my level headed one- began frantically saying, 'This is getting hot. Hurry! RUUUNNNNNN!!!' and smoke began pouring off the back of our boat while the cables melted onto our back seat and burned into our boat deck. 

And Ron ran. 

Everyone has permission to lose their sh*t, because if Zac panics and Ron runs, THIS.IS.NOT.A.DRILL. 

Apparently, Ron put the wrong ends of the jumper cables on the wrong parts of the battery. Turns out that's not so minor of a detail. 

I still don't understand how they fixed this situation, but burn marks aside, they eventually had everything running, and by11:30, we were speeding back under the bridge with a working horn. We were half an hour past the meeting time, but the parade didn't start till noon, so smooth sailing now, right?

Hold our boat battery. (No, don't- you might burst into flames.)

We maneuvered into a spot amongst over a thousand other Trump boats, put our flag poles back up, and to the delight of everyone, we began honking our horn. Totally worth the almost fire.

As the parade began, we pulled out the drone, because that's what we do. Zac is the master drone flyer, so he flew it high over the parade and even directly in front of various boats while people waved. We got some great shots of our boat and all of us in it and it was awesome.

But then.

That's right. I said it. 

BUT THEN, Zac told Ron to put the boat in neutral so he could land the drone. But we're in the middle of a parade, so putting the boat in neutral seemed unwise. So he didn't. And when Zac tried to land the drone, it got tangled in a Trump flag and landed with a plop in the middle of the lake while people in surrounding boats gasped, everyone on our boat stood in stunned silence, and I burst into tears because somebody had to.

We finished out the parade uneventfully, almost like our day went smoothly. Except for that part at the end where the lake water turned into ocean-like waves, splashed over our speakers, and our horn started sounding like a sick goose. But at least they made it through the parade. Unlike our drone.

Later at home, Ron pinged it's location and there it sat in the middle of the lake with the words "Been missing for 3 hours" and I almost cried again. So with pool nets and his trusty rope magnet, he took Caymen and Zac back out to retrieve it. Hey, we found a missing anchor in the middle of Norris Lake without a GPS, so it would only make sense that we'd find our drone.

Unfortunately, not all stories have a happy ending. Life lesson time, kids. Occasionally, despite the best of intentions, you get caught peeing off the front of a smoking boat and lose your drone. 

On the upside, nine days later, Ron was finally able to retrieve our lost drone footage. Not bad for someone who periodically gets mistaken for an asshole.

Buck U

Let's get something clear right off the bat. I'm not qualified to commentate on the topic of football. That being said, I'm about to commentate on the topic of football.

Despite being a die-hard cheerleader, I don't sit down and watch football games. I read library books. People don't hire me to write articles on my opinions about football games and for good reason. But I do however write snarky recaps of reality shows and after sitting through the Ohio State/Clemson game Saturday night, it occurred to me that it's all basically the same thing.

Everybody seems to have an opinion about that game so I thought I'd throw in my unbiased 2 cents. To set the record straight, I am a Buckeyes fan simply because I married a Buckeye's fan, and for the sake of my marriage, when he yells, "O-H" I will obediently answer, "I-O!" I always hope they win, but only because that effects the rest of my day too, and the fact that my granddaughter's name is Scarlet Gray and I use her baby pictures to make inappropriate memes is irrelevant.

That being said, I had no stake in the Ohio State/Clemson game. And in my opinion, since I'm openly admitting to having zero comprehension of the rules of the game, much less knowing any names of the players, I think you can trust my unbiased observations on what went down at the PlayStation Fiesta Bowl that night.

Side note. While I was writing this, I literally had to text my husband and ask which Bowl game it was because, unbiased. And I literally replied, 'PlayStation Fiesta Bowl? WTH kind of lame bowl name is that?'

Seriously, do they just throw random words together and put Bowl at the end? Like, hey there you Ohio State and Clemson guys...you played games and stuff and you know who's known for games and stuff? Play Station. And it looked like you were having fun. Hey! Fiestas are fun. And voila. The PlayStation Fiesta Bowl was born. It sounds like the equivalent of a participation trophy bowl until your husband tells you that there's also a Bad Boy Mowers Gasparilla Bowl, a San Diego County Credit Union Holiday Bowl, and a Tony The Tiger Sun Bowl, which I can only assume is the bowl reserved for the teams who played GRRRRREAT!!!

Okay, if the names of the bowls are like little league t-shirts with the sponsor's name across the front, are you trying to tell me that Tony The Tiger sponsored a bowl? Let me stop you right there. I think you mean Frosted Flakes, which would make that The Cereal Bowl if we were to be accurate with the half-assed naming of the bowls.

And one more thing before we get to the game. Can we ask why the Ohio State end zone was rust orange? Was PlayStation too cheap to spring for red? Wonder what Tony The Tiger's budget was?

Ok. Onto the game. Seeing as I already admitted I know less than nothing about the technical game of football, I see no reason to discuss every play. I'll just focus on the highlights and keep my observations about the pivotal and controversial points of the game according to the reactions of my husband and son as they sat beside me watching.

1. The Buckeyes were winning pretty solidly except for a couple of missed touchdowns and they ended up kicking the ball instead. Only one of the missed touchdowns stands out to me, because the refs decided to "review the play" and noticed in super slow motion that the ball turned a little in the guy's hands in the end zone and so they reversed the original call on the field and took the touchdown away. That seems a bit unfair considering the guy was sliding across the grass on his head at the time, but, oooh, that ball moved a little. NO TOUCHDOWN FOR YOU. As one of the announcers pointed out, "That's why it's so important to review these plays in slow motion." 
Remember that he said that. It'll be important later.

2. All that aside, things were going pretty well for Ohio State until their player with the long orange tipped hair got kicked out of the game because his helmet hit the Clemson quarterback in the face. In his defense, that quarterback is like 8 feet tall and from where I was sitting, it looked like he bent his face right into it. Also, it's football, so hitting people with your helmet seems like part of the game, unless of course you're the Clemson player whose helmet just rolled off willy nilly and he bonked his head on the ground. Dude. Don't they make straps for that? But he didn't get kicked out. I mean, the trainer took him away for a few minutes, but probably just to show him how to use the chin straps for future reference.

3. At one point, a short fast guy on the Buckeye team the announcers referred to as a bowling ball for some reason, hurt his ankle. It appeared that happened when a guy from Clemson grabbed onto it and was holding onto it for dear life while the poor bowling ball dragged him along. Probably targeted him, too, but did anyone review THAT play in slow motion? Nope.

4. This wasn't pivotal or anything, but needs to be addressed. Ohio State did something that had my guys laughing. I don't understand it and probably never will no matter how many times my husband tries to explain it to me. Something about a clap that made the Clemson team turn their heads to look at their coach and the Buckeyes barreled into them while they stood staring off to the side. I don't get it, but apparently it was legal, not to mention clever, and I'm a fan of clever.

5. Another moment for the Buckeyes happened when I noticed one of the Clemson players practically leap over a ref trying to bolt across the field to his sideline, but the Buckeyes started the play before he got off the field and Clemson was penalized for too many players on the field. Also clever, but seriously Clemson? When you know you're that short on time and you have to get off the field, just jump off on the Buckeye side. Maybe you could ask 'em about that sneaky sneak clap play while you're over there.

6. BUT THEN, the big terrible thing happened and nobody was laughing anymore. Clemson caught a pass, fumbled it, the Buckeyes picked it up, and scored a touchdown. The refs called it just like that, too. Until they decided to "review the play." While that happened, we were treated to a disagreement between the announcers. One announcer seemed to think that slow motion showed it exactly as the play was originally called on the field and that it should stand. But the other guy, the one who pointed out the importance of reviewing plays in slow motion, was suddenly saying, "Slow motion isn't always the most accurate way to determine these calls."

Whoa. Hold up. So you're saying that this time, slow motion should not be used because real time is more accurate and therefore, it should cost the Buckeyes a touchdown. Hey! Remember that time 3 quarters ago when you declared the infallibility of reviewing a play in slow motion and it cost the Buckeyes a touchdown? I bet Buckeye Nation does.

So the "powers that be in the replay center" finally made their decision. They decided that even though the guy was like, literally coming down with the ball in his hands and taking steps before he dropped it, that he didn't really catch the ball at all, so that means, when he dropped the ball, he wasn't really dropping the ball, because it doesn't matter what the replay shows. If you say he didn't really catch it in the first place, you get to say he didn't really drop it either, so they decided to change the call.  According to my husband, reversing an original call should only happen when review of the play unquestionably proves the call was a blatant mistake, but when even the announcers are debating what they're seeing, it makes it appear that the "powers that be in the replay center" might've been looking for an excuse change the original call.

*whispering* shhh...I think they might be democrats.

7. Just in case you suspect I'm Buckeye biased, I'm going to tell you something I'm not allowed to say in front of my husband. I like the Clemson quarterback. There, I said it. I liked how he patted the Buckeye players after plays and helped his guys up when they were down. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy and I truly believe he didn't mean to hit his face on the Buckeye guy's helmet and get him kicked out of the game. I was also happy to see him score a touchdown because his mom was there to see it and she deserves that. Plus, he looks like her and they're both really pretty, even though that has nothing to do with the game. This is me being impartial. You're welcome.

So there you have my unbiased observations. No matter what you believe about the Buckeye's mistakes or the ref's calls, the end result remains the same. The Buckeye's can hold their heads high knowing they played a pretty good first half of the game, the little bowling ball can finally rest his ankle, and Clemson will go on to play in the game known as, 'The College Football National Championship Presented by AT and T.' At least they chose a name that answers any and all questions so everybody's not left wondering, "But who is it presented by?"

As for me, I'll keep my day job...unless of course they want to hire me as a sideline commentator to represent the common folk who just want someone to ask about the obvious things until they fire me, which would happen the first game obviously, but like, which quarter? I would just be like, "Nice to meet everyone. Why's that guy's hair the same color as the end zone and who's that jerk announcer that can't seem to keep his biased opinions straight? I'll show myself out."

ESPN, call me.

Let It Go

Our lives were carrying on all normal and stuff...which is to say we were semi-successfully keeping our crazy away from the general public...and then Ron read me a text from one of his co-workers: "Your wife should be a princess."

Hellooo. Obvi. I didn't even need to know the context behind the statement.

Then he explained that they needed someone to be Elsa on their company float for the Christmas parade. I mean, of course I'll do it because it's basically what I've been training for my entire life, but I had some questions.
1. Will a costume be provided?
2. Are we going minimum or maximum cleavage?
3. Will I wear a wig or are we taking this in a new direction and introducing Badass Brunette Elsa to the community?

I'm fine with whatever y'all decide because I don't micromanage.

A few days later, he answered my questions. A costume will be provided. No wig necessary, because it's a bobble head Elsa.

Soooo. Follow up question. what the hell is a bobble head Elsa? He answered, "I don't know, but she said it's hideous."

I didn't know who "she" was and quite frankly, it didn't matter. Hideous? I'm gonna make my princess debut as a hideous Elsa?

But I'd already agreed to it, so I'd do it, and just be grateful that no one would know who was under the bobble head. And this was no longer my official princess debut, just so we're clear.

Fast forward to the morning of the parade when one of my Zumba friends asked me what I was doing that weekend and I reluctantly told her about the parade and hideous bobble head Elsa. And then she changed the course of my day...and maybe my life...by telling me her daughter-in-law has a real Elsa costume that I could borrow, complete with wig. Also a fur cover for warmth which meant zero cleavage, but beggars can't be choosers, am I right?

And so began the rush to prepare. Watching Elsa eye make-up youtube tutorials while I awkwardly tried to follow along, finding out I needed false eyelashes, so a mad dash to the local Family Dollar, and then attempting to follow the step by step instructions before quickly coming to the realization that applying false eyelashes falls under the category of 'crafts' so profanity entered the picture.

No princess is perfect.

Finally, I picked up the costume, came back home, carefully put on the wig...and then waited for my client to arrive because I'm a massage therapist and I had no reason to think I should cancel an appointment, because believe it or not, becoming Elsa- Ice Princess, wasn't originally on my to-do list that day. So yeah. A guy got massaged by Elsa, whether he liked it or not, and I'd just as soon not know whether he liked it or not.

It can't get any more embarrassing than that, right?
Hold my wig.

No sooner had I completed his massage, I heard honking outside. I looked out to see the UPS truck parked at the end of our long driveway surrounded by our dogs barking at him while he leaned out the door motioning for me to come to him to get my package. Please, God, no. That hideous bobble head was sounding pretty good as he witnessed Elsa- Ice Princess running barefoot down the driveway while he didn't even try to hide the look on his face. When I offered up a quick out-of-breath explanation, he interrupted me with, "It's cool. I don't need to know."

Well, good, cuz I didn't want to tell you anyway. Now if you could please quickly drive away before you see the guy come out of my house and pay me, that'd be best for everyone involved.

So it can't get more embarrassing than that, right?
You should probably stop asking. We're just gettin' started.

Now it's time to go pick up my grandson from preschool, because we're heading straight to the parade from there. The Pre-school pick-up policy is that you park at the front of the loooong line of cars and when the preschool teacher brings out the little ones, she'll wait until the adult gets out of their vehicle and approaches so that she knows who the child is going home with.

So where do we begin with all the potential problems here?

Elsa stepping out of a mini-van in front of a parking lot full of witnesses, thus landing me on youtube somewhere. Again. The potential mob as little girls realize that Elsa is on the property at the peak of the release of Frozen 2. The possibility that my grandson won't recognize me, clings to his teacher when I tell him to get in the van, and the authorities become involved. Because if Ace doesn't recognize me, there's no hope Miss Becky will.

So I did what I thought was best. I stayed hidden in my van, gambling on the fact that Ace will recognize my van, and if Miss Becky ever wanted to go home, she'd have no choice but to bring him to me. And that's eventually exactly what happened. And when the van door slid open I saw it register on both of their faces that Sassy was Elsa and Elsa was Sassy. Miss Becky laughed and laughed. Ace, on the other hand, was not amused in any way and as we drove away, he asked, "Sassy, can you please not do that anymore?"

Poor little guy. Only been around for 5 years, so he really has no idea what he's in for.

On the way to the parade, I felt Caymen staring at me. I turned to her and in my most charming Disney princess voice, snapped, "WHAT???" She jumped and then hesitantly said, "You know Elsa's white like snow, right? You're more...bronze...like sand." I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. "So what's wrong with a tan Elsa? I'm a healthier beachy-er Vitamin D Elsa, which doesn't justify your disapproving face here."

When we arrived at the warehouse where the float was being decorated, things got awkward.
Wait, you thought things were already awkward? Are you new here or something?

I walked in to the crowded warehouse in full-on Italian Elsa, to the appalled looks of everyone, mainly my husband. That's when I was informed that I was going to be required to wear the bobble head. Why? Because Elsa had to match Anna and Olaf, who were also wearing bobble heads. Which only goes to show that not everyone was as fully invested in this as I was.

Sooo...you wanna make Elsa mad...have you even seen the movie?
Before I could begin freezing things with my fake-lashed ice glares, Ron pulled me aside and whispered, "No one asked you to do...*pauses and looks me up and down*...this."
Well then let me refresh your memory. HIDEOUS. So, THIS, should be self-explanatory.

I'll spare you the details of the angry whispered conversation, and maybe a few tears. (Wasn't my fault he cried, either.) I wore the bobble head...and stood on the top of a float pulled behind a truck being driven by Ron, which means bobble head Elsa, who couldn't see a damn thing out of her bobble head face, was but one hard brake away from tumbling to an embarrassing death in a Christmas parade at the hands of her own husband. A fitting end to the story, if you ask me. But the only bad thing that happened was getting frostbite in my hand. We'll just chalk that up to staying in character because going above and beyond is what I do. Obvi.

To be perfectly fair, the bobble head wasn't really hideous...I mean, for a bobble head...and in retrospect, maybe bobble head Elsa was more believable than The Soprano's Elsa, and probably slightly less scary.

The bottom line is, all good came from this entire saga, despite my husband's feelings on the matter. Or my grandson's. My client. The UPS guy. Okay, mostly good came from this entire saga. I got a picture on a float with two of my grandkids aaaaand twelve hours after posting that picture on my facebook page, I got a message from one of our pastors: 'Shari- How are you at acting?' Funny you should ask...

Guess who's The Virgin Mary in our church's Christmas Eve Eve Service? They said they'd provide the costume. Ron thinks I should go ahead and let them do that.

Give me some credit. I'm not gonna go rogue with the Virgin Mary costume. Unless of course it's hideous.