Homecoming Day

I've never liked American football. Let me just say I don't get it AT ALL. I have no idea why there are several "first" downs (and I don't care to have it explained to me either because I don't care). If I wanted to see a bunch of dudes barrel into each other, I'd at least watch rugby. At least in rugby you can see the guys' bulging calf muscles and buff arms without everything being hidden beneath a padded suit of armor.

I went to all the high school football games back in the day, but not to watch the games. I just went for an excuse to hang out with my friends and make a nuisance of myself. That's all we did. Make nuisances of ourselves and cheer when the crowd cheered.

I went to the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville for college and took advantage of the student discount on season tickets to the Razorbacks games. I went to the first several, thinking they'd be like high school games where me and my friends would goof off the whole time. I was wrong though. U of A students take their Hogs seriously. I tried to pay attention to the game, like everyone else, tried to understand what was going on, but just when I'd think I knew when to stand up and shout "Fifirst down!" and do the arm thing, I'd find myself doing a solo number with everyone turning to look at me and then away as if they didn't know me.

Scotland suited me well; I understand and actually like soccer (the REAL football).

All this to say, today was my high school's Homecoming day. The day we're all supposed to come back to our hometown, attend the parade and watch the football game. Since I live in my hometown again now, I didn't have to travel too far... but I still didn't go to the football game. And it's a good thing too; right about the time it would've kicked off, so did the lightning and rain. I did, however, go to the parade.

I love parades.

My kids and I rode with our friend Michael and his two kids. We found a parking space up close to the road, so the kids could sit in the trunk and watch in the shade. Or at least that was the idea. They ended up standing on the street the whole time, watching the floats from as close as possible.



While waiting for the parade to start, we took the kids to get frozen yogurt across the street. I took them there last year too (with Granny from Scotland who was here this time last year), so I'm thinking for as long as we are in this town, this will be one of our "things" - frozen yogurt before the Homecoming parade.



It was fun. I didn't expect Jaguar to sit calmly in his stroller for that long, but he sat the whole time, excitedly watching all the floats go by, waving to everyone and shouting "Bye-bye!" Sure he's my son and there might be some bias there, but he is the CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD. He just is.


My disdain for football aside....

Since Mike was driving, I offered to bring the cooler full of water bottles. I took Jaguar this afternoon to Kroger for water, and we spent the afternoon perusing the shops. I didn't intend to buy anything, but I ended up coming home with a red and white striped shirt, the kind I've been looking for to wear to my book club's Halloween get-together. The costume theme is literary mash-ups, so I'm doing a Where's Waldo? meets The Scarlet Letter to create a Where's Hester Prynne? costume. I also impulse bought Scott an extremely large tea mug with Spiderman on it. I blame Jaguar, he loves Spiderman. (This is also a Shopping Challenge confession.) I will also admit that I took Jaguar shopping in hopes of possibly finding an extremely cheap pair of trousers. I'm really not trying to brag, but I've lost a fair bit of weight in the last several months, and the downside is that my clothes don't really fit anymore. Not complaining, it's a good problem to have! In fact, I spent the whole time in the store pulling up the trousers I was wearing. So all of that to say, my ODP outfit below is only what I wore half the day. The top half is the same, but I changed trousers when I got home. The ones pictured below have actually been a little too tight until now, but I tried them on today and they fit fine. Glad I kept them!

Today I wore The Dress as a sort of midriff tank over a pink short-sleeved shirt my mother-in-law brought me last year from Primark. (I MISS PRIMARK. Someone send me some solid-colored long-sleeved shirts, the kind that are like £3 each, for Christmas.) I tied The Dress up in a little (big actually) knot on the side. I tried to knot it in the back, but it looked like a bunny tail. Erm, no. Side knot it is. I wore a pair of black pinstripe trousers, black "barefoot" running shoes and a tattoo choker necklace thing. I did not fix my hair after the gym this morning, so it's just pulled back in a tight bun with two stretchy headbands.



I felt the whole outfit was just a couple steps away from something out of Clueless, but I liked it. It was definitely a different way of wearing a dress! I'd like to imagine it was young and hip enough that if I HAD gone to the high school football game, I could've passed as a recent graduate. With this young little face and my Alicia Silverstone-inspired ensemble, why not?

Photo Credit - www.socialbliss.com

Soccer Mom Chic

I started out the afternoon wearing The Dress as simply The Dress. After going to Zumba this morning, (the first exercise class I've been to all week) I didn't really have anywhere else to go all day. The Dress as it is seemed practical. Until I remembered that Lolly has soccer practice tonight. Suddenly wearing The Dress to soccer seemed too fancy and impractical. I put on a pair of knee-length denim shorts and tucked The Dress in. The fabric is so thin, and the shorts so roomy that I didn't even need to puff The Dress out at all. I kind of liked the slim black tucked-in top look. I added my Origami Owl lockets, a pearl anklet from my aunt, my flower earrings from my brother and sister-in-law's wedding and a beaded bracelet made by my friend Paula from Scotland. I tied my hair back in a messy bun and clipped my fringe back with a sparkly diamante barrette.

And then I needed shoes. I have a few pairs of very practical shoes that would have worked. But then I saw my super high-heeled, super comfy black shoes and put them on. They are completely impractical for the soccer fields. Yet I loved it. So I'm dubbing this look the Soccer Mom Chic look.

Caution: The Following Text Contains Lots of Baddie Words

Back in the bright and sunny days of high school, I was in Forensics. My particular favourite individual events were Poetry, Duet Acting, Mime and Duet Improv. Our team travelled all over the state competing in tournaments, and we were pretty damn good. Oh, okay, I'll drop the modesty, we were awesome. Like, any time we didn't win FIRST place at a tournament, we were PISSED. We took this shiz frickin' seriously.

If the tournament was a local one, we'd now and again get a supportive parent coming along to watch us compete. One such time, my dear mother came to watch Zac and I do Improv. Zac and I were pretty good at Improv, not the top best, but we could usually manage to get to the Finals, though we didn't often win the trophy. That day, and the details are hazy, we must have really screwed up, because all I remember was this: Me storming out of the performing room with Zac at my heels, my mom in the back, and spitting furiously, 'We really FUCKED that up.'

Then I recall my whole world going cold as I realized my mom just heard me drop the f-bomb. Hard. Like Nagasaki hard. And cussing in my household - well, let's just say it was akin to losing my vocabularic virginity. In front of my mom.

She said nothing, but the tension was so dense I needed headlights to find the next round through it. Mom said nothing until the next morning after I'd thought it had all blown over, or maybe even she'd never heard it at all. Then she said with the same unnerving calm of a doctor phoning to tell you the results of your brain scan, 'I'm disappointed that you used such language.'

Kill. Me. Now. No really, I'd have rather she beat me with her hair dryer than use the D word on me.

Me and my friends winning trophies NOT on that day.

I had an interesting discussion going on over on my Facebook page. I asked if parents of teens swear in front of their kids and/or do they allow their kids to swear in front of them. The question was inspired by a post on Moms Who Drink and Swear's Facebook page. All these people were talking about how they 'cuss like a sailor' but don't dare allow their kids to swear. Many of them admitted to swearing directly in front of their kids but still put the Hell No to them returning the favour. So naturally I wanted to know if this was how all Potty Mouths felt on the subject.

In my most humble opinion, words are just words. And it's not the word itself that matters, it's the way it is used and the way it is received. I think swear words have a perfectly legitimate place in the lexicon and often drive a point home more sharply than many of its fellow adjectives/verbs/nouns. If I'd have growled, 'We really MESSED that up', well, my point would not really have gotten across. We didn't just mess up, we FUCKED up. Big difference.

Yet how it is taken by others is important to me. I really care about how others feel, and I try to respect everyone's beliefs and opinions. I don't see the point in offending people just for the sake of offending them. Or because I am 'free' to say whatever I want to say, despite how it may affect others. I think that mindset is insensitive, and truly the last thing I'd ever want anyone to call me is insensitive. I am usually surrounded by people who do not appreciate harsh language, and out of sensitivity to them, I refrain from using it. In general, I swear very little. Scott and I don't swear in front of our kids - yet - because we don't wish to hear them start swearing - yet. I don't often swear on my blog either, out of respect for my motherly readers (mom, step-mom, mother-in-law). My internal dialogue, however? Is pretty much a constant stream of fucks, shites, buggers, bloody hells, arses, bitches and tossers. I do draw the line though at the c-word (shiver) and the other f-word (ack!). Words referring to milady's undercarriage, if you get my drift.

Will I swear in front of my kids and allow them to swear in front of me? Yeah, I probably will. But like anything else, I expect them to understand its context and when and where it is acceptable to swear. (In front of Granny? No. Church? Please refrain. At the football player who could kick your ass? Best keep it to yourself.) I'd also prefer they not use it simply as a filler word between every other word, as some are wont to do. There is a whole rich language out there for us to use - try some descriptive nouns first, if you can, to fully illustrate your point. When all else fails, THEN cuss the shit out of that bitch.

I'd also prefer they not swear AT me. Just as I do not intend to ever swear AT them, I'd expect the same respect. We may fight now and then, and choice words may at times flow, but really, what's the big deal? Which is worse to say, 'This is total bullshit!' or 'You're a complete waste of space!' One has the 'bad' word in it, but the other actually hurts. Scott and I have been known to throw choice words at each other in heated moments, but we forgive each other, and I'm guessing we'll forgive our potty-mouthed angels should it come to that too.

One final thought... who decides what words are 'profanity' to begin with? I laugh about it, because what is a sweary word in the US is not necessarily a sweary word in the UK, and vice versa. What constitutes a bad word anyway? One of my best friends is from Slovakia. She uses the f-word a lot, because to her, it doesn't sound like a bad word. Same with me and the word 'bugger'. It's cute, right? 'Ass' and 'shit' are quite inappropriate in the US but 'arse' and 'shite' are euphemisms. But in the UK, 'arse' and 'shite' are pretty bad, but ass and shit are euphemisms. And then I've found this, a site where people can submit bad words. Of the submissions, along with lovely little slurs like 'assclown' and 'homodumbshit' (who says that?), are 'anus' and 'vagina'. Uh, what? How are those bad words? They are biological, scientific names for body parts, you assclown. I'm quite sure the prude who submitted those words would die of heart failure if they heard my daughters refer to their vulvas or my son to his penis. Hey, Puritan, those aren't bad words!! Save your shock for racial slurs and gay bashing.

I'll end with my favourite swear-word story. On the subject of words being bad in one culture but not another, I'll never forget the day my college French professor shut the door and announced we'd be learning French swear words. She taught us merde, casse-toi, salaud and chienne. Then a girl who was from Trinidad and Tobago raised her hand and asked, 'How do you say, Grab your mother's c*nt??'

The class, previously roaring in laughter, came to an abrupt, uncomfortable silence. The teacher was speechless. The poor girl had no idea what she'd done wrong. It was single-handedly the most awkward moment of my entire life.




My hits for this post ought to be off the charts.

Because 'Fitba Maw' Doesn't Have the Same Ring To It

I like to imagine myself as a pretty hip mum; you know, red hair, nose ring, tattoos. But since moving to America, I am quickly and frighteningly turning into a total....

SOCCER MOM.

Noooooooooooooooooo.

I mean, dudes, I drive a freaking MINI-VAN. It even has a plate on the front that SAYS 'Soccer Mom'. Yes, it's tongue-in-cheek, but is it? And my kids actually DO play soccer, so it's kind of official. I even got called a soccer mom at Fifi's Girl Scouts meeting. Yeah, because my daughter is in Girl Scouts too. What else could I possibly do to be even more Soccer Mom-y?

(I don't know, maybe start selling Pampered Chef as an Independent Consultant, and post the link for you to follow?)

(Like how I did that, there?)

Well, today was my little girlies' first soccer games.

Lolly's team kicked the other team's butts, while Fifi's team got their butts kicked. But it was all in good fun.


Lolly's team, the Lil Red Banans, played great. They may be a bunch of four year olds, but there are seriously some good players on her team. Lolly is more interested in just running around and helping up the kids who have gotten knocked over, than actually scoring a goal, but she played well. She even got in a few really good tackles and set up some nice goals.

And it was fun shouting, 'Go Bananas!!' the whole time.


Fifi's team was at a slight disadvantage. Being in the U8 division, her team somehow ended up being all 6 and 7 year olds, and they played against a team of all 8 year olds. And that team just happens to also be the team with a drill sergeant coach who works those girls as if they were playing for the Women's Internationals. Our coach is doing a good job, but he coaches like he's coaching, well, a girls' U8 team.

Regardless, Fifi's team tried hard, and Fifi even scored a goal and showed some real promise as a keeper.


Most importantly, those girls had fun today. We treated them afterwards to lunch at The Mean Pig. (September Shopping Challenge aside, as I planned this meal into our budget.)

Being a Soccer Mom (or 'Soccer Mum' with a faux English accent, as I prefer to call myself) isn't so bad when you see your kids learning a new skill, getting some exercise AND having a blast all at the same time. And besides, it could be worse; they could be playing AMERICAN FOOTBALL. Hashtag Shudder.

Rangers 2 - 2 Villareal

After the game.
Originally uploaded by superlori.

We drew. Which is better than a loss, but only slightly. Without getting into the nitty gritty, a draw is better for the away team than the home team, so Villareal still has the advantage. Now we need to do some serious butt-whooping in Spain to get through to the last eight in the League.

So - I will refrain from the play by play, and instead offer a few observations I made over the course of the night.


We were really dead close up. Row I. I think Riquelme heard me boo. Boooo!

First Observation:
Like any true supporter of a great cause, we want to pass our love for Rangers onto our children. We want the kids to follow Rangers and like football and all that. But we absolutely do NOT want our kids to develop sectarian attitudes. I’d love to treat our kids one day to football games, but what about the negative environment that, let’s be honest, is a Rangers crowd? What about all the people screaming anti-Catholic remarks and singing anti-Ireland songs? How do you explain to your child that this is wrong when it seems so much an ‘innocent’ part of supporting your football team? This is a huge issue, one that I imagine many, many people struggle with when it comes to supporting Rangers or Celtic, Hearts or Hibs, or whichever other rival teams there may be. It’s such a huge issue that I don’t really even know how to talk about it. I just don’t want our kids to develop this attitude or go around heaping abuse on people for their religious affiliation. But I want them to support Rangers for Rangers’ sake, for the football, and not for their Protestant background.

Sectarianism aside, there’s also the issue of the unbelievably coarse language and gestures that go on in a game. Now, before you start thinking too highly of me, let me say we are not above shouting abuse ourselves. Nothing like a football match to bring out the potty mouth in you. And I don’t believe swearing is wrong (in the proper context. But that’s for an entirely different post altogether.). But how does one relay this balance to a child, what is appropriate and what is not appropriate? For instance, if someone were to yell to a player, 'What the f* was that?!', I would consider that vastly more acceptable than for instance shouting to the opposing team, 'You insert sectarian slur here bastards!' Sigh. Again, it’s too big of an issue for me to deal with adequately here, one I don’t understand and can’t relate to. Sectarianism is wrong. Downright wrong. I love Rangers, I hate sectarianism. I’m an adult though, not a child, and I don’t know how to teach a child these things.


Is that Dado Prso coming up for the header? It looks like him through the blur. Anyway, I like Dado, I’m very sorry he got booked and won’t be playing in the next leg. We need him.

Second Observation:
On a lighter note, I love the camaraderie at football games, particularly Rangers games, and I love the noisiness of Rangers crowds. When we scored our two points, each was met with jumping, shouting and hugging the perfect stranger next to you in sheer exaltation. (Kinda makes you wonder why church isn’t that way, like when someone commits their life to Christ?) I love the deep booming swell of a stadium full of people (mostly men) singing or chanting or clapping or stomping in unison. Ibrox is known for its noisy supporters, and it’s even more amazing when you watch an away game on TV and the tiny corner reserved for Rangers supporters is making more noise than the entire stadium full of fans for the home team. I love that.

Last Observation:
The only actual match comments I have to make are as follows:
a) The first penalty score by Villareal so sucked. Prso handled the ball for some moronic reason and that set the tone for the whole game. Even though Lovencrands is a bit of a rocket, cheers for the equaliser!
b) This new offside rule makes no sense to me. I was just getting around to understanding the old one and then they bring in this new one and Villareal scores with it. Grr.
c) I *heart* Chris Burke. I also kinda *heart* Thomas Buffel. I hope they achieve big things.

Lori, yes, a Runner.

The first step is doing it, ya'll.

And not giving up when you plan to do it, no matter what, ya'll.

Jenny and I, we persevered. Though it was 7°C (though "feels like 2°C" according to weather.co.uk)*, pitch black, rainy and violently windy (if you've ever lived near a great mass of water, you know what kind of wind I'm talking about), we went running anyway.

It was painful, I'm not gonna lie to you. My face was stinging, my teeth were sore, my eyes were burning, and my clothes were soaked through. My lungs felt like they were inhaling daggers, but we did it anyway. Oh yeah, and my piercing? Holy YEOW.

We didn't run for long, as we were concerned about my recent sickness and fearing a reoccurrence, but the fact that we went out and did it when we said we were going to gave me a huge amount of pride and determination. We are now praying for good weather on Friday, because we darn well deserve it.

Other completely unLori plans - I'm gonna run on my lunch break on Wednesdays. Carol runs on her lunch break, and Wednesdays are the day that Jamie plays football, leaving me without a lunch partner, so I don't have anything to do those days anyway. This will give me something positive and productive to do. Even if I run alone, it will feel good to know that's what I did for lunch instead of sitting alone in a coffee shop with a cafe mocha and a book (though I'll miss the book).

Speaking of lunch, I ate a plate full of steamed vegetables and a bowl of green pea soup today. Oh yeah, I've got the fever. We won't mention the slice of chocolate cake after though - it was a kind guesture of Carol to go steal the last slice before the maths teacher yoinked it. So I had no choice but to eat it. But I think had it been up to me, I actually would've gone with the fruit salad (withOUT the cream) because I was feeling powerful.

'Mon the health!

*That's 45°F and 36°F respectively.

Fitba

Answers to the quiz are here.

I'm boring and lame so I'm just gonna do this:

1. If you are interested in alternative birthing options, click here, here or here.

2. After another ridiculous numerical hiccup (I was calling it a far harsher word early this morning in self-degredation) discovered in the magazine that now exists in thousands of copies, I looked into a possibility of there being such a thing as numerical dyslexia. No, I was being serious. Turns out, there is. Dyscalculia. No, it's not another excuse for hating math. But it really, truly (I'm not being a learning disorder hypochondriac) explains a LOT about myself.

Since only a tiny fraction of you will actually follow the link, let me just quickly say this: For someone who has difficulty telling her left from her right, reading the hands on a clock, memorizing phone numbers, performing basic addition, subtraction, multiplication, and heaven forbid division (thus necessitating counting fingers), making monetary change, performing even the simplist calculations in her head, and figuring out how to drive from point A to point B in a town she's lived in for years, BUT is generally rather intelligent, can write well, read well, understand science and generally make smashing grades.....GASP... this has completely helped me to understand myself.

Most of you will probably laugh at me and say, "Ah, we're all like that!" It doesn't really matter to me if you laugh. The main thing is, the fact that this may explain why I can feel so smart most of the time, but then feel like the world's biggest fool because I have to put my hand over my heart to figure out which is my right hand, really helps me. I was in tears to learn that I had completely miscopied a phone number in a PAID AD that was put in the magazine (and subsequently printed), considering the fact that after copying the number over, I TRIPLE-checked it and STILL didn't see the numbers copied down incorrectly. (The other mistake that has been found in the magazine was also a number issue - this time just two numbers, which I completely didn't write correctly AT ALL.) So laugh all you want, call me an LD hypochondriac, but my lifetime suspicions of having some kind of dyslexia with numbers (which I have always had a problem with, as long as I can remember) finally make sense to me and I can go (just a bit) easier on myself when I find my stupid mistakes everywhere. It will also cause me to ask for someone else's eyes to double check my numbers next time, because it's clear my dumb self can't do it. (This girl made me feel better, too. I'm so with her on the transposing, reversing or completely omitting numbers bit.

3. Wow, that was a big rant I didn't mean to go on.

4. I subscribed to the Oxford American, a magazine dedicated to the South (of the US), which has its headquarters in Conway, Arkansas, by the way. I bought the Southern Food Issue when I was in America, and I just got my first subscription issue in the mail, the summer issue - the Southern Music Issue. It came with a CD and I suppose the most interesting thing about it is The Pilgrim Travelers song, "Jesus Hits Like the Atom Bomb". Anyone, anyone? Ding ding! Yes, that was the name of the second-to-last Tripping Daisy album. I remember how Tim DeLaughter told me and the old Oswald's Pool gang that he got the name from an old gospel record, and for some crazy reason I've never thought to look it up. Now it's playing on my stereo. I wish I'd looked that up for my Tripping Daisy essay I wrote in my Folk/Music Traditions class at University. Particularly since I mention this song but didn't say who the original band was, and I can almost guarantee that good ole Robert Cochran knew it was The Pilgrim Travelers.

5. Rangers lost to Celtic. What utter crap.

6. I'm attempting to read Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh for the third time. This time, I've actually made it past page three. I get it now. I know what "wisnae" and "ootay" mean, and I know who Hibs and Hearts are, and I know Edinburgh (a bit). The book is far richer with meaning now than it ever could've been when I lived in America, so I'm glad it's just now that I'm actually reading the thing.

7. Speaking of Scottish words, and football for that matter, Scotland is playing America on Saturday. Ah'm sae intae the fitba, ah'm tellin ye man.

The Face of Football(ers)

Blogging access has been denied me at work now. I don’t know if I can live any longer.

I am currently typing up this post in Word. I will have to email it to myself and post it from home. Gah.


The most amazing thing happened to me this morning on the train. I awoke from my morning slumber as the train slowed to a stop at Glasgow Central. I looked up and saw a face I recognised. He at the same time saw me with a look of curious recognition. I got off the train, walking somewhat beside him. He continued to chat to his friend, I continued to stifle yawns. As we parted ways, we both simultaneously looked back at each other, as if to double check that we really did recognise one another, but did not say or do anything.

Why is this amazing, you may wonder? Because it is the first time since I moved here that I have seen and recognised someone from my past. I haven’t had that experience yet. So far, every face has been new, every face has been unfamiliar. But today, a face was old, familiar. Those of you who have never moved to an entirely different place where you know absolutely no one may find it difficult to understand the feeling I experienced this morning, but perhaps those of you who have been where I am will understand. The warmth in my heart of seeing someone I recognised from another time prior to this time was terrific.

The guy I saw was no one particularly special. In any other circumstance, I would’ve acted the same, doing the whole looking-to-see-if-it-was-really-the-guy-I-thought-it-was, but I wouldn’t have paid any mind to it beyond that. But today, I felt at home. I felt like a normal person who saw people she knew, like in Cabot when you go to Wal-Mart and you inevitably see someone you went to high school with. I was sad when I moved here that I’d never experience that again. But already, only a year later, it’s starting to happen for me.

(Now I say this guy is no one particularly special, but in a way, that is false. He is actually a footballer who I used to see nearly every day when I worked in the coffee shop – who always ordered a medium latte with semi-skim milk – who has played for Chelsea and several other Pro England teams. In that way, he is someone quite special! Famous, even!)

Speaking of football (perfect segue) last night I attended my first Rangers game! The ‘Gers are mine and Scott’s team, though I’ve never actually watched a game, neither live nor on TV (or even heard one on the radio). But Jamie, at work, who is an avid Rangers supporter, had two extra tickets to the cup game last night against Clyde and he invited me and Scott. Well, after an afternoon full of bad luck and disaster, Scott was unable to get into Glasgow for the game and I was unable to go home to miss the game with him, so I ended up going with Jamie by myself, which I thought would be really awkward but turned out just fine. I felt like a right prissy prissy Princess showing up at a football game in my work skirt and dress top, Scott not being able to bring my change of clothes, but luckily I was at least able to purchase a pair of flat shoes at the train station for a 10’er to replace the heels I was wearing so I didn’t look like a complete priss (imagine going to the football in high heels!). And I know most of the rules of football (by the way, this is football as in soccer, for you Americans who aren’t thinking like a European) so I didn’t have to ask every three minutes, “What just happened? Why are we cheering? What team are we again? Which net-thing are we trying to kick the ball into? Was that us who just scored??”, which would’ve been probably what everyone around us was expecting me to do. But instead I watched intently, and I understood every play, except the off-sides rule, which I still don’t get. Oh, and I didn’t notice the time clock so at half-time when everyone jumped up and started cheering, I really was confused because I didn’t see anything on the pitch actually happen worth cheering for. It wasn’t until the players all filed off the pitch that I realised why we were cheering. But that’s all just football-virginity innocence, and I ain’t no football virgin no more!

Oh, I also felt like a football virgin when we came up to the stadium and I had Jamie’s friend’s season pass in my hand and the security guy asked to look in my bag but I didn’t know what he was saying so I showed him the card (which has no photo or anything on it, I’m so dumb) and he just looked at me like I was an idiot and repeated that he needed to see my bag. “Oh right, to make sure there’s no drink in it.” I said. “No, to make sure there are no guns.” “Ah, haha… Right. No, no guns, just a pair of shoes.” Gah, I’m an idiot. Where do I think I am, Cabot, Arkansas, watching the CHS Panthers beat Fort Smith?

At any rate, I loved it! The action, the crowd, the excitement, the whole atmosphere was brilliant! And it helps that I understand the game. I knew when to cheer and when to throw my hands up in the air and yell, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” The game got really intense in the second half when we were 1-1 with Clyde, then it got more so when Clyde scored another goal. Glaswegians are amazing. Some of the things they were shouting were straight out of a movie! It was brilliant, foul-mouthed, smoke-filled fun. I wanted to get in on the shouting, too, but I felt so patently American that I was a bit reserved. But once the heat was really on, I found myself shouting things like “C’mon! C’mon, boys!” (A few times I nearly shouted, “Atta boy!” but then I’d remember this wasn’t baseball, nor Arkansas.) Granted, the rest of the crowd was shouting Scottish Ranger-y things like “Mon, Gers!”, “Mon, Bears!” “Ya f***ing lazy b*stards!” and the like, but I couldn’t really get into that. At any rate, it was great fun, and basically, I’m addicted to football.

We won, 5-2, gaining 3 goals in overtime. I love the football.