Lazy Sundays


It's football season and that means lazy Sundays! As much as I am go, go, go, I love to curl up on the couch and do nothing. It is only when the gridiron games begin that life slows a little and affords me the luxury of spending an entire day at home - we cannot miss games you know. Everyone needs their "thing" to help them relax, center their Chi, all of that stuff. And lazy Sundays are mine.

Yesterday was my first lazy Sunday of the season though football has been in full swing for six weeks. Finally a free weekend with no plans, no work that needs to be done - just a relaxing do-whatever-I-want day. Normally, I dread Sundays because that it is one day away from Monday, which means the work week is about to start all over again. But not when it comes to Autumn Sundays -- and this Sunday rocked! Not only did the Steelers route the Chiefs to over come their horrid slump, but I discovered that I am enthralled with the Carter Family.

Yes as sad as it sounds, I watched a mini-marathon of the "House of Carters," the reality show about Nick Carter of Backstreet Boy fame and his siblings. Though I am not a boy band fan and am hard pressed to know the difference between a Backstreet Boy or N'Sync song, I do not think I can get enough of this family. It is basically because they are all f***ed up, for lack of a better term (though this is probably the most appropriate terminology).

I spent Sunday afternoon curled up on the couch in sweats, eating junk food and watching this show. I discovered it upon attempting to kill time before Steeler kick off. I will blame "The Soup" for introducing me to this far-from-a-masterpiece of programming. After watching "the Soup" replay on Sunday I left the channel there too long. That is when "House of Carters" started to air. I was just fascinated by the turmoil this family was going through.

The episode in question revolved around the Carters' mother -- though I only know of the situation was producers want me to know, I found it eerily familiar to my own maternal entanglement. What makes it more crazy is that for all the money Nick Carter (the patriarch by elimination) has, they are handling their problem poorly, which makes me feel a hell of a lot more stable knowing that my not-as-rich ass is mentally equipped to handle a psychotic mother (as well as smart enough to know not to air it on national T.V.). Plus the show is a wonderful dichotomy between someone who only wants his siblings to see him as their brother while his actions are as dictatory as that of a father figure. I mean if you were a psych major or professional, analyzing this family would certainly get you an article in some medical journal.

With this kind of screwed up entertainment, I not only look forward to my cozy, football-filled Sundays because of the sweet release they bring, but now I have a more on my plate to watch than just quarterbacks being sacked!

Damn Yankees

Apparently, I am a southerner. Though I do not have a drawl, know what homney is or drink Jack Daniels like water, I am a southerner. At a recent dinner with an out-of-town co-worker, he explained that just because West Virginia succeeded from Virginia, that did not make us (my WV colleagues) northerners. We, however, believe differently.

First off, I typically tell folks that I cannot be a southerner because technically, I am from Pittsburgh. However, the majority of my life has been spent in Wheeling, W.Va. -- and by majority, I mean all but the first three years I have been on this earth and the four spent in college (in PA of course).

Also, I have no southern accent. I do not say "y'all" or anything of the sort. If you want to accuse me of having any accent, I will resort back to my 'Burgh connections. Occasionally when speaking fast (which as those who know me is really all of the time), I will say dahn instead of down and have referred to Bologna as jumbo. When I started college, there was one other West Virginian in the freshman class. She was from dahn south, way past the Mason Dixon (oh, another reason I am not southern, I am at least 30 miles above that line). She sounded just so sweet with her drawl. I was constantly asked why I did not speak like her. Funny, isn't it. You try and pride yourself on speaking clearly and in a manner understandable to all, but yet I was obviously the freak for not representing.

But let me get back on track. My co-worker is not the only one who believes this, though. A recent CMT show touted the sexiest southern country singers and listed John Corbett (if you can actually call him a singer). Though older than me, he lived in the same neighborhood as me (which is only 40 minutes outside of Pittsburgh), went to the same high school as me, and never used a southern accent in any speech I have heard him give until he was invited to perform at Jamboree in the Hills this past summer. If you have ever seen him in interviews or on TV or in the movies, he is not a country boy.

If you ask anyone I work with, really anyone who lives in the Upper Ohio Valley, we are northerners. Heck, you do not even see rebel flags flying until you are on top of the Mason Dixon line. Again, I do not see my self as country folk. Though at times I can be friendly, I do not pride myself on southern hospitality. I am proud to see myself as a northerner, hell, I am a damn Yankee (and not of the George Steinbrenner kind).