Why I love sports

If you get the chance, read Rick Reilly's column in last week's issue of Sports Illustrated. While Reilly certainly has his critics, I find his weekly rants mostly amusing. But if I were making $2 million per year, I probably could find a way to be funny, too.

Last week's column discussed how sports is more than just a game. Sports allow us to band together with strangers for a common cause (victory, recognition, hatred of Houston Nutt, etc.). There's little gray area in sports, with clear winners and losers. And it's okay to dislike someone for his or her athletic allegiances.

Want to get someone's dander up? Simply don a baseball cap with a rivalry's logo. Just ask LeBron James about that. Three years ago my nephew's friend dared wear a Longhorns cap to an Arkansas vs. Texas game, and let me tell you, Hog fans aren't afraid to shout obscenities at elementary school students. Especially after a loss.

I've been thinking a lot about why a lot of us (mostly men) are so obsessed with sports. Why we eat breakfast during "Mike and Mike" on the Duece and dinner to "SportsCenter" on the original. My best guess is that sports allow us to believe in something. To have heroes. To watch mere mortals accomplish great feats. To cheer for a team simply because our grandfather liked them. Because, at the end of the day, we all want to be winners. Or at least cheer for them.

Which leads us to the good news of the day... guess whose two favorite teams are now ranked first and second in the NFL? Boy, it's a good NFL season to be me.

Idiot, party of one

As you may recall, I've gone two months without a car payment. That's 60 days of waiting for the first major mechanical problem that would incur a huge bill or necessitate purchasing a new car. For the first time in my life, I'm devoid of new car envy. As I cruise down the street and see a woman in a shiny new BMW, my first thought is no longer, "Her car is cooler than mine," but rather, "Man, I'd hate to have that payment." I've matured so much in my old age. And my five-year-old, paid-for TrailBlazer is looking pretty good to me right now.

But still, the moment that I wrote that final check, I just knew something would go wrong... engine failure, transmission explosion, leaking oil.... so imagine my dismay when, last Friday, my "check engine soon" light came on.

Keep in mind that, although I watch SportsCenter daily and like to hold the remote, my testosterone stops when it comes to anything mechanical. In high school, when they made the entire class take the ASVAB, my mechanics score was less than 40. Really. It's for things like this that I will someday get married. I can see me, at the altar, and someone in the congregation leans over to one of my friends and says, "What's their story? Was it love at first sight? Did he sweep her off her feet?" Friend replies, "Nope. He changed her oil and squashed a bug."

I realize this morning that my oil gauge is a bit sporadic and I haven't changed the oil since April (in my defense, that's only 5,000 miles). So I stopped to get a change at lunch hoping that would cure my "check engine" issue. Not only did my oil need to be changed, they had to add two extra quarts (oops) and change my really gross air filter. So I'm down 72 bucks and confident that my light will no longer be on.

Wrong. It's still on. Seriously, I can't afford a $500 car issue. So, with trepidation, I stop to get gas after work and I realize that (wait for it...) my gas cap was loose. And when I tightened it, the "check engine" light went off.

I am an idiot. Mostly because I'm the girl who's actually taken this very vehicle in for service and the mechanic, trying not to laugh, had to inform me that my gas cap was loose.

But at least it wasn't an expensive problem. And I don't have to change my oil 'til '08.

What is it they say about rainy days and Mondays?

It's gonna be a lovely day

Do you ever just get up and know it's going to be a good day?

My dad woke me up at 7 a.m. (and I was actually grateful, since I forgot to set my alarm) to tell me that the Bears were #1 on SportsCenter's top 10. Our offense looked unstoppable last night.

And my good pal Ashley is preggers! I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a girl, since Larry Jr. Jr. probably would not look good in pink.

Hooray for Friday! It's gonna be a lovely day.

Ride 'em, Cowboys!

I was on my third cup of coffee before 8 a.m. this morning. Why? Because I was woken up not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES last night, and I'm very sleepy.

After a nice dinner at Mike's last night to commemorate my boss' last week, I headed home to settle in for a good, old fashioned butt whoopin' of the Bills. Um, that didn't happen.

Romo threw four INTs before half (two of which were ran back for TDs), and the undefeated Cowboys appeared to be caught looking ahead to next week's showdown with the Pats. So when the Bills went ahead 24-14, I gave up and went to sleep.

My pal Ryan called at 11 p.m. to talk some smack about the "Cowgirls" (his term). His glee was short-lived as the impossible happened... on-side kick and not one but TWO 50+ yard field goals made to win the game for America's team.

One of the bloggers on si.com called it the "greatest regular season game I've ever seen." I don't know about that. Exciting? Yes. The sloppiest game that the winning team didn't deserve to claim? Perhaps. The #1 play on SportsCenter's top 10? Absolutely. But the best game ever? Doubtful. The best game would infer that someone deserved to win. Last night's game was a showcase of who wanted to give away the game more... the Cowboys who had six turnovers, or the Bills, who only had three offensive points.

We'll take the "W." And deserved or not, the 'Boys are 5-0 for the first time in over two decades.

So I finally got back to sleep after midnight. The cat woke me up for attention (and subsequently being thrown off the bed) at 3 a.m., at which time I reset my alarm for 7 a.m. My dad called at 6:35 a.m. to talk about the game.

See, I do dearly love my Cowboys, but let's talk about it when I'm awake, okay?

And for those of you waiting for my "Bachelor" reviews, my apologies. Monday night's when my testosterone leaks out and I trade giggling girls for bumbling commentators. Sorry, Emmitt. Perhaps you should stick to the paso doble.