1985. That was the year one of the worst teams in football (so sayeth The Bleacher Report’s Doug Baker), actually made it to the Super Bowl. It was my first year in California. I was living in San Diego, with my boyfriend, the one would eventually become my first husband, and we were invited to a Super Bowl party. We had made some friends, none of them close; none of them the kind that would prove to be lasting. It was the year of the Super Bowl Shuffle, William “the Refrigerator” Perry, and the 46 defense. The Chicago Bears went 15 and 1 that year. In the Super Bowl they met the New England Patriots who were aging and not very good. Steve Grogan was under center. He remains one of the few names some people still remember from the team. He threw one touchdown pass to the other somewhat memorable name, Irving Fryar. The rather lopsided score was 46 – 10.

I was a Patriots fan, having spent my high school and college years in the land of jumbled consonants and flattened vowels. The land of Kennedy, John Adams, and Jed Bartlet, the fictional president who would come much later. I remained a Pats fan through the many dark years that followed. When the oughts finally arrived, a new era seemed to arrive with them. It was as if having double zeros and the start of a new century gave my hapless team a chance at re-birth, and what emerged has been fairly successful. Starting especially with the 2001 season, when a then second-string quarterback took the team to the Super Bowl, it has been a ride we New Englanders enjoy to the point of distraction. 

I remember watching the Patriots take the field in 2002 in their silver, red and blue as a team rather than with traditional single player introductions. I was so proud. This was after the horror of September 11, 2001 and seeing a team named the Patriots take the field as one seemed symbolic. We were all patriots, Americans, one. New England went on to win 20-17. The dynasty was born. 

Tomorrow the Patriots will take the field again, their seventh with Tom Brady under center. And I have mixed feelings. 

Most people not living in or from New England hate the Patriots. They think they’re cheaters, they think they’re arrogant. They hate Brady and his super model wife. They hate coach hoodie. As Jack Hamilton, a writer for Slate magazine, wrote yesterday in his article How to Pull for the Patriots in the Age of Trump, “hating the Patriots is perhaps the last truly bipartisan pastime in America.”

Therein lie my mixed feelings. I have loved my team for a long time, through the very bad and through the exceptionally good, but this year, the fact that Tom Brady had a Make America Great Again hat in his locker bugs me. The fact that Belichick wrote a letter to the man who fancies himself king bugs me. The fact that Robert Kraft considers the toddler a friend bugs me – less than the Brady thing bugs me but it still bugs. Like most New Englanders, I am not a fan of the current occupant of the White House. Every state in New England voted for Hillary Clinton; Massachusetts, where the Patriots live and play, was the only state in the country where every single county was blue. It’s hard to support the team when they support the travesty that has overtaken our once great country. And actually, that’s not fair. Not all of the players support the toddler. Martellus Bennett, the star tight end in his first year with the Pats who has become a fan favorite, has already said that if the Pats win today he won’t be making the ceremonial trip to the White House. Brady didn’t go to the White House in 2015 when they beat the Seahawks. It bugged me but I managed to excuse it. It doesn’t look so good now. 

Hamilton wrote: “So not only is there a high probability that the typical Trump supporter hates the Patriots, there are an awful lot of Patriots supporters who hate Trump, too.” Count me as one, though I prefer the word “loathe.” It’s more guttural. 

So what’s a Pats fan to do when the men at the helm of the beloved team appear to support a man I loathe? A man so utterly contemptable and cruel? Honestly, I don’t know. I realize that this is only a game, but it’s such a symbol, so symptomatic of a bigger issue. Democracy versus authoritarianism. The Patriots, like all teams in football, have an authoritarian bent. Belichick is king. What he says is law, in the locker room and on the field. The players fall in line or they get kicked to Cleveland. It has worked for 17 years. 

But now, here I am. Today we’re going to a party. In Arizona, the Toddler in Chief isn’t as universally reviled as he is in Massachusetts and New England. But the Pats are reviled for all of the reasons stated above. Since I’ve lived here, I have proudly worn my Patriots attire in public and I’ve taken a lot of guff about it. Today I’ll pull my #12 NFL jersey over my head but I won’t have the same joy. I love my team and I hate myself for it. 

As Hamilton’s article said: “… rooting for the Patriots feels like rooting for the Joker in a Christopher Nolan Batman film—they’re psychotically single-minded, amoral, gallingly narcissistic, purveyors of opportunistic, meticulous chaos. 

To me it feels a little like this:

My husband loves to mispronounce words. He does it on purpose, mostly to aggravate me. And mostly I let him do so. Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, and an English major before that, but I’m a stickler for proper spelling and proper pronunciation. I strive to do both; sometimes I succeed. Usually when I don’t it’s not on purpose, as opposed to the husband unit.

We’ve been engaging in this dance for quite some time. Whenever I bring it up he usually tells me that it has something to do with some comedian named Norm Crosby who evidently made a fairly decent living mispronouncing things. In fact, Crosby was known as a master of the malapropism, the use of an incorrect word resulting in a “nonsensical, often humorous utterance.” So sayeth Wikipedia. So sayeth my husband, too, a man well-practiced in the art of the malaprop. 

Yesterday, in the shower, he started talking about anadotal evidence. I don’t know what the original conversation was about, and it was probably about politics, because as soon as he said anadotal, my mind went blank and my brain started to steam. 

“Anadotal,” I said in a tone so flat as to be shoe leather. 

“Yep,” he said, scrubbing shampoo into his hair. “Ana Dotal. She sat in front of me in 4^th grade.” 

“Anadotal. Ana Dotal. So… the c is silent?” 

He grinned and stepped under his shower head to wash the suds away and down the drain. 

So we have anadotal evidence of things that aren’t necessarily true or based on fact, much like our current administration. There is no truth or fact because we are living in the world of alternative facts and truthy truths. 

Which leads me to today in the desert. I was in the bedroom, making the bed, or cleaning up or doing something worthwhile when I heard Kevin call to me. He sounded full of angst and/or pain. I came out quickly, wondering what could possibly be the matter. He was grimacing, standing in a weird position, with his body thrust forward, his butt pushed back. 

“What?” I asked, concerned. “Are you ok?” 

“Is there something…” he turned around… “here?” Stuck to his pants was a rather chunky piece of cholla. 

“Yep,” I said, laughing. “Want me to remove it?”

He glared at me. I grinned back.

The cholla I pulled out of the husband-unit's butt

Anecdotally, the husband unit had a piece of cactus stuck to his butt. It meant something, likely that he should stay away from cholla, and that he shouldn’t put his butt in places it doesn’t belong.

Anadotally, of course.

I am not a hunter. Not only am I not a hunter, I don’t like hunting; I don’t approve of it. Once upon a time, hunting was done to feed a person’s family. I still don’t like it, but I do understand that. However, to feed your family these days, you go to the grocery store. There really isn’t a reason to hunt.

Most people hunt for fun. Big game hunters hunt for trophies. As an animal lover, I am appalled. I know that many animals in the wild are dangerous. But they’re dangerous because they need to protect themselves; they need to assert their place in the kingdom. People like the Toddler’s sons who hunt for fun make me physically ill. The dentist several years ago that shot Cecil the Lion was a source of visceral anger. I know I was – am – not alone.

Years ago, when George W was president and Darth Vader was his veep, the latter went duck hunting and shot his friend in the face. It seemed to define the very sport, and I use the term loosely. Duck hunting where the duck wasn’t shot but the perpetrators – or in the case perpetrator – were. Perfect. 

Duck hunting is the practice of hunting duck, geese or other water birds for food and sport. In western countries, like our oh-so-fine US of A, water bird hunting is prohibited and duck hunting is simply an outdoor sport. 

Which leads me to today. 

Riley has a stuffed duck. He got it a while ago and I have no real recollection when. He has opened it up several times, dutifully pulling out the stuffing and depositing it in a pile to the side. Kevin has then dutifully restuffed the duck and sewn it back up. 

Today, Riley took Duck out onto the deck. Every morning, after we return from our walk, he grabs a toy while I grab a cup of coffee and runs to the door in my office, requesting access to said deck. He pushes out the door before it’s even open, and whips his toy back and forth while growling. Then he usually drops the toy and settles down. For some reason, today the toy – Duck – found its way off the deck and down onto the rocks below. I went out to retrieve the dog and his guy, but there was no “guy.” I went to the railing. There was Duck, down below. 

“I’m going Duck hunting,” I announced as I came back in only to go out the front door. I made my way down the swale to retrieve duck and brought him back to Riley. A while later, Riley and Duck went back out onto the deck. I went down the hill to take care of my neighbor’s dogs. It was 12:30. When I came back, Riley was standing at the railing looking at me and then looking down below. Duck. Down.

I went duck hunting twice today. Both times I was successful. I admit that I liked it. If everyone hunted ducks like I did and do, the world would be a better place.

Yesterday, we had a fairly normal Sunday morning after a chaotic Saturday. We woke up and decided that we’d stay in bed for a while. Kevin got us some coffee and tossed me the remote. We watched AM Joy on MSNBC with Joy Reid, who we really like. We bopped around to some other channels, and finally got up around 10:30. We did some stuff around the house, fed the dog. I started laundry. We made another pot of coffee. After we had brunch, I turned on the television so we could watch the NFC championship game between the Green Bay Packers and the Atlanta Falcons. I punched in channel 11, Fox. And got a screen that said the channel was unavailable. I called DirecTV and asked what was up and they told me they were in negotiations with the networks and that the games wouldn’t be available. 

Games? GAMES? What do you mean games? What about my Patriots? Is that not going to be on either? I grabbed the remote and turned to CBS. Same screen. 

I melted down. I ranted and raved. I screamed and yelled. Now I realize in the general scheme of things, not being able to watch a football game is minor. There is certainly enough happening in the world – hell, just in the country – that is of major concern. Not seeing the Patriots is very small. I know that. I knew that. 

But it was the last straw. Every month, I pay DirecTV a lot of money. And in return, they give us a bunch of crappy channels. And we’ve been taking this abuse for too long. You may recall that I threatened to get an antenna and do away with all of this corporate bureaucracy. 

Yesterday, we did. 

After my rant – also posted on Facebook – Kevin went to Radio Shack and bought an HD antenna, brought it home, put it together and then, to test proof-of-concept, hooked it up to a 13” flat screen TV we usually keep in the shop in the garage, and turned it on. We got nothing. 

Then it occurred to me that I probably had to reset something in the menu items, so I did, and then set the channel scanner which recorded a number of channels that were available via the antenna, most in high definition. Once it finished scanning I turned to CBS, and there was the game. My Patriots. Who had a helluva game which, I’m sure, is completely coincidental to the fact that I got to watch it via antenna rather than satellite.

I said to Kevin that maybe the reason that DirecTV was being such jerks was just the catalyst we needed to finally do what we’ve been threatening to do for months. We now have an antenna. Granted it’s in the living room, but it’s a start. This week, we’re cancelling DirecTV, and on Saturday, we’re going up on the roof to remove the satellite and replace it with the antenna.

But we did it. We bought an antenna. And it works. Soon we’ll be watching “free” TV and living it out loud.

For Christmas, Kevin got a new camera. When we were in Paso Robles for Thanksgiving, Roy – who is a photography genius – had Kevin use his Nikon Coolpix to see if he liked it. Both of them also have regular big Nikon cameras, but this is a uni-body, with an amazing zoom, and a large view screen. It puts the old Coolpix, which Roy had, too, to shame. 

At Christmas, Roy and Bobbi gave Kevin his own Coolpix. It’s even the same color as Roy’s, kind of a metallic dark purple. It’s just a great camera, something I could probably even use should I feel the need to take photos with anything other than my iPhone, which works pretty well for me. 

Ever since Christmas, Kevin has been experimenting with the camera, figuring out different settings, and how best to create clear, beautiful photos. He loves it, it’s easy to use, and the photos it takes are really remarkable. The zoom feature is actually better than the zoom lens he currently has for his other Nikon. He’s like a kid in a candy store. 

The other day, we had tremendous fog and he was able to get some wonderful photos of it as it drifted in and up to surround the house. The next day, when it was still cold and damp, he took a great shot of a power plant’s steam as it rose up through the morning and into the clouds. The plant is 15 miles or so away. It looked like a bomb had gone off (a reality that seems to be coming more and more likely… at least after the horror that happens this Friday). 

The following morning, we had deer. At least five of them traversed the back hillside, slowly, deliberately and elegantly. Every time we see them, and it happens fairly frequently, we stop whatever we’re doing and watch them. They’re just beautiful creatures. While Riley whined and wished to be out there with them, Kevin grabbed his camera. He took a bunch of photos as they meandered across the hill, munching and enjoying they day. 

I hadn’t seen the photos until this morning when he downloaded them onto his computer. He called me in and we looked through them. Some were out of focus, some were hard to decipher, others just showed the deer butts as they ascended the hill. But then he happened on one and he stopped. He started to laugh. 

“Is that deer wearing makeup?” he asked. 

I got closer to the screen and it did, in fact, look like she was all deered up for a day on the town. Or hill. 

“It looks like she got ready this morning and is just out, strutting her stuff, showing off how pretty she is,” he said.

She was pretty, and definitely something to celebrate.  

At 7 o’clock this morning, I rose up from my snuggly bed and looked out the big windows in the master bedroom. It had been pouring for hours. I could hear it pinging and pounding on the skylight in the bathroom. Sunrise wasn’t until 7:24 but the darkness had given way to a bright gray, brighter than I expected. The entire valley below was fog. I couldn’t see anything but the glowing air. 

There’s something so isolating about fog. It seemed to wrap up the house in a veil of wet gauze, keeping it safe from everything by keeping it completely separated. Our house is up on a hill. Normally when it’s dark, we see nothing but lights, from the sparse house lights near us to the distant barrage of twinkle in the city. It’s comforting, because even though we like to be away from it all, we still like to know that it’s there. This morning there were no lights; no light. 

The fog stayed all day, ebbing and flowing like a tide. The rain continued, too, sometimes hard, sometimes just a drizzle, but constant and comforting, as was the blanket of air.

We made a nice breakfast, had a fire going in the fireplace nearly all day. The temp never rose above 46º outside but it was warm in the house. On the mountains above and beyond us, it snowed. We couldn’t see it because of the fog that kept rolling over the hill and blanketing the house. I wondered how it looked from our neighbors below, to know that there was a house above them and not be able to see it. Such an odd feeling. With fog, it’s as if what you know to be true has suddenly disappeared. Of course, a great many of us feel that way right now about a great many things. 

For a long time, I had George Winston Radio playing through Pandora. His piano is always so melancholy, and yet not depressing. It seemed the perfect accompaniment to the fog. I did laundry. I put some chicken in the crock pot for later. 

We watched football and did some work. I caught up on some of the projects I’ve been behind on; Kevin worked on a couple of small house things, and then moved on to his truck. He loves that thing, rightly so. It has such character, and while it needs a bit of work, it still looks and runs great. Today’s project: removing the front brush guard in order to repaint it. 

Outside the rain continued. The dog, at first thinking he was being punished because we didn’t allow him out on the deck (way too wet), finally settled down into his bed, curled up and slept the day away. 

Today we were socked in, isolated from the world. It was just the three of us, up here where no one could see us, and we loved it. A perfect Sunday to live it out loud.

I am a proud if frustrated democrat. I always have been and always will be. I have proudly worked to help elect presidents and sometimes I have gone to bed elated and sometimes in tears. When Kevin changed parties in 2004, not because of me but because of the rise of the frightful right, I told him I was sorry. Being a democrat is not fun. We're more caring and less full of fight; we want to help others and not leave people in the ditch; we believe in climate change and that the earth is still round. We believe in people rather than corporations and we don't believe that corporations are people.

We regularly sit in the corner and eat our hair. So I told him, grow it out, baby, and pull up a wall.

Through all the good and the crap, I remain a democrat, proudly, even when I live surrounded by wealthy Republicans; even when I reside in a red state.

I have watched in horror the incoming group of people. I can't quite get myself to call it an administration because to administer you have to know what you're doing; you have to care. I have stomped my feet and screamed and yelled. I have pulled at my hair and gritted my teeth. I have lost sleep. I have and remain angry.

But tonight, was proud. Tonight, I cried. I watched President Obama's final address to the country, and from the moment BJ The Chicago Kid sang the national anthem, until the announcer said "Ladies and Gentleman, the 44th president of the United States" I've been in tears. Barack Hussein Obama strode onto the stage and I lost it. This man, this amazing man, who I worked to elect twice, is our president for the next nine day, my president for much longer. I was and remain proud to call him Mr. President. I was and remain emotional about it.

I cried the night he was elected, too. I remember standing in the great room of our house in Oak Park. Standing because we were too nervous and excited to sit, watching MSNBC, watching the returns, listening, waiting. And then at 8 o’clock, as the polls closed in California, Brian Williams came back on the air and said: “We have news.” Kevin popped the champagne and we cried. We watched him and his phenomenal family walk out on the stage in Grant Park, Chicago. We listened to his acceptance speech. And we cried.

I know I will never see another like him. We will never see a man like him, a president like him; a family like theirs. I can only hope that our son will. Because for eight years I have been proud. For eight years I have felt safe. For eight years, I had hope.

And for eight years I, we, all were able to celebrate and live it out loud.

In the United Kingdom, 60% of people eat dinner in front of the telly. I don’t have the figures for this country though I would venture to say that at least 75% of us eat in front of the television. Kevin and I do nearly every night. The exception tends to be Friday or Saturday, but rarely both, holidays and when we have company. We rarely even turn the television on when we have company.

I don’t know when the practice started but it was sometime when Justin was little and we lived in Oak Park. We had a rectangular coffee table between the two couches. Each night, we’d all sit on the floor with our legs under the table, Japanese style. It went on that way for years. Then Kevin hurt his back so getting down on the floor to eat was difficult at best and painful at worst. In shop class at school, Justin made us a wooden serving tray. It was for use when we entertained, like on Thanksgiving when we always had a houseful of people, but Kevin quickly commandeered it for use as a TV tray. Several years later, I got my own tray for Christmas. It was long after Justin had left for college. It was just the two of us, and our habits hadn’t changed. Each night, we’d fix our plates in the kitchen, with whatever we were eating, and then settle ourselves on opposite sides of the table, on opposing couches. 

It’s a practice we continue here. We have a routine. As I cook dinner, he gets the two trays out of the pantry, puts a placemat on each, and then sets them as mini-tables. A napkin, and whatever eating utensils we need. Forks and knives usually. Sometimes chopsticks for me if we’re having Chinese food. Then he gets out two plates and puts them on the center island. When I’m done cooking whatever I’m cooking, I arrange the food on the plates, put each on a tray and then off we go to the Great Room, still sitting on opposite couches, though now those couches are perpendicular.

Last night was no different than most, other than we were having something terribly healthy – grilled chicken Caesar salad. Kevin worked the grill, also part of his job. I fixed the salad which consisted of romaine lettuce, diced tomatoes, a bit of onion and shaved parmesan cheese. Once the chicken was done, I sliced it and arranged it on the portions of lettuce, drizzled some of Ken’s Creamy Caesar dressing on top, added some fresh ground pepper and then Kevin took his plate and I took mine, and we adjourned to the couches. It was then that I realized what had happened. 

I looked at him. 

“What?” he asked.

“That’s my tray,” I said.

We sat there, eating our salads, watching Madam Secretary, me coveting my tray.

“Do you want to switch?” he asked, raising his plate.

“No, of course not,” I said, even though I secretly did. I like my tray; I’m used to it. It fits well on my lap, and it’s mine.

Can you covet your own TV tray? Last night, I was doing just that, and then I realized the ridiculousness of it, and the retentiveness of me. And I laughed out loud.

We have been conditioned to believe that the only reason something bad happens to a person is because of poor habits, bad karma, or family history. The medical profession perpetuates the latter by asking questions on the forms we have to fill out prior to seeing someone for something or nothing at all. Is there a family history of… heart disease, cancer, ingrown toenails? I understand this because sometimes genetics are involved. Family history can lead to genetic testing and you might find out you possess a BRCA gene. BRCA1 and BRCA2 are genes that produce tumor suppressor proteins that help repair damaged DNA. When these genes mutate, they don’t function correctly and they can lead to breast and ovarian cancer. 

That’s a rudimentary explanation. Essentially, gene mutations aren’t good. You get your genes from your heritage, your family history. It’s genetic. And therefore, family history matters. 

Except when it doesn’t. 

I’ve gotten very cynical as I’ve gotten older, about everything, including health and medicine. I know that the biggest risk of developing breast cancer, for instance, is age. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with whether your Aunt Bertha had it. It just happens. 

But as humans, we need a reason and when something bad happens, we want to know why and sometimes to assign blame. My mom has said to me in the past, when discussing things like health care and even cancer, that we don’t have a history of that in the family. We don’t. And yet, there’s never history of anything until it happens. Until someone does it first, and then blammo, history has been made.

So much of what happens to us is random. There is no reason, no matter how hard we try to find one, to assign one. My friend Lisa’s son has had cancer twice. I think he’s 14 now. Why did that happen? It just did. Why does someone who’s smoked two packs of cigarettes every day for 40 years not get lung cancer but someone who’s never smoked a single butt get diagnosed and die within a year? 

I suppose I’m pragmatic. If it happens, you deal with it. There is no other choice, not really. You can curl up into a ball, push yourself into the corner and eat your hair, but it’s not going to help change the fact that you’ve just made history. You’ve just changed your family’s history forever. 

My nephew is in the hospital again. On New Year’s Eve they rushed him to Children’s Hospital in Boston because he had a bowel obstruction. It turned out that he was a rare case, an 11-year-old, who still had a small piece of his umbilical cord inside and his intestines, in trying to expel it, ended up wrapping themselves around it so tight nothing else could get through. Another rudimentary explanation of something called Intussusception. He had surgery and was discharged several days later only to develop a raging infection so they’re back in Boston and Caden is on a high-dose antibiotic drip. He should be able to go home Monday morning. I was talking to my sister this morning. She’s exhausted. Drained, is the word she used. Even so, she realizes that when this is over, after a not too long while, they’ll all forget about it and move on. What happened to Caden isn’t genetic. It’s more like a freak occurrence. But he has history now, even though it probably won’t happen again and if he has children, he won’t pass it on to them. 

History happens when one day passes into another. It can make us look back fondly or with fear. But it is there, always. Today will be history soon. There won’t be any evidence of it until it happens, until it changes the course of a life, however mildly, however small.

History happens, and we embrace it, or not. But it becomes part of us, for the better and often for the worse, but it helps us to understand more as we muddle through this journey called life and living it out loud today so that someone someplace tomorrow can say “I heard you loud and clear.”

I heard a new term today. I was at the salon, sitting with color in my hair, and the girls were all talking about feeling obligated to watch a show they no longer like because they've already invested so much time in it. I smiled because I understood the phenomenon. But I admit, I also smiled because I thought what they were talking about was going to be about something else, especially given the current state of the world, of politics and of our screwed up system in general.

The new term was hate watching. I thought it was the act of watching nasty people do horrible things to other people. It would make sense. Like those four teenagers in Chicago who tortured another and broadcast it live on Facebook. That's hate and those who watched it without doing anything about it we're watching hate in real time. I don't know all the details but I do know that the police were able to press charges against the four perpetrators. I think I read where they were actually being detained on another charge.

We are a country of voyeurs. We watch. We're embarrassed by the sappy and romantic and horrified by the horrific but we stay in our lanes; we don't disturb our own peace. We wallow and marinate in all of it.

Kevin and I are voyeurs. We sit behind our glass walls or stand out on our deck and we watch the comings and goings in Mira Vista Estates. We see neighbors come and go; we see when delivery trucks are headed in and up our hill, or to anyone else. We know when someone gets a visitor or a new car; we see who's walking their dog when. We watch but in this case we don't hate. There's no reason to. We like our neighbors and we love where we live.

In the salon today, Meg was talking about how she watched the first season of Scandal and how she was completely hooked. Couldn't wait for the second season. But when that second season premiered, she didn't like it as well. She kept watching though because she felt invested, and guilty for not liking it. It's sort of like having a good friend you don't really want to spend time with anymore. You feel guilty because you have history; because that person - or show - mattered. It meant something. You were invested.

But eventually displeasure turns to hate because you feel trapped, you feel obligated and while you’re not invested anymore, you can quite let go. You hate yourself for it. You hate the other person for it. In the case of a television show, you hate the show, and you hate yourself for continuing to watch.

Evidently hate watching is a new thing and practiced by a number of people. We hate but we keep watching and waiting for something to get good again.

So maybe it is like our current political situation after all.