Olympic fever. It has hit me, hard. It always does. Summer. Winter. Always. In 1996 in Atlanta, I actually got to be right in the thick of things, including a run-past-security dash to storm the floor after the closing ceremonies were over. No, really. I am not kidding. No, I haven’t a clue who those athletes are in that picture of me, but, alas, I didn’t care. I was on the floor, celebrating a tradition.

This year, alas, I am not in Vancouver. No, instead I have been perched on the couch from prime-time until bedtime immersed in this world filled with figure skating and speed skating and bobsledding and half-piping and curling. Well, at least this world according to NBC. I understand that NBC has to keep its sponsors happy…yes, NBC needs the money. But, by keeping sponsors happy, you know who isn’t happy? Every single person on the west coast who has to wait to see all the coverage until their prime time; who has to find out on twitter that the torch lighting had a minor malfunction and that, of course, #99 was a part of it (the lighting, not the malfunction…although that would have been hilarious). And you know who else isn’t happy? American-Canadians who are currently living in the US who are used to watching CTV’s excellent Olympic coverage. Oh yes. ME.

Regardless of how I feel about the American coverage, I haven’t been able to watch much of anything else (although I DID make time to watch LOST last night because OMGLOST!) No. I have been watching all the close-up junk shots of Apolo Ohno. I have been disturbed by the brother/sister ice dancing teams. I am sorry, there is NEVER a reason to have your face in your brother’s crotch. Or, you know, almostkissing.

I have joined many fans in booing the judges who totally underscored Johnny Weir, who, yes, probably wouldn’t have medaled, but dude is a friggin’ skating rockstar, and not just because he skates to Lady Gaga. I cried during the alphabetical parade of countries, when the team from the Republic of Georgia came out with the obvious hole in their hearts and a black ribbon attached to their flag. I cried when Evan Lysacek finished his performance. Hell, I even cried when he talked so graciously about his opponent Evgeni Plushenko, sore loser extraordinaire. I cried during the Canadian Joannie Rochette’s emotional performance.

It seems I have been doing a lot of crying.

But I think, surprisingly, I wept the hardest when they showed the footage of high-school senior Rachael Flatt on the ice at 3-years-old.

(NO. It wasn’t when I learned that the Flying Tomato is actually Shaun White’s nickname and not just some cruel joke.)

Really.

Watching the Olympics as a parent sure is different than watching it as a kid.

And especially, for me, since I recently realized that this could, possibly one day be ME. I mean, Emily is not a figure skater, but you can substitute dancing or acting or singing in there. And THE PRIDE. I mean, I can tell you about the pride I feel just watching my children, any of my children, perform in silly little school performances and how it brings me to embarrassing weepy tears. “Mommy, stop crying. You are the only mommy crying. You are embarrassing me in front of all of my friends. GOD!” I cannot even imagine what it must be like for parents of Olympic athletes. These parents who have sacrificed their time and their energy and their money and that pit in their stomach that they have each time they have to watch their child compete and possibly fail. Oh my god…the possible fail.

So, really, I need to stop watching the parent shots and footage of these athletes as children

and just spend more time looking at Apolo Ohno’s junk.

or maybe not…

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.