I didn't really enjoy Super Bowl XXVIII nearly as much as the 27 that preceded it or the 10 since—but more because I was at home sick on the couch than because of my lack of interest in the Dallas-Buffalo match-up.

"Boy, this is the best guacamole I've ever had," said the oldest, a teen-ager at the time, in his immature way of taunting me.

"It sure is," added his equally immature brother. "Hey, Mom, would you get me another soda?"

Even my wife got into the act. "Don't forget boys, we've got ice cream!"

They were having a great time. I was miserable. You see, my doctor had put me on a three-day liquid diet—there would be no snacks for me during that Super Bowl ... at least none that I cared to eat!

I remember it like it was yesterday. It all started a couple of weeks before the game when I started feeling the pangs of a belly ache and, in my self-diagnostic, hypochondriactic way, had determined it must be a bleeding ulcer ... or something much worse.

It turned out to be nothing more than a little stomachache and an over-active imagination. So there's nothing standing between me and the treats and snacks when the Pats play the Eagles on Sunday. But at the time, I needed to find out what was wrong.

So I started calling the Kaiser advice line—over and over again. I called that Kaiser advice nurse so many times in that two-week period that we were on a first-name basis. In fact, I didn't even have to give her my Kaiser number ... she would just recognize my voice!

Of course, it wasn't like that at first. When I first called, she asked for my number along with her other routine questions after answering the phone, then asked what my problem was.

I explained that I had been experiencing stomach pains for a few days.

"Can you walk?" she asked.

Funny question, I thought, but I answered, "Yes."

"Have you had any vaginal discharge?"

I paused. I wasn't exactly sure what to say.

I finally choked out, "Excuse me?"

She repeated the question.

"I ... I'm a man," I said, somewhat assuredly.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"Is this Elizabeth?" she asked meekly, rattling off ol' Liz's Kaiser number.

"Uh, no," I responded. "That's number's close ... but hers' ends in a two, and mine ends in a one."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," she said, apologizing. "I can't see you, and I get so used to just reading the computer screen."

"Hey, mistakes happen," I said. "I'm just glad I'm not pregnant."

She chuckled nervously, then went on to give me the advice I needed.

The end result of my weeks of conversations with nurses was a trip to see my doctor. He didn't solve my problems, but he did set me up with some tests and sent me home on a three-day liquid diet. That started on a Friday ... the third day was Super Bowl Sunday.

And that's what made that particular Super Bowl the worst ever, as far as I was concerned. There I sat—watching a game that didn't interest me, sipping chicken broth and flat 7-Up, while the family pigged out on tortilla chips and guacamole, Fritos and bean dip, and a variety of soda pops.

My special treat was a little raspberry Jello in the second half. The rule was, if I could see through it, and if it had no bubbles, I could have it.

Then it hit me! Beer is a liquid clear enough to see through. If I just shook out the bubbles ...

So I called the advice nurse to ask if that would be OK. She wasn't amused.

"No, you may not drink beer," she said sternly. "And we're very busy here. So please don't call us with such stupid questions, Elizabeth."

Oops, seems like I missed my number by one. Sorry, Liz.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.