|Am I the only one who thinks that the Super Bowl logo is extremely inappropriate? Yet my psychology minor is telling me that it couldn’t be more appropriate.|
I’m writing this while the Super Bowl is on. We are not a football family at all. Nerdguy played rugby during high school, but he’s never been into watching football. Thank the heavens above!
I took Grace to the grocery store late this afternoon when I figured that the crowds would be done their hunting and gathering ritual, and would have moved onto the consumption portion of the day. I guess that I hadn’t even mentioned the Super Bowl to Grace because she asked me why there were football balloons and decorations all over the store. I explained that it was the Super Bowl, and she asked me what that is. When I told her that it is the final game of the year between the two best teams (I don’t even know who is playing, so if you’re out there yelling They’re not the best…this lady’s an idiot…I will say a) I didn’t make up the rules and b) I will be the first to admit that I am an idiot), Grace said, without even a hint of sarcasm, “Why does anyone care who is the best?”
Maybe some of my readers can explain that to her. I’m still trying to figure out why they voluntarily run around with a ball made out of a pig.
Now, had there been ballet slippers all over the store I am sure that she wouldn’t have blinked an eye.
Since we were out so late in the day, the plan was to grab one of those handy-dandy rotisserie chickens for dinner. There were 6 to 8 women/girls working behind the counter arm-pit deep in wing sauce putting together orders for the 2 men who were ahead of me. I stood there for quite awhile, unable to make eye contact with any of the staff. Another man came along to order and somehow he got served right away. Then I still didn’t get served.
Until I made a scene.
I know that I likely would not get served in a timely manner if I were to stand at a bar waiting to order a drink. Those days are over. I remember the days of university, laughing at Nerdguy when he couldn’t get drinks from the male bartenders and he would have to send me in to lean over the bar just a tad. My apologies to my father if he is reading this. I only went to the bar once. And only because my study group was meeting there. I swear. Anyways…I fully expect that a frumpy housewife is going to have trouble getting a drink….but CHICKEN?!?! What has become of my life when I can’t even get someone to sell me a dead bird?
When I finally did get someone’s attention, I found out that it would be 50 minutes until the chickens were cooked. The deli counter is near the door…convenient for some kind of chicken smash and grab I suppose…not so awesome when you have already bought your groceries and were counting on a chicken for dinner.
So Grace and I headed out to the parking lot where we could both see the mirage in the distance. The Golden Arches. That clown will always sell me food and drinks. He has no standards. Nor do I.