In which Cammy manages to be completely unaware that it is Superbowl Sunday (and not for the first time).
I really thought I could only manage to do this once in a decade. Maybe it’s a sign of over-achievement that this has happened twice in less than 5 years.
I get up on Sunday, mid morning (*cough* possibly mid–afternoon for those of you who didn’t have a night courtesy of antihistamine–damn you sinuses), head to the grocery store because I’m out of everything important (in my world, that means sour cream, cheese, spinach and beer). The parking lot is abnormally full. Like, we-are-about-to-have-a-blizzard full. Only I know that the snow isn’t supposed to be hitting us until Tuesday, which means this is waaaaay too early for everyone in this area to be raiding the bread aisle (why prepare early, when you can create a shit storm rush at the last minute?).
It’s not until after literally waiting in a queue to get to the sour cream that I note the swarm of guys in game-day gear, with buggies full of meat and steak sauce converged on the beer coolers. They have managed to completely eliminate the supply of anything I’d ever want to drink and a whole lot of what I wouldn’t touch if it were the last alleged beer on Earth (my Daddy raised me with standards. Natty Ice will never pass these lips…though it is useful for helping break down thatch on a lawn). WTF was going on?!?
Then I did the math. It’s cold outside, not Christmas, these are clearly sports fans…fuck, it’s Superbowl Sunday.
Yeah. That’s how out of touch with all reality I am. Several weeks worth of 12 hour days at the bill-paying job, and I haven’t seen any news other than the weather alerts that pop up on my recently acquired phone (which is working spiffily, fuck you, Verizon). The only TV I’ve seen has been my un-breakable Sunday night date with Downton, and spending the hours leading up to Downton catching up on a new telenovela (Que Pobres Tan Ricos–nothing like a Columbian telenovela exported to Mexico and made more awesome by Rosy Ocampo). None of which are places I’m likely to hear about professional football.
I’m a little bummed, really. I like to actively plan an anti-Superbowl (generally with a crap ton of Jane Austen adaptations, and capped off with the Downton Abbey cherry on top). I suppose my less formal marathon of drooling over Jaime Camil probably works in lieu of British Costume Drama, but I would have liked a little more wallowing in my own rebellion against the American norm. Although, there’s something truly rebellious about my ability to completely overlook the event to the point that only missing beer is enough to remind me anything is going on at all (and, I still don’t know who’s playing–I just know it’s not Kansas City because that would have been impossible to miss around here).