2002 Story Set
| February 6, 2002 I avoided the Super Bowl for years - until my children discovered the commercials. Now I sit and explain - not the game - the commercials. "What on Earth is that about?" Or questions of morality. "How small can they get those cheerleaders uniforms?" I managed, somehow, to end up with no food in the house on Super Bowl Sunday. And Sunday is my gym day. So I went to the gym in my Tacoma since the van was down and did my full workout - no asthma spray needed and not light-headed. So far so good. Then I headed over to the grocery store. And went shopping while hungry. (Dieting leaves me hungry.) I was pretty good. Meat. Fish. Milk. Protein. And then I got nuts. Four kinds including in-the-shell peanuts, We have popcorn. And candy nuts - coated - crispy. And Cashews. And Pistachios. And then I hunted for hot dog buns. Right. Not at 2PM on game day! I got rolls instead. And he didn't want bland hot dogs. He has developed a taste for overly spiced foods. I found beef hot links. That will do. 280 calories of which 210 are fat. Perfect. I have the ketchup, relish, mustard stuff. I got pickles. Lettuce. Taco fixings. Turkey Kilbasa. Halibut steak and shrimp, just in case. Chips and dip. Super bag of chips. We measure a bowl (full) for the kid. And I get home, slide the groceries out of the truck bed and into the house as they are playing the national anthem. The kid is in position. I am to fetch and carry food as I put things away. Offerings. There are now bowls of nuts on the video shelves. Soda and juice stacked in a row down the hallway. Hot Links boiling on the stove. Diet soda poured over ice - with a straw. Pickles open. I ate some nuts - and promptly regretted it. (Seems I have developed an allergy in my later life.) I watch the game. I check email. I finish the grocery detail. I watch the game. I fed the animals. I fix him another hot link. Pop corn anyone? Near the end I hide in the kitchen. I poke back to look. I am in no mood for tension - why I haven't seen Black Hawk Down. I do not want a testosterone rush! I am busy adapting to an Estrogen patch! (That leaves red circles on my butt at regular changing intervals.) I finally sit down and call the shot. "Field kicker in", I say. My son starts to argue. "Two-point conversion," was his call earlier on the last touchdown. I had said, "They won't risk it." But he was cocky - he had said - at the start of the fourth quarter, "There's time for two touchdowns." Awful that he was right! It confuses my boys that I actually can follow the game. My son points out the "yellow line". Clever. Then he complains because it runs around players. Well, it is just a visual aide. He's cheering on the opposing team. I am cheering for the Patriots. It is over in a flash - you can tell because grown men are prone on the field in what appears to be spasms. I didn't see the guy say, "I'm going to Disneyland!" I was waiting for that. "They don't have a very good dance," says my son. He has actually been disappointed in that lack all through the game. That and "How come they always hit each other on the butt?" We have noticed, throughout the game, several TV shots of rather large butts straining against very tight pants, sweat stains running. What clever camera angles! He shakes his head. The beauty of close-ups. We immediately begin discussing the commercials. I missed one set - the funny one (it was on the news so I did see it) - the winning one - the overly excited guy who raced up the stairs for a Bud beer, not his wife, girl friend, whatever, but a beer, and slid off the sheets out the window, leaving his boxer shorts on a thorn bush. A fitting end. I was struck by the bowing Bud horses. That was awesome. Half-time show - not the best. The name list was a nice touch. Carey's opening - I didn't like it. I don't like them scatting the National Anthem or America the Beautiful. Sing them as they are written! What the song means is the important aspect, not the voice of the singer. I would have preferred the singing policeman from New York. I had to explain the Pepsi commercials. My son was too young to understand what they were doing. The 50's? Only girls who got "in trouble" wore pants that tight, heels with slacks, and bounced around a drive-up in a tight sweater. Only California had girls on surfboards. Only a small minority of people went around in tents, communes and headbands - the rest of us were earning a living or finishing grad school. Interesting what is being passed down as the norm. History distorted. I still prefer Diet Mug. But I think I'll get a Bud light next time I stage a raid on the supermarket. I like the horses. |
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