I have issues. Lot's of them. I like to paint myself into corners, and then bitch about the fact that I painted myself into the corner. I think it's a gift I got from my Mom. Her favorite trick is to volunteer for something she doesn't want to do for my brother, and then turn to me and bitch about him. And I'm sure she'll do something for me and then bitch about me to him. It's a destructive cycle.
So to this backdrop of passive aggressive behavior, I committed the ultimate move of self-loathing: I volunteered to miss the Super Bowl for a concert that my friend wanted me to attend. That's right, I volunteered to miss the world's biggest sporting event (and I don't even want to have the soccer discussion, so please, PLEASE, shut it) to go see some female Indie rock artist (Jenny Lewis . . . who actually is playing in NY in a month anyways . . . son of a . . . ). Once I said the words: "Ok, yeah, I'll go see Jenny Lewis . . ." I knew I was going to complain like a little girl about it all week leading up to the game. Which is exactly what I did. I complained left and right: "I haven't missed the Super Bowl in 20 years!!" or "I'm now a freaking communist for doing this!!" or "Wow, it's gonna be me and a bunch of lesbians! Sweet . .." or "The Terrorists win when I miss the Super Bowl!!" And I wasn't even sure if I was kidding or not. All I knew was that I freaking hated myself for volunteering. The only solace I take is the fact that I did the right thing by going to the show (I think . . .IT WAS THE GODDAMN SUPER BOWL!).
With that being said, I now give you my running diary of my Super Bowl Sunday:
4 P.M.-Meet my buddy and his brother for a couple of drinks. His words: "You should do one manly thing today." Which is a lie, since I peed standing up in the morning! See? I did TWO manly things on Sunday. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
5 P.M.-Head over to buddies apartment for pre-game snacks prepared by his mom before heading for dinner before the show. Which is gayer: Missing the Super bowl or having your "Mommy" make you snacks before the game? Ok, the first one.
5:30 P.M.-With the pre-game action going on and a mozarella stick in one hand, I try to weasel my way out of dinner. Doesn't fly.
5:45 P.M.-Leave to meet my friend downtown. My buddies mom removes Pigs in the Blanket from the oven, which is like a kick to the nuts to me. She offers me a few before I leave. I decline. If I have one, I know I'll bail on the show altogether. PIB's are hypnotic, I tell ya.
6:30 P.M.-Dinner is at the beer garden (or biergarten, if you want to get all Colonel Klink on me) . . . WHERE THEY HAVE A BIG SCREEN TV TO WATCH THE GAME!!!! I start to calculate how much of the game I can see before we have to head over to the show . . . .
6:45 P.M.-. . . Until they seat us on an angle parallel to the screen, where I can see just enough of the TV that I can gather that one team is wearing blue and the other white, but not much else.
7:00 P.M.-A couple of my friends friends show up for dinner. I am unable to pay attention to any of the conversation, since I only hear the oohs and aahs of the people who actually got seating in front of the television.
7:15 P.M.-Big play happens in the game for somebody. Don't ask me which team. I have no idea.
8:15 P.M.-Head over to Lillith Fair . . . errrr . . . Jenny Lewis show. The Lillith Fair joke is not actually mine. I think I heard it about 5 times prior to Sunday the week before.
8:30 P.M.-Take a spot in the balcony next to a woman, who's haircut can only be described as making Rosie O'Donell's hair look feminine. I do note the number of unathletic hipster kids. At least I know I have the unathletic part down.
10:30 P.M.-This blog is beggining to tire me out, so I'll cut to the chase: Jenny sings some songs about feelings and emotions with an acoustic guitar, I constantly torture myself by texting for score updates from people actually watching the game, a bunch of lesbians make out in the audience, and we leave. (ok, I made up the lesbian part, because if that actually happened, I don't think I'd bitch so much. Actually, that really depends on which lesbians made out).
11:15 PM-I get home to discover that we have leftover BIG sandwich from the Super Bowl party my roommate threw. That's right: there was a super bowl party in my apartment that I did not attend. But at least there was big sandwich left. (sigh) I love big sandwich. Think of the pot scene in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, and you'd understand. Oh, and I also watched the highlights of the game. The team representing Pittsburgh won.
12 A.M.-I start knitting a sweater. Hey, I missed the Super Bowl for a female singer songwriter. . . I may as well keep going. I feel like Peter Griffin going off to sensitivity training.
And that's my Super Bowl Diary. I promised myself that this blog was going to be the last time I bitched about missing the big game. And actually, this has proven kinda cathartic. No, no, actually, it wasn't cathartic at all. I should just keep telling myself that I did the right thing. I did the right thing. I did the right thing . . . . ugh . . . the super bowl. . .
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