Black, Brown, Bubbly and Broken Bones
Now, I am a sports fan and all, but the Super Bowl last night was BO to the RING. Honestly, when the highlight of the first half is a "review of play" by the officials' booth, you know that you're not exactly experiencing a barn burner. In fact, the game was so boring, that my friends and I drove to the countryside and actually set a barn on fire.
Even the commercials, which are usually a highlight of the Super affair, were lackluster. I can't think of a favorite, but I know that my least favorite was the one with the tagline "brown and bubbly." I won't dignify it by saying what the product was, but I will tell you that they were presumably not referring to either diarrhea or Aaron Neville as he was stutter-singing the national anthem.
Congrats to Pittsburgh, though. It's nice to see that some teams from Pennsylvania are able to win Championships. I roll my eyes in the general direction of South Broad Street as I type that sentence.
Besides the Super Bowl this weekend, I successfully avoided being dumped two Fridays in a row by going dancing at the mostly harrowing, sometimes entertaining, always ultimately a bad idea Shampoo. While there, I met a guy who asked me to dance "saucily" on the dancefloor. I was so caught off guard by his correct usage of an adverb when an adjective could have been easily, albeit incorrectly, substituted that I swooned and had to oblige. No grammar was discussed during said saucy dance.
Am I a loser for having not one, not two, but three separate conversations at a dance club about what "Code Black" could have meant in the then upcoming episode of Grey's Anatomy. Answer: yes. I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I started to really like this show. I love the sassy Black woman. I love the sassy Asian woman. I love the sometimes sassy White woman with the boobs. I just wish that the Zellwegger v 2.0 would stop squinting and pouting about Dr. McDreamy. Or do I love that she does it? Would I be doing the same thing? Le sigh. In any case, I was correct in guessing that a Code Black referred to some sort of explosive. Duh.
Feminism is not dead, purportedly, but Betty Friedan certainly is. I am not sure why Grandpa Munster's death is getting more press than hers, but today in her honor, I will actually put down the toilet seat.
And finally, today I had a horrible small talk incident at the work microwave. A man who looked like Little Richard without so much Jheri curl and wearing a Bill Cosby-esque sweater approached me as I was putting my chicken and penne pesto in the microwave. He said, "Oooh, someone's Mr. Healthy." Upbeat with his little container of Split Pea Soup, he was actually someone who could be described as "brown and bubbly."
My first instinct, since I grew up in a small town, is to be friendly with everyone, but I didn't want to convey mistakenly to this person that I was in any way flirting. It's a delicate balance with the gays, you know that. So I said, "Oh, nothing healthy here. It's full of fat." He countered, "Well, you sure do look healthy." At this point, my brain actually vomited, and I said, "I have to go to the bathroom." I left my stuff in the microwave and hid around a corner, Jack Bauer-style, until he realized I wasn't coming back. Once he gave up waiting for me to return (and not actually mmicrowaving his food), I ran to the micro-, grabbed my chicken and ran back to my office.
That incident is basically a current snapshot and adequate representation of my life. Sadly, on many levels.
Oh yeah, I almsot forgot. Cast Fetish. For reals.