Super Bowl Sunday

This isn't a post about that silly American football game. (Nor am I European for calling it American.) I titled the post this way because I just found out that today was the biggest day of the year for ravage sports fans, and I had to give this a title. Why not Super Bowl? Anyway, in the last thirty minutes, I've had quite an eventful evening that involved a coked-up bathroom, a neglected home, and, of course, the drama surrounding this ridiculous Super Bowl. (Why is it called the Super Bowl? It would be a waste of time to Wikipedia that.) After a rejuvenating weekend with my dad, I'm back home for another pounding week until the end of it. The week, I mean. It is truly a laborious task to keep up my routine here for the entire week. Allow me to detail it for you: wake up, coffee, "work", come home, exercise, shower, wait an hour, drink, eat, more work, tend to my mother, read, sleep. Literally, that is my day-by-day routine for the week. And I'm not complaining, per say, just pointing out how dull it can get. But what can one do when you have to work? Where was I...?

Ah, yes, Super Bowl Sunday. So, I arrive home and find my nine-year-old (half-)brother and my mother's husband lying on the couch with their eyes glued to the television. Desperate for quiet, and to avoid contact, I rush up to my room. On the way, I find a plate on the ground and a slice of pizza on the staircase. Just an average, hectic day, I suppose. When I reach my room, seeing it just as I left it, I plug in my chargers, put away my socks, and go to freshen up before bed (i.e. take a leak...eww). As I bring light into the bathroom, I am greeted by a glittery, chaotic mess. Chaotic may be exaggerating it, just a tad, but it was amusingly messy. The carpet was soaked, there were balloons floating on the ceiling, as well as in the shower, and the toilet was, shall I say, not flushed. Nasty. For the few minutes I was in there, I cringed at the thought of what exactly this carpet was marinated in. I always thought a person's bathroom did not require them to wear shoes upon entering.

When that minor, frivolous thing occurred, I jumped onto my Mac (not literally, I hope you would guess) and went straight here to tell you all about what I though was an amusing event. Well, was it? Fortunately, my mother called me to spice this post up a bit. (Isn't it a little sad that people have to call each other on the phone when they're in the same house?) She was the one who informed me on it being Super Bowl Sunday, and, boy, was she sore about it. She called to ask if there was still a slice of pizza on the stairs, and there was, so she also apologized if I slipped and possibly fell. Then, without being asked, she burst out in a tizzy, explaining how her night went. Apparently, my baby (half-)brother tossed the pizza down the stairs, and, while she was occupied with putting him to sleep, she asked her husband to pick it up and throw it away. A simple, effortless task, wouldn't you agree? Well, on Super Bowl Sunday, it was utterly impossible. So, as I told her that the pizza was, in fact, still lying there, she went on saying he was incompetent, useless, and an overall asshole. I'm paraphrasing, of course, but that's basically what she said. In all honesty, I enjoy when she's angry at him, for he is, indeed, a fucking asshole. Earlier today, she continues, my older (half-)brother lashed out at her for interrupting their game. (Not their game, but the teams' game.) Evidently, she "had it up to here" (gestures with hand showing maximum capacity) and she declared that only I and her youngest were all she could handle (since we are absolute darlings) and that she would take us and move somewhere "better". One would assume, considering how indifferently abominable I am towards her husband, that I would be cheering at such a bold announcement. However, she often does this: gets angry, makes empty promises/threats, then forget they ever happened. Quite literally, she actually has no recollection of her past fury. It's happened before, and it will most definitely happen again. Oh well. I've gotten over that fantasy and moved on to better things. Like watching Sex and the City.

In fact, I've just returned from my dad's place having just watched four or five episodes. We're in the middle of season two, for those who are avid viewers, like ourselves only with an opposite connotation. We watch the show to satisfy our craving for pleasurable torture. Since we have watched the movie versions of the show twenty times or so, it was necessary to find another source of such entertainment. We've searched through countless bad movies that were just that (bad), as well as this season of Desperate Housewives, which is actually very close. Yet, we miss our four gals and all their flaws. Oh, especially their flaws. Mainly Carrie Bradshaw, and her high-maintenance, condescending personality. For example, Mr. Big, her boyfriend, says he has to move to Paris for work (for work) and she takes this to mean he is noncommittal. Really? He just said he loved you, after you practically begged him to, and he even let you keep your disgusting panties next to his own possessions, and now you won't let him do his job? Pardon my French, but what the fuck is wrong with you? See, it's just that irritation she stirs up in us that makes us coming back for more. In other "news", Miranda is a frigid feminist who flashed her gay (I'm sorry, homosexual) neighbor across the street; Samantha is having sex all over the place, as if that's even necessary to point out; and Charlotte is just incredibly sweet, pretty, nice, and adorable. Gee, I sure do love that show. Next season, I hear Aidan is making an appearance. More pain, I can't wait!

As for the rest of my weekend, I watched both live-action movies based on The Flintstones. (Just recently I found out it was Flintstone with a t, as opposed to Flinstone.) Anyway, they are so colorfully cheesy and childish. But, that's the point. Why the emphasis? Both movies were nominated for Razzies, including a "win" for Rosie O'Donnell in the first one. That, I can agree with, for she is a terrible actress, and an awful choice to play Betty Rubble. Seriously, she's supposed to be thin and attractive! Elizabeth Taylor was, also, nominated, for Worst Supporting Actress, playing Wilma's mother. Now, that, is just preposterous. She was really that bad, huh? Except, she wasn't. Those Razzie pricks just wanted to nominate a legendary actress. Score. I bet they feel like pricks now that...you know. (It's still tragic.) As for the second one, it was just as cheesy, and there was still a bad casting job. That giant beast of a woman playing the classy, elegant Wilma Slaghoople? I don't think so. I must repeat it, these movies are not intended for critical acclaim, or disclaim in this case, therefore do not deserve Razzies. It's just not that type of movie! It's not as if they were shooting for anything special, they were bringing a cartoon to life for crying out loud. But, what can you do but sigh and shrug. It's not as if these Razzies condemn people from society. If they did, they would have a better title. (Golden Raspberry sounds just as immature as Kids' Choice.)

So, that was my weekend in a condensed manner of speaking. Right now, I'm rushing to get off this Mac and go to bed, as my mom is standing by my door glaring at me. Not really, but I really must be going.