Why I was a packer on Super Sunday
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In this episode of "Adventures in Contrarianism," I once again face the question of what to do during the Super Bowl.
Disturbingly, I'm not all that into watching it.
Once, I went to Giant Eagle. It was fantastic; I could have done my whole shopping trip on Rollerblades and not hit anything, and I'm pretty dangerous on blades.
This year, I didn't have much choice in how I spent Super Bowl Sunday; the movers were coming on Monday, and I had a lot of things to misplace.
I also have a piece of advice: Don't get a manicure right before you move. My hands look like I put them in a blender.
The great mystery of moving is how you had all this stuff in your soon-to-be former home and were still able to walk around, see out windows and use the bathroom in the dark without being trapped in a cave-in.
When you drag it all out of its hiding places at the backs of closets and junk drawers, there is enough stuff to comfortably furnish a midsize South American country. And you were still buying things, largely because you could no longer find or had forgotten you owned most of that stuff.
Here's another mystery of moving: Where do these bushels of wire hangers come from? They're a plague. Whoever manufactures them could stop tomorrow, and we wouldn't know it for at least 50 years.
The paper clips, rubber bands and safety pins are more pioneering than prolific. Their mission is evidently to send scouts to every nook and cranny of the home. It's about the coverage, not the concentration. I bet when archaeologists finish removing the beautifully crafted treasures from a pharaoh's tomb, the last thing they find in the dust under the sarcophagus is a paper clip.
Or maybe a screw. A random, mysterious screw. What is it supposed to be holding together? Wait and see!
So that's what I was doing Sunday as day stretched into evening and the neighbors began roaring through their walls. I put out parking chairs for the moving van and drove to my new home in an eerie vacuum.
Have you ever driven into the city at 3 a.m.? It's surreal. Especially when it's only 7:30.
I slid down West Liberty Avenue, through the tubes and across the bridge like a hot knife through processed cheese.
Unfortunately, I got to the house in time to watch the end of the Super Bowl.
I have got to stop doing that.
First Published February 10, 2011 12:00 am
