That you don't understand,
Then you suffer,
Superstition ain’t the way...
Stevie Wonder
The bad vibes started Saturday at Wegman’s...my husband and I had braved the crowds to prepare for our Super Bowl gathering. He was there because he wanted to be helpful and I went with him because it would have been cruel to send him out with a list and his limited management experience of Saturday grocery store negotiations.
And I’ll be honest, I was frightened that I would buy the wrong brand or color of something and be blamed for bringing bad luck on the black and gold. John and his brother and their friend Chris have so many rules and superstitions for Steelers’ games, I just try to be quiet and follow blindly along. And, yes, I know those of you who know me understand how difficult that is for me to do!
We have a full cart and there are almost as many checkout lines open as on the weekend before Thanksgiving. But I’m being picky about my checkout teller, avoiding the chatty old guy (if you go to Chili-Paul, I know you know who I’m talking about, yes, he’s nice but sometimes I’m just not in the mood) and finally settling on a competent looking teenager who is moving her line briskly along. (Although you have to be selective about your younger cashiers, I found out after I asked one teen how he was and he proceeded to describe in detail how he hadn’t had a break all day and really really needed to go to the bathroom...I tried to listen patiently because he was kind of cute but, wow, talk about TMI from someone who is touching your food.)
I have everything on the belt in the order that I want it packed (I’m a little OCD and my first job was in a grocery store) when I notice my husband is frozen in place, staring at the cashier. I look to see an older woman wearing a Packers’ jersey waiting to replace our cashier. “Maybe she’s just counting the money,” I murmur, trying to soothe John.
No such luck. “How are you today?” Packerwoman says politely.
“I was fine until you came along. I really don’t like you touching our groceries. I think I’ll take these items down to the express checkout.” John escapes in a miasma of consternation.
Packerwoman keeps going but looks at me, eyes wide open. “You don’t understand how seriously superstitious he is about his team,” I try to tell her.
“This is my husband’s jersey,” she stammers. “He’s been a Packers’ fan his whole life. I just like it when we don’t have to wear our uniform”
“It’s a whole different world with him and his family,” I swipe my card quickly and try to move her along.
“My son is a Steelers’ fan,” she offers. “He goes to the Steeler bars in Chicago.”
“Oh, he’s not as scary as he looks...” I should have gone to the old guy today. Then we just would have been talking about how much more snow we were getting.
I find John on my way out of the store. He is talking with another Wegman’s employee, one who is wearing a Steelers’ jersey. She kindly touches all our groceries and even drops a gold necklace in our cart offset the evil Packerwoman curse.
Well, you know how it all worked out. Despite much irrational clothes wearing and chair swapping by the DiCaro/DiPonzio gang during the big game, lucky number seven was not in the cards. It was great game, but the Steelers just kept nipping at the Packers’ heels. The team who played like champions got to kiss the trophy. Yes, Big Ben, hang your head, you haven’t totally redeemed yourself yet.
We did have fun and good food, including Primanti Brothers style sandwiches.
Thanks to Google, I discovered Ken’s Light Olive Oil Vinagrette, which mimics the original cole slaw recipe closely (and is only 2 WW PointsPlus!)
It was an exciting evening and I’d invite you for the next one but I think our house will be crossed off the Super Bowl party list for the future...bad karma, you know!
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