My poor husband. He wanted to have a Super Bowl party of sorts. Mostly just having his family over and an excuse to break out the deep fryer. We aren’t really invested in any of the teams. His brothers are not sports fans. Our kids aren’t really old enough to sit still and watch a long winded sporting event. Me? Let me know when the commercials are on!
Our oldest is trying to get into it. Tater is a little cheerleader, trying to pump us up for what is sure to be a big day. Ever since BoobGate at the halftime show, the Super Bowl half time shows have been pretty awesome: chock full of people I have actually heard of and don’t mind my children seeing. Tater is psyched. “Mom, who are you rooting for?” he asks me. I search my brain to remember who is playing. I draw a blank, so I point at the kitchen table. “I am rooting for the Buffalo wings!” “Mo-om!”
“Uncle! Who are you rooting for?” He is like me. We are all about the food. Foodies have their place at Super Bowl parties, but mostly as the chefs. “I am for the guacamole!”
I imagine that we are a rather disappointing crowd to have assembled. I mean, rather than the pre-game show, Star Wars ended up on the tv. While he shouts at the tv using technical terms no one else understands, you can see the question marks appear over all of our heads. His mother bravely asked “what is a safety?” She is trying. Two kids are fighting on the couch, and the toddler is attempting to match the decibel levels of a jackhammer. I am blogging. One uncle fell asleep Tater tries again. “Who are you rooting for? And you CAN’T say a food!”
Thankfully the presence of a rather large television and men fighting over a ball brings out the testosterone, and soon more men are shouting at the tv. A Super Bowl party is saved.
Meanwhile we keep grazing on the fried food like cholesterol doesn’t exist.
Good times.
Just make sure you let me know when the commercials are on.
