Super Bowl

Okay, I guess we didn’t really need an excuse to have guacamole and chips for dinner, but we decided the Super Bowl was one. (Friday night, we thought a DVD from the library was a good excuse to have popcorn and pecans for dinner, too.) The dining table seems better suited for steamed spinach, garlic mashed potatoes, pork loin roast, and tossed salad. The TV room, especially on Super Bowl Sunday, is strictly yoo-hoo-dippity-doo. Robert made yummy guacamole, and we kicked (no pun intended) back for our annual foray into football. Since we don’t follow football, pregame chatter was the sole basis for who I’d root for, and I chose the Steelers team—and Larry Fitzgerald of the Cardinals.

Most of the commercials were creative and fun. Some were a bit edgy and in poor taste, I thought. After a few commercials, Robert and I looked at each other and said, “Did you understand that?” and we both shrugged.

During the fourth quarter, my attention wandered to the last half hour of My Big Fat Greek Wedding on another channel, where I wished a mob of caring women waving blush brushes would crowd into my bathroom to make me look beautiful, too. Back to the Super Bowl, with three minutes left in the game, I considered toddling off to bed. Robert had crashed right after Bruce Springsteen (hey, boss, didn't you get the memo? a goatee goes at the bottom of your chin.) finished screaming, leaving me to cheer both Larry Fitzgerald and the Steelers’ Holmes into touchdown territory in those precious final three minutes. What a whoop-worthy game!