We all watched the Superbowl together. After making it through an entire season of football I felt it would be bad form to miss this game and SO didn’t go to sleep in the middle of the first quarter and wake up in the middle of the fourth, (which is how I’ve managed to “see” an entire season of football).
Anyway, we ate guacamole and chips, pizza, which Gladys helped make, tater-tots and mayonnaise (not me, I didn’t eat the tater-tots), and pork.
Alouicious and I rooted for the Giants against Matt who broke his picking rules (Dallas first, south over north, west over east) because he just hates the Giants (I Know! He’s lived here for ten years!).
The children all hung on to the bitter end to see the conference of the trophy, which was so so so gross from all the kissing, bleh. It was hard to tell when the trophy had actually been given but eventually we managed to convince them it had and they had to go to bed.
Alouicious’ joy at having his pick win was bested only by the fact that Matt’s had lost. He mentioned it several times last night and then came down here at 6:50 this morning to tell us again.
I must say, after getting over my rage that PBS would schedule TWO Downton Abbey episodes during the game (I’m sure as some kind of smack against middle America, I mean Why Else!) I was overcome with sadness that the whole season is over. I’d kind of gotten use to all the grossly overweight men in tight clothes crashing into each other, the blond in the bodysuit singing about how great football is, the bizarre fact that there are basically two separate teams–offense and defense–and so everybody only plays half the time!?!, the myriad interesting names that all the players and coaches have, and especially the strangely dressed commentators. Why, I wonder week after week, do the two men reporting the game have to stand So close together?
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