First of all, I want to thank Cape Cod Gal and her husband for babysitting for us at the last minute last night so MJ and I could go out to dinner. Not only is she a great blogger, but a fantastic babysitter to boot.
Now to the business at hand…
Super Bowl Sunday is tomorrow and even though my beloved Patriots aren’t playing, it is still a day for celebration. In my mind, the Super Bowl is the guy’s equivalent to Valentine’s Day. Because ladies, we all know Valentine’s Day is for you, not us. We get you some flowers, maybe some candy, take you out to dinner and give you a gift. It might as well be called National Women’s Pampering Day. And that’s fine, I’ll submit to that but only if women give us Super Bowl Sunday as payback.
So, with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek, I offer you the Guy’s Guide to a Perfect Super Bowl Sunday.
First of all, the Super Bowl is not just about the game. Hardly, in fact. The Super Bowl holiday starts as soon as a guy wakes up. So ladies, how about waking us up in style? There’s no better way to start the day than with you giving us some “oral support” which really sets the tone for the day.
After that, we roll out of bed and put on our favorite lucky football jersey and sweatpants with the adjustable waistband. You will not nag us about how long it’s been since we’ve washed said jersey, and please take special note of the sweatpants with the adjustable waistband because that’s a hint. It means we want to eat. A lot. And we don’t want anything healthy. In fact, just about everything we shove down our pie hole today must be fried. But you already knew this, which is why you stayed up late last night to prepare all the food we’ll need for today.
So for breakfast, you surprise us with…WINGS! Lots and lots of wings. And once we’re stuffed with Round 1 of wings we sit on the couch. It’s still too early for pre-game so if you’re anything like me, you need a little warm up. So we pop the Patriots Super Bowl DVD in from 2001 and watch it in its entirety. And you don’t make fun of us for knowing all the words, and you certainly don’t give us dirty looks when we cheer like crazy and shed a few tears when Adam Vinatieri knocks in the winning field goal.
After we have some quality alone time in the bathroom making room for more food, it’s lunch time. And lo and behold, the doorbell rings. Because you’re all caring and doting wives who understand the importance of the day, you made a few phone calls. The door opens and who’s there but the beer delivery guy. You had the foresight to order two kegs of Sam Adams for the upcoming Super Bowl party. Which is great timing because we’re hungry for lunch and more wings, and what better to wash it down with than 11 a tasty Sam Adams.
A few hours later all the guests start arriving. I know this part sounds a little sexist, but only guys are invited. I’m fully aware that there are women out there who know a lot about football. I don’t deny this. But ladies, as a whole, it is not fun to watch a big game with chicks around. You’re talking about the players cute butts and all you care about are the commercials. It’s annoying as hell and it’s not happening at my fictitious paragon of a Super Bowl party. Sorry. And yes, I know you don’t like some of the guys I invited. They are the so-called “bad influences” from my single days, according to you, but today they are our welcome guests of honor. Deal with it.
As all the guests arrive that means they’re hungry. That’s when all of the food is unveiled. In addition to the tub of wings in the living room, we also have a vat of chips and salsa, steak, chicken, marinated pork, shrimp and every other tasty morsel you can imagine. Oh, and jello. Why jello? I’m glad you asked…
That’s when the doorbell rings again and the party goes silent. In walk six Hooters waitresses you’ve hired to be servers for the day. And did I mention we’re tossing the jello in an inflatable tub and watching them wrestle at halftime? Oh yeah. The Super Bowl isn’t the Super Bowl without topless Hooters waitresses jello wrestling.
Soon it’s time for the game to start, and because you’re a loving wife you have this part taken care of as well. You’ve rented a 70 inch flat screen HDTV and had it installed on the wall for the day. Bone crushing hits are only meant to be watched in HD after all.
Throughout the game more and more surprises are unveiled. You wheel in an ice luge toward the end of the first quarter for shots, and the booze is all top shelf. You’ve also brought in several laptops for the gamblers among us looking to place last minute Super Bowl bets. And you had the foresight to hire a bouncer for the day so anyone who talks about anything non-Super Bowl or football related is immediately tossed out. He also collects all cell phones upon entry so no one’s wife is allowed to call and nag them to come home.
So with the food out, the beer taken care of, the naked Hooters girls serving us all and the TV ready to showcase the game in all of it’s glory, there’s only one thing left to do if you’re the loving wife in this situation. And that’s to leave. Sorry, but as mentioned before, no girls allowed. Besides, it’ll probably be awkward at halftime when I’m rooting on the Hooters girls jello wrestling. And you’ve worked hard all day, so take some time for yourself. After all, you probably need to go grocery shopping because I’m sure we’ll be out of food by the end of the day.
I’m not going to lie to you. When you return to the house it’s probably not going to be a pretty scene. If we’re still conscious it’s probably because we’re throwing up all the food and alcohol. I don’t envy the cleaning that’s going to be involved, but it’s our day so you roll up your sleeves and get to it. If there are still any wings left over you need to save those though. I might want a late night snack if I wake from my coma. Some of our drunk friends will likely be scattered around the house passed out in drunken stupors, so just make sure they have pillows and blankets.
And as the clock strikes midnight and you finish mopping up the left over party sludge, you go to sleep with our eternal gratitude for throwing us the best Super Bowl party ever. And we go to sleep with clogged arteries and a crippled liver, but a huge smile plastered across our faces.
And don’t worry, we know we owe you come Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to promise anything, but McDonald’s may be on the menu. Supersized if you play your cards right.