It’s only fitting that I’m watching the Indigo Girls perform with Brandi Carlile on Super Bowl Sunday. I used to go to parties and eat dip and chickens stuffed into ducks stuffed into turkeys (turducken), and have to fight for a plastic cup while simultaneously searching for anything resembling wine in a kitchen full of empty beers. I’d graze about wondering when someone would have to get up from the sofa to pee. It was torture, but at the time, I was hoping I might meet a guy, so I forced myself out. Really, though, all I wanted to do was pass out. In the first ten minutes of being there, I’d know it was a bad idea, then I’d roll my eyes until they hurt, thinking how I should be home watching some station dedicated to women, airing sappy chick flicks back to back to back, to "honor" the Super Bowl. Some years I just left, saying I was suddenly tired, which I was. Standing around watching commercials was draining. I was an idiot to wear heels. Other years I stayed hoping more people might show up. I’m a total grinch when it comes to this particular Sunday, that is, unless I’m hosting it at my own home. Then, for me at least, it’s no longer about the football. It’s about snacks. About what I can serve, what I can improve, a menu that takes mastermind planning.
And then the beans got colds. Then mama got a cold. And now we’re a house full of sick without eating a single wing or lick of blue cheese. I’m going to bed.