At eleven-o-clock this morning fifteen men filed into my house bearing bags of chips, soda; cases of beer, and two large tubs of some greasy poultry. "What's all that, Brent?" I asked. Brent, Nigel's best bud, smiles and says "Brunch, milady."
"Well, what's for dinner?"I asked.
"PIZZA," said Nigel.
I fled the temporarily-regressed cavemen and snatched Nigel's laptop, hooked it into the phone jack and came online to get my blog fix. And spout about this damn Super Bowl hell we women who know nothing about football live in.
And I don't particularly care to be educated about it either. Ugh.
Anyway, the highlight of my week (and it has something to do with the SB) is when Nigel actually wanted to calculate which was closer to Chicago -- Philadelphia or...well, New England. "Philly's a Mid-Atlantic city," I said. "New England's all those little cornerstones on the eastern part of the map. I think Philly's closer."
"Damn. And I love Donovan McNabb!"
Yeah, it's that bad. My weekend has been nothing but football talk, greasy poultry, and being referred to in old, spiffy English. And the beasts are now seeing who can toss corn nuts the highest and "taking in" a bit of Arena football before the Grand Game begins.
The madness (and slow-assed dial-up). I'm going to call Mama Hausen and see if Daddy Hausen and friends have taken over her house. I fear she'll say, "He's bought two tubs of greasy pork for the game." Coz, my daddy loves the ribs.
Men.
