I can’t wait for the Super Bowl!

Seriously, ya’ll. I’m soooooo excited. Over my moon excited. And I don’t flash just anybody!

I simply can’t wait to celebrate this at SOMEONE ELSE’S house for once! It’s so nice to be somewhere other than my own place to fiesta. I can’t handle the constant worry about all the shorties running around, acting a fool, and certainly not minding their P’s or Q’s. F that!  I also like to have my brainwaves clear so I can focus. I can’t wait to go watch those 2 teams play! The teams that are my FAVORITES and that I have watched ALL season. I’m giddy and excited, and I hope it’s cold so we can go outside and bonfire!

This is me. Giddy. Unabashed excitement. For the sport. For the sporting situation.

The party has commenced. Hot buffalo hellz bells, who brought the homemade wings? Is that mango salsa? I love this back splash! Awe, damn! I have always wanted a pool, and look at this luxurious lanai! I’m so glad these lovely people had the party at THEIR house. I love this decor! That is not low density fiberboard. These peeps went all out! Shizzle!

Through the murmur of the crowd, I hear some mumbo-jumbo about kickoff. I am still admiring the buffalo dip, and seeing how many olives and sweet gherkins I can pile onto my plate. Dang, I should have worn some type of sporting ensemble. I do have a t-shirt with my dog’s picture on the front, whose name is Gretzky. That would have been purr-fect. Do those teams have to do a coin toss to see who gets to shoot the basketball first?  Daaaa-ng, is that pumpkin beer?

football2I start walking, and the unintentional mingling phenomenon is happening. I’m having a great anti-introverted moment. “Hey, how’s it going?”  “Sup!”  “Oh, holla!” Oh. Wait. Who invited her?  I do NOT like her.  “Oh, hey girl!”  Hussy. And I know her buttcrack stanks. OOOOOH she brought shrimp and grits!  I love her; she’s my favorite! Clink! Selfie – BFF’s forev 🙂

Where did my husband go?!  This house is so spacious and people are everywhere! Let me just go take a quick tinkle and then I’ll be back out to watch David Beckham in this sporting game. Dang. Is that a Tiffany lamp !?! I can’t find anybody. Did I make a wrong turn coming out of the crapper? That’s not a nice word to use in this house. The “assbox.” No. The “facilities.” The “lavatory.” “I just exited the lavatory.” I just exited the shitter going in the wrong direction! What the…

Superbowl3Finally, I make my way back into the hall way that I KNOW will lead me back to the happy trail. Is my husband even here? I’m out of sorts. Where are my kids? Are they meeting me later? Somebody needs another glass of wine. Hello, Sparky!

With determination as my GPS, I troll through the house and am suddenly deposited right into the living room. There’s the TV, and there’s the sport that everyone here came to congregate around!   “Hey, Boo – who’s winning?

Uh, the game literally just started.”

Seriously. How many 3 pointers or goals, runs or whatever the hell do these people need to get? Because my stomach is cramping and being in this room full of voyeurs is overwhelming AF. My social anxiety is starting to kick in. I’m always good for about 5 semi-seconds, then my small talk starts to shrivel up, and even my big talk is long, long gone.

I didn
I didn’t think they were allowed to handle the ball that way in soccer.

I case the room. I need a seat. They are all taken. I wish I would have had the forethought to make dibs on a seat. Like just bum rushed the place when I first got here and tossed all my crap into it. DIBS! And danced around like a funknugget. Now, I’m standing awkwardly on the subway and I was the last stop; everyone who embarked before me took the liberty of grabbing a seat, and I’m over here holding onto the handle strap thing, and I’m rocking, and my head is steaming, there’s a weird guy sitting by himself with an overcoat and non-visible hands, because those are the things that happen on the subway, and Ima bout to pass the hell out. Sensory. Overload.

I honestly cannot stand here the whole time. Between my brain thinking up ways to toss each of these turds out of their stupid DIBS seats, and my nervous, fidgety side glance eyeball twitch, my love for the sport that we were all viewing together, as one unit, just isn’t enough to seize my interest for the duration.

Honey, I have to poop.”  My husband starts to point. “No, in my own bathroom.”

And that’s how it’s done. Bending it all the way home.

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