I watched it. More for the commercials that anything else, truth be told! Thing is we are not into what the Americans call football* in this house, being more a hockey house than anything else. But the Super Bowl is a tradition, and we watch every year.
I was very much looking forward to watching with my boys, but the little stinkers defected and went over to their uncle’s house to watch with the MEN! No women allowed. Harumph. They said that my comments last year were just too girlie (I was worried they would not get the grass stains out of those tight white pants the players wore) and they need to watch it in a girl-free zone. (Or as my 7 year old put it – a free-girl zone).
That didn’t stop me from watching though. But I wasn’t really watching it alone as I had my laptop with me and watched with my twitter buddies all over the world. I still do not understand the game at all. Downs and lines across the field. They play for 5 seconds and then have a 5 minute break where we got to see the most horrendous commercials. (Male pantlessness was a theme in the commercials). I cracked open a beer or two hoping that after some alcohol was imbibed the game might suddenly make sense. Nope. Didn’t.
In the middle of the lame halftime show (The Who got so old) the KoD called. I missed most of the rest of the halftime show and the rest of the game, except for the last 10 minutes. Hey, no game is more important than speaking with my man. And yes, I turned the TV off in order to speak to him. Every so often he would update me with the score – I guess he checked online.
There were some really funny tweets, and some amazing celebratory ones as the Saints totally creamed the other team. I am so looking forward to watching the Winter Olympics with my tweeps, specifically the figure skating. Now, that is going to be a hoot. That sport, I understand the rules. I have watched it since I was knee high to a grasshopper. I can hold my own.
My favourite commercial was this Doritos one.
*Football to me is what the Americans call Soccer, or what my mother has eloquently termed “men kicking balls”.
In the Pink 