Who dat? Who, huh?

Sundays weren't about football in our household when I was growing up. I have no recollection of ever seeing my dad camped out in front of the television with a beer in one hand and his other hand in a bowl of snacks. Never were there neighborhood gatherings involving championship games.  My dad spent Sundays holed up at his barbershop writing, most likely, letters to the Kankakee Daily Journal's Voice of the People column. He'd labor for days over expressing his opinion. Usually it was over local or state politics. In fact, when people see my last name they recall my outspoken father.  "I may not have always agreed with him, but I had respect for his thoughtful letters."  If he wasn't in the barbershop writing, he was in the kitchen making bread, pasta or some other concoction that would ultimately become our Sunday feast.

When I lived in Georgia and found myself single after nine years of marriage, I was informed by a man that that I'd stand a better chance of getting my claws in one penis equipped gender if I learned to embrace the second religion of the South: Football.  Baptist being the first and it's questioned whether it isn't really running in second place.  He added that developing a tolerance for NASCAR could also help my odds of getting a man. But I'd tossed a NASCAR fan to the curb and had nothing but loathing and contempt for the sport.

So, you'll have to excuse me for not salivating over today's nationwide celebration. I haven't a clue why people are having complete conversations only using variations on "who dat?"  I'm guessing it has nothing to do with THE WHO performing at half-time. If I watch the game it will be for that and one other reason. There's no doubt I have no clue about point spread, but I'm bold enough to throw out my prediction for the songs Roger, Pete and the rest will perform. According to this blog, I'm two for four. I was hoping "Free" and "Behind Blue Eyes" would be tossed in the mix. I guess we'll have to wait and listen for the results.

It is abundantly clear, by now, that I am not one of those ultra cool chicks who manages to quote football stats of her favorite team while getting mani/pedi at the salon.  Everybody knows one or five of these women. They are the female equivalent of a metrosexual man.  Their picks aren't based on which team has the best 'costumes.' Hell to the naw! These awesome women aren't the babes who gather in the kitchen for gossip while putting together pork products wrapped in more pork products and await the call of "'nother beer here!" No, they are gathered around the flat screen with the boys hootin' and hollerin'; cussing at the refs for throwing a flag on their team.

In addition to THE WHO performing, I am anticipating the other thing the Super Bowl has become famous for. The commercials. E*Trade has a new baby. I knew the day would come, but I'll miss that little guy who made the word shankapotomus part of my vocabulary. Carrie Underpants is scheduled to sing the Star Spangled Banner. Blech. I don't like her and I hope she digs down to her roots and doesn't butcher our beloved National Anthem with the hiccupping spasms of vocal gymnastics.

Most of you are making preparations for the kick off. Me? I'm writing this blog post. Like father; like daughter. Sort of.