Superbowling with family

Superbowl Sunday - once a year. Thank god.

I don't watch football, I don't care about football, and I just can't get behind the concept of people being paid fortunes to play a sport. But since I have no say in the matter, I just ignore it.

Except on the occasional Superbowl Sunday.

People keep throwing Superbowl parties and they keep inviting us to attend their Superbowl parties, and then they make us watch the Superbowl at these Superbowl parties. These people think it's charming when I ask what an endzone is, or why the players suddenly stop playing and mill around for no apparent reason. Ok, I can be the charming idiot.

This year, one of my brothers-in-law (brother-in-laws? Nah.) invited us into his home to watch the Superbowl on his brand new eleventybillion inch plasma television, complete with surround sound and simsense rig. Sitting too close to this TV will burn your eyes right out of your head. At four feet from the screen, I came away with a monster headache... although I can't blame it entirely on the TV.

I only see Aaron and Pat on holidays and other obligatory family get-togethers, so Pat may not be the raging alcoholic she appears to be... and the kids surely can't be that horrible every day. But when Pat began to scream at the cabinet door, Aaron didn't seem terribly surprised, and neither did their children. For two hours we sat through this. Drunken, incoherent Pat alternately enraged by thin air and spouting maudlin odes to the family dog, brilliantly named Puppy. Pat bemusedly wondering why her shirt kept twisting to show off an enormous lunch-lady style bra. Pat sobbingly mopping up her mixed drink while clutching her bottle of peppermint shnapps.

Aaron steadfastly staring at the ginormous television. Aaron shouting at his children to go to bed. Aaron downing beer after beer in an effort to make his life go away.

Little girls screaming and running through the house. Little girls latching onto us and hanging from necks, arms, and legs. Little girls asking if they can have my necklace, my wedding ring, my glasses. Little girls crying when I won't give them things. Little girls throwing toys at us. Little girls trying to sneak into the back of the car. Little girls refusing to go to bed because they "sleep in the morning, not at night!" Little girls not behaving because no one ever makes them.

The boy is almost a teenager, but he was moodily sulking in his room. At least angst is still quiet.

Jeremy and I held out for two hours before escaping, citing classes and an exam. We still have headaches.

I dread the fourth of July... Aaron and Pat are hosting a BBQ, and the other brother-in-law will be there with his raging alcoholic of a wife. And their two dirty, snot nosed children whose idea of fun is kicking the family dog and stepping on the skulls of kittens.

Jeremy's parents adore me, and after meeting the women their other sons married I understand why. Good god.