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As a child, crisp Fall Sunday afternoons and Monday nights were sacred in my home as Football - "the sport of real men" - was on TV.

The Father and The Sister and I would sit in the living room while The Mother would be in the kitchen making NFL appropriate snacks. Snacks that we could actually eat in the living room.

The Father, since he never had any sons, took special care to educate The Sister and I on the inner workings of the game. He wanted us to appreciate the sport he so loved; the sport from which he recieved numerous dislocated appendages. The sport who produced such greats as Mean Joe Green, Roger Stabauch, Terry Bradshaw, Walter Peyton, Steve Largent, Dan Marino, and the list goes on.

We were also trained to shout at the TV with great vigor and wisdom. A trait we hold in our hearts to this very day. (Much to the dismay of our respective spouses)

"He was off sides! Pass Interference! CLIPPING! What are you blind, ref?!?! Take it up the middle!!!"

Such an attractive trait in a Whore.

So last night was the second game of Monday Night Football. And in my excitement of the game, I have decided to open my home to actual guests that I am actually willing to mingle with. All I ask is that they bring a beverage and that they don't spill on my couch. And do not, under any circumstances, question me when I shout at the TV.

Last Monday was labled "Football in China". And last night was "Football- Mexican Style." Because it's not enough for me to throw some chips in a bowl and call it a game. It's all part of my OCFD and my desire to take over the entire anal retentive party planning empire while my dear friend Martha is in jail. (I've got it covered, sister. Cashmere cozies for the hot water bottle are being made as we speak.)

Anyway.

Last night was all about Mexican food. Shredded beef tacos, chicken tacos, refried beans, rice, quacamole, pico de gallo, chips, Mexican beer and - of course - margaritas. Lucious, limey, blended margaritas.

So the food is ready, the game is on, and I am loading up the blender with the first batch of frothy tequilla goodness.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr crunch crunch whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

"Hey, babe. I think the blender is leaking."

"Great - but honey, it's leaking bad."

I turned the machine off, sighed, and did what only a good Whore could do.

I totally licked the counter.

Posted by Foodwhore at September 21, 2004 06:57 PM

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