Super Bowl and Stomach Flu.

Let me start off by saying that I LOATHE the game of football. I turn into a temper-tantrum-throwing, whiny baby when the husband makes me watch it. I just don't get the game... what's so fun about hurling yourself full-speed into another human being? And the idea of being at the bottom of that tackle pile terrifies me. It seems so pointlessly violent. Although I did say recently that I would love the opportunity to punch somebody in the face. Just once.

I digress.

About a week and a half before the Super Bowl, the husband came to me with the idea of a party in the all-so-important game's honor. I agreed. With the condition that I could consume as much alcohol as I pleased. He obliged and invited a few of his friends.

Then I got excited. Super Bowl or no Super Bowl, we're having a par-tay!

I even brought out the Martha Stuart in me and made some semi-cute football cupcakes. (Hey, I didn't work in the Schnucks bakery for 5 years in high school and college for nothing!) Although I will admit that I did have go online to find out the Super Bowl number (44, for the other non-watchers out there) and to make sure I put the proper lines on the footballs.

Did I make Martha proud?

The spread. We planned a pretty simple menu, keeping the football theme in mind. Garlic-buffalo wings, corn dip, buffalo chicken sliders... Think bar food.

Our fantastic guests also generously brought the following:

• buffalo chicken dip
• taco dip
• soft pretzels sticks w/ mustard
• more taco dip
• garbage bread

Have you noticed the buffalo theme? This was not intended, but worked out. Who doesn't like buffalo sauce and chicken? That's right. Nobody.

The party went off without a hitch, I drank plenty of wine, ate a ton of buffalo-flavored food, didn't watch one minute of the game (except for commercials) and everyone went home happy and left us to our mess at a decent hour.

Instead of doing the smart thing and cleaning up the mess, we did the comfortable thing and laid on the couch crying over our over-stuffed bellies for the rest of the night. I was in rough shape. I really overdid it with the eating this time. Wishing away my crampy stomach didn't work, so I went to bed.

An hour later I woke up. And RAN to the bathroom. Remember all that buffalo stuff I ate? Apparently seeing it once wasn't enough. I'll spare you the details, but I was hung over the toilet for way longer than necessary. I mean, c'mon, isn't once enough? Making me repeatedly go through that horrible I-can't-breathe-because-liquid-is-coming-out-of-my-nose thing is pure torture. Don't the vomit Gods know that my worst fear is drowning? Especially in my own bodily fluids.

It went on forever. The husband said "I've never seen so much puke come out of one small person" as I was practically dying. Thank you, me neither. He was great though. He cleaned up my mess (I was far more concerned with getting the crap out of my body than I was with making the bowl) which was everywhere. Even on the dogs. Don't ask. So much for sparing you the details.

The only positive that came out of the situation was that I finally got the husband back for the time he spewed dinner all over a pristine, all white hotel bathroom after a few too many after dinner cocktails a few years ago. Not that I'm keeping score ;)

After I was done and the room was clean, my wonderful husband got me back into bed with a glass of juice.

Then he offered me a buffalo chicken slider.

Funny, funny guy.