And Then There Were Two...

I love Indianapolis at night. The lights, the energy, the magic that brews beneath the Midwestern sky. I love the people, the camaraderie, the sense of community. The people are what make the Hoosier state electric this time of year, with their zest for life and interesting perspectives on culture. And no matter what their differences may be, one thing you can count on is that Hoosiers love deeply and they love passionately. Football and parties are no exception. Enter Superbowl XLVI.

Although it is no secret that my beloved Colts had a rough season, a very rough season, their hopes for the playoffs sizzled into the evening sky as quickly as a certain blonde's halftime hopes of becoming cool again. I will always support my hometown team, and will wish them all the best when Fall rolls around again. However, this year Colts fans were presented with an interesting opportunity. Most of us adore Peyton Manning and if we aren't able to root for our favorite quarterback and crew, we choose to root for Peyton's little bro, New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning.

In the spirit of full disclosure, you should probably know that I am no fan of the Patriots. It doesn't matter to me who is battling the irritatingly obnoxious AFC champs; I would have rooted for any opposing team with a fire that my husband calls "psycho." Psycho, passionate...it's all the same to me. The important thing to remember is that I care. I live 1700 miles away from Indy. Of course I have to scream loud enough so they can all hear me. Geesh...

As you might have guessed, Superbowl Sunday is treated like a national holiday in the Amonett house. Anything that is an American tradition is an AmErikan favorite in my book. I relish the opportunity to cook for family and friends, eat without guilt and visit that room in my basement that only gets used twice a year. But that's another story...

Our good friends Dan, Courtney and their little guy, Owen, came over for some steak and calorie-laden white carbs. After we filled up on chips, salsa and queso, we ate some scrumptious tri tip, seasoned baked potatoes, vanilla frosted banana cake and triple berry brownies. Add Mr. T's 80 ounces of "last day" Dr. Pepper to the mix and we had a rip-roarin', caffeine-induced game day celebration.

The kids were definitely feeling the energy streaming from the life-size projection screen. It was like standing on the 50 with all the running, tackling and kicking going on. I am happy to report that the at-home team made it through the game with minimal bumps and bruises, although the sideline crew did sustain a hit or two. Thank goodness the sofa and carpet medic was on hand to prevent any further injury.

I have to admit I didn't get to see many of the much-hyped commercials or play-by-play maneuvers, yet thanks to the power of DVR, we were able to begin the game about an hour and a half after the actual kick-off. Toddlers operate on their own time schedules and they really don't care about Ms. Clarkson's version of the national anthem.

The many moods of Emerson: let's play!, why aren't you giving me what I want?, I think I'll crash here.

In between all the starts, stops and rewinds, I remember an M&M commercial catching my eye and a lot of bare naked ladies trying to sell cars. I never really knew that men who drive KIAs also drive fashion models wild, but I also never really knew that some people take the "shirts" and "skins" terminology literally. Sometimes, educational opportunities grab us when we least expect it, don't they?

We didn't finish watching the game until nearly 11 p.m. The home team needed a lot of time outs for potty breaks and costume changes; we also needed time outs for dancing, pony rides, upside down planking and Little People train rides.

During one of our unscheduled breaks, Courtney cheated and looked up the final score. She taunted us with her newly discovered knowledge so we were forced to silence her with brownies and ice cream. We thought about rewinding the halftime show and making her watch it again, but even the Amonetts have their standards for torture.

By the end of the game, we were whooping and hollering, yet feeling a little sad inside that not enough people had been praying for Tom. As we were cheering for the great fourth quarter plays, (and predicting the late night comedians' jabs at Gisele), Emerson was performing his own sideline cheer, "Do the Dew!"

As with every event in the Amonett house, all good things must come to an end. Battling the bloat from our Superbowl super-sized portions, Mr. T and I reaffirmed our vow to begin our diets anew in the morning. He agreed to give up soda and unhealthy food; I agreed to give up soda and everything that tastes good. Although I am not sure how it will all play out, chances are he will move within 10 pounds of goal while I am sacked by the first good-looking cookie that comes my way. Even so, we will support each other on our weight loss journey and I will try not to distract him with my sugary wiles. I must say, though, I think it's really unfair that my genetics make me discriminate against food, especially when I have so much love to share. Leafy greens are great, but they are no substitute for my insulin-spiking happy pills. A little chocolate can go a long way and everyone knows I look good in brown, especially when it's smudged around my lips. Besides, I should be able to eat what I want, when I want, how much I want and be as skinny as I want! {stomps foot}

Now who's the irritatingly obnoxious one?