Papa John's Pizza
When football season starts in the fall, many women become NFL Widows. Their husbands or boyfriends or FwBs lose all sense of responsibility, completely regress to high school maturity, and abandon all hope, ye who stand between them and the little brown oblong ball on the TV screen. When once the men wouldn’t wake up before noon on Saturday to mow the lawn or take the kids to the pool or go shopping, now they are up at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and gripping a breakfast Bud Light in front of the TV because they have to snarl at Boomer, Madden, et al in pre-game commentary. Don’t assume they return to normalcy like the rest of the free-world on Monday morning. During football season, the weekend extends through Monday Night.
Wherever it is, “football guys” are firnly planted in front of a TV screen, or at least as firmly as they can be until the first foul play of the game sends them leaping across the coffee table, threatening the safety of the family pets. It might be the local sports bar this week. Maybe it’s their buddy’s basement next week. And when it’s his turn, he has “the guys” over with a 24-pack of longnecks on your doorstep at 9 am.
They take over the living room and you are relegated to the dining room, sitting around the table gossiping about and taking about every episode of Oprah the past week with the girls, commiserating with the other NFL Widows.
You, yes. Me?
At any other time of the year, during any other season, heck make it even any other day of the week, I love to prance around the kitchen in nothing but fuzzy pink slippers, velcro rollers, and a frilly French maid’s apron, wielding a whisk like a hidden dragon, turning out nachos like nobody’s business. Did you want extra guacamole with that?
However, when September rolls around, when the weekend rolls around, I will never be abandoned at home. I will never be banished from the couch in front of the TV, sequestered in the kitchen, tied up in apron strings, grilling burgers, frying French fries, and pouring him another tall, cold one. Did you say extra salsa?
Get it yourself, Cowboy.
I will elbow my way to the front of the bar, shove the pansies to the side, plop my girlie little ass down on a stool, and bark out an order for something strong on the rocks. I will will be out there in the living room, screaming obscenities every time that little yellow panty gets thrown onto the field. I will never be an NFL Widow because I will have to be right there, just like “one of the guys.”
Yes, I will be "one of the guys," in an awesome pair of 4” stilettos, that match my jersey.
Alright, so truth be told, I absolutely love being the girl in the kitchen frying up Buffalo wings, simmering five-alarm chili, baking little football cupcakes, and mashing together guacamole for a football afternoon, but I have to do it in advance. I can't be in the kitchen while the TV is on. Unless the TV is in the kitchen.
There is no TV in the kitchen. For Manning vs. Manning, I just couldn't get my ish together early enough on Sunday morning. We had to turn to the Papa.
I have a newfound love for pizza, though I doubt I will ever be in the leagues of Slicey Adam. While I understand that there are debates among the pizzaratti about who has "the best," what kind is "authentic" and whatnot, I have to sheepishly admit that I am not that picky when it comes to pizza. I am what you might whisper, "a pizza whore," i.e. I'll eat anything with crust and cheese. I guess you might say that I sort of understand when guys say that pizza is like sex.
Wow. Maybe I really am becoming "one of the guys."
So, we ordered pizza from Papa John's, mostly because their Internet ordering meant I didn't have to get up from the table where I was sitting with my laptop already open, just to go get my cell phone that was across the room. We also partly ordered Papa John's because I could drink that garlic butter sauce straight out of the little plastic cup. Gross? Yeah, so what? This is Peyton Manning we're talking about here, okay?
Unfortunately, I made a huge mistake in ordering the pizza on their thin crust, which I had never tried before, because if I had actually tasted the cardboard cracker that Papa John tries to pass off as thin-crust, I certainly wouldn't have ordered it again. The crust was miserable, with a capital D for disgusting and dreadful and as dry as the bottle of Michelob Ultra that I had to chug in order to get the slice down - and that's coming from, again *whisper* "a pizza whore."
Of course, despite how bad the crust was, we finished the whole thing, along with the spicy Buffalo wings that were, as always, surprisingly good, strangely addicting.
** a year ago today, i brushed up with sushi 101 **