It’s here, it’s big, it’s crazy. Super Bowl XVII (42 for the Roman Numeral Challenged) is coming to Arizona.
All of a sudden, everyone is on a first name basis with “Eli”, “Tom”, and “Paris”. If I took out a second mortgage, I could attend any one of a dozen exclusive pre- or post-Super Bowl parties featuring the celebrity flavors of the month. With the stadium located out in the hinterlands, it’s pretty easy to assume that you might just run into a well-known face or two just by frequenting the usual high end Scottsdale shopping center and restaurants.
Friends and relatives are coming out of the woodwork asking if we can get them Super Bowl tickets at face value. Ha, Ha, Ha. We do have tickets. Six of them. But that’s another story.
Husband spent the better part of two nights trying to book flights home for Daughter #2 and Serious Boyfriend (who is a rabid Patriots’ fan). They’ll be flying a “quality” route that begins in Boston, with an hour’s drive to New Hampshire to catch a flight to Baltimore, to catch a flight to Las Vegas, to catch a flight to Phoenix. The morning after the Super Bowl, they’ll reverse this itinerary substituting San Diego for the Las Vegas segment. So, even though in one weekend, they’ll be hauling themselves cross-country for a one day event, they are besides themselves with excitement. Neither of them have been to a Super Bowl, and OH-MY-GOSH-MOM-IT’S-THE-PATRIOTS! Daughter #2 sent me Serious Boyfriend’s voice mail after she invited him to the Super Bowl–it’s pretty funny.
More later. . .