On Superbowl Sunday, there was something else going on that had me so giddy I almost didn’t notice the teens.

My husband threw a party for the ladies.

He had spent football season going out to watch the Lions (they’ll win one day, watch!) with friends. They had agreed to get together to watch the Superbowl at someone’s house. We offered ours, and I started planning and calling. The party seemed to slip through my fingers like sand, as guests started declining. . . my husband canceled the party.

He thought I was really disappointed. I was, but I was more disappointed at canceling the guests than about throwing a party. I am nervous as a cat throwing parties. My house is just not right, I’m scared I’ll mess up the food, I think nobody wants to come. I am a mess. So, for missing that, I was relieved.

I thought we’d maybe watch the game, or at least part of it, and our Sunday feast could have some tailgate elements, maybe.

My husband took me to see The Book of Eli on Saturday night, and afterward, he took me to the store to look for crab meat. Before I could wonder why my husband, who thinks of shellfish as giant bugs, would bring crab into the house, he told me quickly that he had planned a Superbowl party. The men would do all the cooking, and the ladies could relax and enjoy themselves. AND HE WAS MAKING ME CRABCAKES–my absolute favorite food ever.

And thus commenced the giddiness. I couldn’t stop giggling. I was smiling, dancing around, and by the time the party started, I was guffawing at everything.

When our Colts-fan friend started talking stuff, I told him not to bring that noise up in here. But I was completely gracious when the Saints turned the game around and started stomping them, of course. Except for the screaming.

I realized how well I know the game; that having a brother who played football for 10 years was not in vain. (electronic pocket football didn’t hurt for teaching the game either–remember those?) So I was able to tell the other women about 1st downs, etc., and argue with the Colt fans who said the Saints should have punted on that first failed touchdown attempt. Punted? That close to the end zone? No guts, no glory, baby!

When I was a girl, I’d hang out with the company when they came over. I’d play games with them, talk, etc. I had felt burdened that they have a good time. My mother would be wearing herself out in the kitchen trying to serve the company. Somewhere along the line, I took over my mother’s role. I’m not saying there’s anything bad about serving your company. You should serve your company.

But they also came to see you. And it is so nice to be available to them, to hang out and have fun.

Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves. The men enjoyed the compliments on their food; everyone was stuffed.

After the party, my husband told me I was a great hostess, and he liked that girl–the loud, slightly country, happy girl. Me too.

Do you think men could serve their wives on Superbowl Sunday and have fun too? Does that even make sense?