I am not a Big Game person by choice.  And not even by marriage. Yeah, my husband likes to watch a game occasionally, but our house has never been Game Central until our son was born and grew up to boy, I mean, man, the remote control.

Now I’m living baseball and football seasons in what feels like slow motion and replays.  Each one seems to last several lifetimes. My eyes glaze over. I start to twitch a bit.  (No, I usually don’t watch, but we live in a NYC apartment.  The sounds of victory or defeat or replays resonate.)

And then, when I think that I can’t take it anymore, the talk around the dinner table gets more animated.  The playoffs.  The playoffs are coming.  This is muzak to my ears.  Because the playoffs mean one thing: It’s almost time for The Big Game.  And The Big Game means that the season is over. (I know! With such analysis of the season I’m shocked that I don’t have an ESPN deal!)

So yeah, I celebrate when The Big Game is on.  Because the Big Game means that baseball/football liberation is nigh. At least for a few months.

And this is how I prepare for the festivities:

First and foremost, paper plates and plastic utensils.  I cannot stress this enough.  It’s not green, but when my sanity is at stake, I’ll compromise.

Second, snacks.  Many snacks in varied forms and in quantities that do not correlate mathematically to the number of people attending.  Eating and cheering/booing/pontificating on that throw/tackle/pass/plie can be a challenge.  Snacks miss mouth.  Snacks land on floor.  Mom loses mind.

Third, make sure you have a vacuum cleaner/pet on hand.  See, snacks on floor.

Fourth, have a room next to Big Game area where people can retreat.  We use the  nook that’s between the kitchen (where the food preparation takes place) and the living room (which is the Big Game Ground Zero).  This way I can intercept the best snacks before the Big Game Watchers get to them.

Fifth, hire Bradley Cooper to serve the snacks.  What? Isn’t this what Fantasy Football is all about?

Sixth,  when the cheering from Big Game Watchers gets especially heated, go in and ask the kids if they’re excited about school tomorrow. Enjoy the fact that you can get a reaction of stunned silence from them. (If you do  not have children and are entertaining your man and his friends, this would be a good time to tell him that you want to discuss some of your feelings.)

Seventh, during intermission, err… half time, engage the Big Game Watchers in a game of charades. No one watches the commercials anyway!

Eighth, ok, fine.  Serve dessert during half time.  Something light.  I like cookies. Mmmm…cookies…

Ninth, as soon as the last play is made, appear in The Big Game Room wearing pajamas and clutching your teddy bear. “Good night,” yawn to everyone. “Thanks for coming and get home safely!”

Tenth, milk the fact that you hosted The Big Game event at your home at every opportunity.  If you talk it up, your Big Game party will soon become the stuff that legends are made of.  And isn’t getting a pat on the back what it’s all about?

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Tell me what tips you have for hosting a successful party for friends and family for the Big Game and be entered to win a 42” LG flat Screen TV!

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Last night, when most normal people were watching Project Runway (is it me, or is Heidi unnecessarily bitchy?) I was baking blueberry muffins with my daughter.

Because their class is having Friday bake sales now.

To raise money for a class trip.

We baked and baked and the muffins looked gorgeous.

Like model muffins.

It’s as though Heidi Klum baked them herself.

“How much do you think we should sell them for?” my daughter asked.

I looked at the sixteen perfect babies.  Sell them? To strangers? Who would eat them?!  Sigh.

But, enough about that.

“How about $1 each?” I suggested.  I’d bought $15 in ingredients and that didn’t even include the flour, sugar and arsenic which I had on hand.  Or the love that we poured in.

“No one’s going to pay $1,” she shot me down. “I’ll sell them for 75 cents.”

Fine.

FINE.

Except this morning when my daughter noticed that there were only fifteen muffins left, she demanded a dollar.

“You said they’re 75 cents each,” I started to bargain.

“That’s if you  buy them at school,” she told me.  “You pay extra for the convenience of having it at home.”

A premium for helping to shop, pay for and bake the muffins.  That really is convenient.

(Ahem.  I’m writing about cooking with my kids — and sharing recipes! on Foodie Parent now. There are many other awesome writers there, so you should definitely check it out.  It’s funny! And delicious! And we use curse words! Like Lenny Bruce curse words!)