Did You Just Tell Me To Suck It?!?!

I have now discovered what is going to be the death of my marriage. Words With Friends…or more lovingly referred to as WWF. Unbelievable? Let me explain…

I’m a board game junkie. Having grown up in a overly testosteroned family (I have four brothers) who are all extremely competitive, I took my victories where I could…where my wits outmatched their brawn: on the game board. I’ll admit, it’s my thrill, and I’m extremely good at some of these games. At Othello, I’m near unbeatable (and I’m teaching Thing 1 who has already, at the tender age of six, bested her grandparents, her nanny and her father). At Monopoly, I will own you after I’ve slowly and conspicuously taken over the board (please note that Monopoly was a full contact sport in my house…and very few will ever indulge me any more). And Scrabble. Ahhh, Scrabble.

While my mouth gushes foul words that would make a trucker run for cover, I have that luxury. See, my vocabulary is vast. A bit superfluous actually. Who walks around stating things like, “Quite contrary to your introspection, I hypothesize that most are completely copacetic with their exigency”? I’d get stared at even more than I already do (I like to pretend it’s my good looks). Instead, I relish unleashing my plethora of locutions on the unsuspecting Scrabble adversary. Enter WWF.

Here is a game that when played online with friends, offers: online cheats, multiple word attempts until you get just the precise arrangement of letters to form a word one couldn’t define if their life depended on it (with no tête-à-tête in which one may challenge the proposed ‘word’ attempt) and no time limits. Surely, you can see how this is devastating. I thought it an amusing way to play with my husband, when most nights we’re too pooped to do much more than snuggle on the couch watching our favorite shows (Which, for the record are NOT comedies. Stop recommending them to us. We don’t find them funny. Ever.)…I digress.

It’s with a heavy heart that I admit the fault is all mine. I started this. It was my brain-child, and I invited him to play. Little did I know that one night I would hear the explosive, “SUCK ON THAT…48 POINT WORD. HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?!?!” echoed from my kitchen. How was I to know that while staring at my intangible rack (God, how I hate that I can’t touch these tiles…I’ve unearthed just how tactile I am) of seven consonants for the third round in a row; that the monster I created would take pleasure in announcing, “You gave me the triple word square, just wait ‘til you see this…I’m going to crush you!!!” Or, “HAHA! I don’t even know what that word means, but it sure as hell gave me 38 points!” [dying a little inside knowing he’ll never even look it up to find out it’s meaning]

Yes, I’ve had my figurative ass handed to me by the man who went to school on a math scholarship. Who had a College Dean ask his mother what language was spoken in their home because his use of the English language was so atrocious. Whose grad school papers I lovingly wasted entire red pens upon in the editing process… And I can’t help but wonder – is it true that “that which doesn’t kill us make us stronger”? If so, I’m thinking my marriage might not dissolve after all…you know, after I rip out his tongue.

Tales of the Cougar…Chaser

Recently, I looked over at my incredibly cute son. I realized that he needed a few new wardrobe items to be ready for our family pictures this year. I asked if he wanted to go shopping with me – you know, spend some quality Mommy – Noah time. This kid was ecstatic. He loves to shop. Sometimes, I worry for him.

…and then it happened. We were in our second store of the day, trying to find him the perfect new hoodie. Something appropriate for a four-year-old, yet rugged & manly with a hint of metro. Yes, this describes this little bundle of naughty perfectly. We found a brown zip-up number with wooly fleece inside the hood and some football-style numbers on the front. He was in love. I was content to wander around the rest of the store, which is when this whole mess began.

This kid has a homing beacon for hot moms. I really don’t know what it is. It would be terribly funny IF it weren’t my kid, or even IF I could figure out where he gets this crap from. In any case…he eyeballed himself a hottie. I’m going to say mid-30’s or so. Blonde. She’s pushing a stroller with the carrier in it, so you can tell her kid is a baby. He saddles right up to her, and I’m powerless to stop what happens next.

He leans over and looks into the stopped carriage. “Is that your baby? Your baby is soooooo beautiful!” He bats his incredibly long eyelashes while looking up at this woman with sheer admiration. She stops riffling through clothes on the rack to ask him, “Aren’t you the cutest thing?” I want to die of mortification. He does not stop there….no, no.

“Really, this is the most beautiful baby ever. You are a very lucky Mommy. Do you mind if I touch (he’s guessing now b/c I know he’s not really learned about gender color differences) him? “ At this point, he doesn’t wait for a response but gently caresses the baby’s head. “Ohhh, he’s so soft and so sweet.” At this point, I think this mother is completely in love with my son, and that I just might have to puke into my purse. I might have actually made gagging sounds, b/c for the first time this Mom looks right at me.

“Your son is the most adorable little boy ever! He’s so sweet & polite…”

I cut her off, “And hitting on you.” She looks at me puzzled. I continue, “Yes, hitting on you…as in trying to pick you up, then ask if you want to come over for a slumber party [insert now my son staring at me gape mouthed b/c I’m giving away all his secret moves]. No, I’m not kidding. That duplicitous little cutie right there is what we call a Cougar Chaser…and you were just pounced upon.” With that, I snatched his hand and headed for the front of the store.

As a parting moment of closure, he yells over his shoulder to the mom standing there watching in mute horror as she just allowed herself to get picked up by a four-year-old, “But he really is the cutest baby ever. Maybe I’ll see you again!” OMG. I pray to the contrary. Lord help us all…

Is That The Neighbor...Growling?!?

Last night was like any other autumn evening in fair upstate NY. We put the kids to bed and hunkered down on the couch. At 8:30pm, it was rainy and pitch black outside. What a great night to read a book…one of my favorite past-times. My husband settled in at my feet, and I lounged out reading while he channel surfed and settled on something on the Sy-Fy Channel (what is it with men & the Sy-Fy Channel???).

Again, as typical nights go, we had to get up and holler at the kids to quiet down & go to sleep about 20 times. Well, maybe not 20 times, but you know the drill. We settle back into our comfy couch. I’m feeling quite cozy, reading my book and all…when the coughing starts. After about 10 minutes, BJ looks at me and inquires as to whether or not he should give our son something for the rampant hacking that has been streaming from his room. We decide on a low-dose cough medicine. He gets up to administer it.

I’m shifting and trying to make myself comfortable on the couch now that my primary source of heat is gone. Aside from the light rustling in my son’s room, it’s very quiet…when I notice – uh…What is that? Rain, check. BJ & kid whispering, check. Is that a car revving? No… [looking over] The TV is muted. Hmmm. Seriously, WHAT IS THAT? That sounds creepy as hell! It sounds like, no. Couldn’t be. No, it does! It sounds like freaking GROWLING!

Seriously? I swear to God, something is outside. Growling. LOUDLY! I wonder what the hell our neighbors are doing now - they're a weird lot...I peer out the window from a crack in the curtain. Nothing. Pitch black, remember? The growling starts again…I can’t see anything, and it is starting to freak me out. BJ pads softly back into the room. I put my finger to my lips and whisper, “Do you hear that? Is that growling???” as if some sort of blood thirsty, rabid animal in my front yard can hear me, and might possibly at that precise moment jump through our living room window to eat my face off…

He stares at me. “Hear what?” Apparently, too many years of the Sy-Fy Channel have not only deadened his sense of impending mortal doom, but also have rendered him deaf. Great. I have a feeling I'll end up pushing his useless carcass towards the undead that invade my home in hopes of saving myself & the children.

We sit listening to the silence for a good 5 minutes. Just when he’s about to walk past me to sit down, he hears it. His eyes light up, and he looks at me, “What. The. Hell. Is. That?” “No idea.” We both peer out our front window. Good to know that it’s still raining; and oddly in the span of 15 minutes, nothing has suddenly illuminated our front yard so as to allow us to see what is going to be our eventual snarling demise…

Then it dawns on me. Growling. Our front yard. Halloween decorations. I put these freaky glowing motion-sensored eyes up in our tree. When a loud noise or sudden motion set it off - the eyes light up, it vibrates hard enough to shake our tree …and the thing growls. Way to freak the hell out of your mailman, I might add…Oh, and apparently yourself on some dark and rainy night. As a positive upside, I can now rest easily knowing it wasn’t my neighbors standing in my front yard, zombified and growling, preparing to dine on my superior brain... And to think…I’m not the one who watches the Sy-Fy Channel.

Ode to the Goatee...

After years of begging & pleading, my husband managed to grow in a bit of something that resembled a goatee. He’s not a hairy man, so this was not an easy or quickly accomplished feat. I was in heaven.

We took a few days off for vacation. We didn’t go anywhere. We just had plans to picnic and get some things done around the house. Little did I know, that my husband’s plans included facial alteration. He came downstairs one morning, clean shaven. I was aghast. For the past 5 years he’s had this goatee, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. I stared, mouth agape. I gave him my “angry eyes”.

“What?!?”

“Oh, you know what you did. I’m not happy.” Funny how one can decide they have a say into another person’s grooming, but I did. Apparently, I was not the only one in the house who had also made this decision…

My two-year-old toddled out of her room [now, to give you some background on this little one, she’s my sunshine. Literally. She’s fair skinned, tow-headed and has bright blue eyes and this hilarious and happy disposition. She speaks her mind and goes after what she wants – it also helps that she is a beast, standing near as tall as her four-year-old brother, and weighing in at five pounds more.] She took one look at her Daddy and scrunched up her face. Oh, this was going to be good!

“Where is your goatee, Daddy? Is it in the kitchen? [lmao, no idea where that came from, but apparently, she believes all good things reside in the kitchen…smart kid] YOU GO GET IT BACK! RIGHT. NOW.” And with that, she pointed in the direction of the kitchen and stared at her father with her harshest face.

He looked at me, and gave me this face as if to say I had put her up to that. I snickered, “Guess you’re going to have to grow it back…” I walked from the room, trying to hide my laughter.

About a week later, the goatee was back (it was still a work in progress, but the hint of it was there). My daughter finally noticed, “Daddy, your goatee! [he scooped her up and she rubbed her fingers on it] It’s back! Did you find it in the kitchen?” She nodded her head as if to reaffirm to herself that this was a perfectly acceptable place to lose, then find, a goatee. If this truly is the case, I really hope I don’t stumble upon any lost ones in the dark. That could be disastrous…