Tuesday, January 26, 2016
(There was no post yesterday. I had trouble keeping my eyeballs open all day. . .and power napped.)
Today I am grateful for boy toys. It’s so funny how expectations play out when we are getting a big blizzard. I’m happy to tuck in and read; maybe make soup; have tea/coffee/good shit; crochet and play scrabble.
Not himself. Himself wants to play with his boy toys. Specifically cars. Almost from the moment the first flake fell he said, “I’m setting up the race track in the basement. Are you going to come down and play?” Yeah. Okay. Sure. In a minute. That turned into hours. I’m a bad person. I am aware of that fact. It wasn’t on my list.
Another foot of snow later. “Look, I know cars aren’t your thing, but I set it up on a table so we don’t have to crawl around on the floor. And I have two new corvettes for you!” I love corvettes. Okay. That’s good. But still. . . .this book. . . I know. I’m a much worse person than even you thought, right?
It was the second snow day, first thing in the morning, that I finally went down to “play” with Himself and his cars. Holy smokes! There in the middle of the basement were two large tables pressed together. He had the track taped to the top, with about a billion little matchbox cars scattered everywhere.
While he was giving me the coordinates. . .and I wasn’t listening. . .I started shooting cars down the track. “Hang on! We have to number the winners!” he said. I ignored him. I about died laughing when the cars did not rush off the table because he had bungeed a couch pillow to the end of it, so each car slid underneath and stopped, like they would on bales of hay at a real track. This man plans! I’m more extemporaneous.
Oh relax. Eventually I did it his way. . .sending countless vehicles down the track, then numbering them with tiny, annoying, peel-off stickers. Himself was happy. Until he got sick of my wild ways and declared us done. Apparently boy toys can only be shared for so long before you want them to yourself again.