 |
|
|
Oh, God. This again? Divebomb Me Or, I Could Divebomb You 100 Things Those With Honor Estella Floats Styrofoamkitty WittandWisdom pea I, Asshole She C. Briantology Sheets and Blankets Mister Crunchy R80o Daymented Lily White Intentions Stutarded (this shit) Get to the Choppa Chucklehut tequila mockingbird (done) Generic/Synthetic Melman Teahouseblossom Jen and Tonic What's Mine is Yours Almost Lucid Elfcakes Dirty Fez Sarah B. Viva La Crap Panajane Bored But Busy What's Brewin' Down Yonder Not Well Planned (done) Malicious User Fussy Run Jen Run Sweetney EmilyM Knotty Yarn Fresh Pepper (on hiatus) Breakfast of Losers Philosophical Marshmallow Random Musings Brooks Blog Eurotrash Bad News Hughes Geese Aplenty Blue Ruin Tiny Voices in My Head The Art of Getting By Other Cool Drinks ... er, Links The Onion Pitchfork Wonkette Get Your War On Questionable Content Archives 
|
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
It’s Nice When We Both Win, of Course, but Me Winning a Lot When She Loses $10 is Much Better Than Her Losing $10 and Me Winning 80 Cents I’m not gonna lie: I was really looking forward to the family game(s) of poker. That wasn’t my primary motivation for trying to negotiate getting everyone (and their sick and/or displaced cats) to the beach house. (I’m not saying that my argument had the most merit or was even the most practical/logical, but I was just trying to make everyone happy. It’s a sickness really.) Anyway, we played poker with just four of us. It’s really more fun to take money from the in-laws (even if I was planning on giving it back as a gesture for them paying for the beach house), but it’s no fun to lose money to anyone. Michelle plays poker like it’s a sprint; she often starts strong but fades fast. All in all, the group was fairly evenly matched but, in the end, we ended up giving Blondie and Mr. Spaceghost $9.20. The other attraction at the beach was, well, the BEACH. Personally, I don’t like the beach. But then Mr. Spaceghost and I rented a skim board and, suddenly, I was a 14-year-old boy all over again. Of course, after all the harsh wipeouts and running and jumping, I’m pretty sore. Days later. Because I’m 33 years old. (Luckily, there are no photographs available of me with the 4-inch sprout of hair I’d fashioned to keep the salt-water/sun block out of my eyes . . . and the beach skanks from crowding me. I mean, what could make the obviously too-old guy with the skim board more appealing?) In other news, after clambering for her “CD” in the car yesterday afternoon and this morning (and getting her way, of course), Mia then said, “Play your CD, daddy.” “You want me to play one of my CDs?” “Yes.” So I put in Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights and selected “NYC.” It was raining and seemed fairly appropriate. Mia listened quietly, staring out the window. |