Ahem. That is, burying 'them' in the backyard. (OH, PLEASE. We all know who's going to be the bury-er. Who's got two thumbs and a can-do attitude? This girl.)
You all know I love my husband a lot. Tons. More than I could possibly say. But, like so many folks on the planet, we don't have a lot in common besides a smart mouth, a strong will and being the parents of two pretty cute blond boys.
He likes the outdoors... I believe nature is best viewed through a pane of glass with fantastic climate control and a fruity drink from which to sip.
He has to concentrate while he works... I am the queen of the multitask, talking and being busy at the same time. It took me a long time to understand that he didn't resent me when we were making candy cane cookies together. The complete silence didn't mean he didn't love me, it only meant that he was busy making the best candy cane cookies in the free-born, natural world. Without interruptions.
He is fiercely competitive... while I really don't care whether or not I win or lose.
And that brings us to today's issue: Game playing with my other half, and how it NEVER goes well. NEVER.
My family played games when I was young. All kinds of games. My dad played football and basketball and baseball with us in the backyard, and we all played board games; Sorry, Battleship, Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, all played at the dining table with the four of us having fun.
In all those games, I don't remember there ever being a sore loser, because I simply don't remember who won or lost. My parents might have let me win (I'm certain my dad did, on more than one occasion), but we played because playing is fun. It didn't matter who won. The act of playing is fun. If you won, then that was just the icing on the cake.
My husband, however, from a round of croquet to a game of Monopoly, treats each event as a bloodsport, where he is only happy if he crushes the competitor beneath the heel of his boot, battered and bloody and begging for mercy. Games in our home have ended in shouting, wailing, gnashing of teeth, storming about, and tears on more than one occasion. (And that was just Nolan.) He gets incensed that I don't care about winning and play lackadaisically, and I get beyond irritated that he treats a game of Monopoly like the balance of our lives depends upon collecting the two hundred dollars for passing GO.
The game-playing contention began in 1992, in the greenroom of the theatre at UTA, where a friendly game of spades ruined Nolan's chances with me for another four years. I eventually forgave him for calling me "stupid" when I reneged, but I've yet to play spades with him since. The trouble continues now with dominoes. DOMINOES. What, are we seventy? Are we going to start playing Canasta, next?
I'm certain that somewhere in-between our two philosophies of not caring and world domination lies the best course of action. And I'm sure we'll figure it out.
But if Nolan goes missing, check the backyard under the antique roses. Chances are good that he'll be there. Until then, I'm kicking shins and mouthing off and not giving a crap whether I win or lose.
I gotta be me. :)