Dingle Balls, Dingle Balls, Dingle All The Way...

Now, I may not be in the holiday spirit, due mostly to circumstances beyond my control freak control, but when I opened my scratchy, tired eyes this morning to find a foot and a half of snow blanketing the Ebola grounds, my mood was elevated immediately. I do love me a good ole' snowstorm on a day when I've got nowhere to be and school cannot possibly be cancelled. Come February, not so much, but December is perfect for getting dumped on, in my opinion, especially if we get to have a white Christmas.

It's not the first snowstorm of the season, so I didn't need to strip down and streak around the house, as is tradition around here. Thankfully, we got that out of the way a few weeks ago, when it wasn't quite as nipply as it is now. Although a good snowstorm streak is always highly amusing and improves everyone's mood dramatically, it's below 20 degrees, and the snow is up to my knees. So, I'm keeping my knickers on and hanging by the fire, like a wise old lady should.

Earlier, however, the family got outside and played in the snow. The menfolk rode the snowmobile. Well, mostly the boy rode the snowmobile while the husband was shoveling us out, but he took quite a few spins around the yard, too, as his weight was needed to make some trails where the boy wouldn't get stuck.



I was on dog duty. Deep snow makes more work for dog owners, especially little dog owners. Poor little Pooter attempted to take her morning pee out back and was quite shocked when she dove off the top step and sunk. She literally disappeared, being that she's short and all, so I had to run out and rescue her little ass and take her for a walk in the plowed driveway instead. The big boys were fine, even though the snow was up past their bellies. They just freak out, run as fast as they can, tackle each other and I assume pee while their weenies are stuck in the snow.

A while later, the husband shoveled a maze of paths in the backyard for the dogs to do what dogs do when their butts are not stuck in snow, so I figured we'd let Pooter give the backyard another go. Being the overprotective (inexperienced wee dog owner) mom that I am, I put on her winter coat for the first time and placed her on the shoveled patio. I stood there, camera in hand, waiting for the boy to go by on the snowmobile so I could take a shot and go back in the house for more coffee. Thinking that Pooter must be so relieved to be on solid ground again, I watched as she took a spin around the path. Then, I watched as she jumped into the middle of the deep snow and sunk herself again. Apparently, she liked being sunk.

Here she is crawling out...


Getting her engines fired up...



And busting her little butt right on out of there...



"Go, Pooter, go." She emerged from her dip in the deep end looking like this, which is kinda sad and extremely cute all at the same time. I couldn't tell if she was looking for sympathy or praise, but what she got was me laughing in her face and pointing a camera at her...

She was not amused. I'm pretty sure I heard her tell me to fuck off before she shook off...

I just laughed harder. Then, in what I can only assume was a lame attempt at making herself look tough, she snorted at me, dipped her face back into the fluff and tried to stare me down. All I saw was a Got Milk? mustache...

Sensing that I wasn't going to back down from her death stare, she shook her head again and took off after her brothers...

Just look at the little badass...

They turned the shoveled paths into their own private racetrack for a while, dove in and out of the deep snow, wrestled each other, and I have to admit that I was pretty impressed with the wee one's tenacity and grit in the face of her first major snowstorm. Her legs may be short, but she walks tall, with her head and tail held high, as long as she isn't sniffing the ground for rats or bugs, of course. Hell, she didn't need a winter coat. What was I thinking? Pooter's no pussy little foo-foo dog. She's a terrier!

As all good things must come to an end, I knew it was over when the tail went limp. Now, that really is pitiful...


"Time to go in, tough girl" Only then did I see the dingle balls hanging off of her little legs. "Oh, shit! I had no idea it was dingle ball snow." In the end, the joke was on me, as dingle balls get matted into their fur and melt all over the house while they try to chew them off themselves and each other.

Yeah, I've got experience with the dreaded dingle balls, lots of experience...


The bigger the dog, the bigger the dingles. As I was taking my coat off so that I could de-dingle three dogs in the bathtub, the boy walks in and says, "Jesus, Mojo, you have the biggest balls ever!" He wasn't wrong. Those are some big balls.

The Shit I Get Myself Into...

Last year, as some of you may remember, I took a stand against sending Christmas cards to my friends and family and the people you feel you have to, simply because they sent you one. It was great not to spend the money on an oh-so-pretty card (one of my major character flaws is it has to be pretty or I don't want to play). It was a relief not to spend the time getting my grumbling kid and two incredibly furry dogs cleaned up and posed in some sort of Christmassy-looking scene (it is a Christmas card, after all) just so that I can get one picture out of three hundred where everyone looks good, because I'm a mother and I'm supposed to send a photo of my kid to everyone we know once a year. Meh!!


I'll come right out and admit that I'm just being lazy when I say I don't want to send cards. I can do it. I've got the means, the time, a great camera that I kind of know how to use, pretty outdoor settings, a kick-ass photo printer so that I can do it all right here at home. Oh, and I've got cute subjects. Cute until you try to get them to sit still for a group shot, that is. Actually, the dogs do what I tell them and look happy while doing it. Nearly impossible to take a bad picture of them.



The boy? Well, he's like his mama and should really be the one behind the camera if at all possible. Our complete lack of a camera smile and complete lack of patience when posing for pictures stems from a recessive gene or some such thing that's been passed down from pretty much everyone I can think of in my unphotogenic family. If we know you're taking a picture, we end up looking pissed or constipated or insane. It's never good.


Now, the husband, on the other hand, has a very pleasant camera smile, looks great in posed shots and has at least a tiny bit of patience. Sadly, this posing skill, like most of the husband's finer qualities; ie, his easily tanned, freckle-free skin, hard teeth and his willingness to take directions from me, were not passed down to the boy. In fact, not much of the husband was passed down to the boy, except his stubborn streak, his ability to sleep through a tornado, the mind-numbing inability to move quickly and, fingers crossed, his substantial height. All signs point to a very tall boy turning into a very tall man, but I must remind everyone that I, all 5'3" of me, was the tallest kid in fourth grade. He's in third grade now. Put a long wig on the boy, and you're looking at Mini Me. Poor kid will hate me forever if he gets my height.


But enough about Mini Me. Back to the cards. So, I wasn't going to send any this year either, because last year was so nice and easy without all the card drama. Then, the photo cards started pouring in from our friends and family, and the boy made a comment about how we really should do a card this year, because we have a new addition to the family, a/k/a "Stella" to him, "Pooter" to the rest of us. "Good point," my brain said, even while my lips were saying, "Yeah, you just like to look at pictures of yourself." "Well, I think we should send a card. She's soooo cute," he says.




Damn kid got my power of persuasion skills, too. In an effort to show him that his junior apprentice skills need work and have absolutely no power over his cranky old mother, I said, "I'll think about it." Then, he went outside to ride his bike, and I got online in search of a card. I made a deal with myself that if I find a card I like, without having to leave my house, and if I can get our names printed right on them, instead of my traditional hand-written wishes of peace and prosperity, then maybe I'll do this thing. Maybe.


The first place I went online was Exposures, since I have purchased nice cards there in the past. I clicked on the very first page of cards, quickly scanned and found myself saying, "Well, hello pretty, black card. I think I love you, and I think I'll add you to my cart right now. Could it really be this easy?" I filled in the boxes that asked for the text I'd like imprinted, picked a font and added them to my cart. Then, I saw the pricey total and decided to open up Shutterfly in another window and see if I liked any of their cards.




First page, quick scan, and I found myself saying, "Well, hello, pretty, black card with red scrolls. I think I love you, and I think I'll delete the other pretty card from my Exposures cart right now. Ahh, but not so fast there, pretty Shutterfly card. First, let me import a photo of my kids from last year, set this baby up exactly the way I want it, with our names imprinted in a lovely script, add up the price, and then we'll talk."


After an hour of this shit, the husband walks in, and I ask him if he likes the final product. "Yeah, that's okay," he says to the Shutterfly masterpiece I had created. Dick! "I like real cards with photos attached so that you can keep the photo and chuck the card if you want." "Good point," said my brain, since I do chuck the photo cards and keep the real photos we get, but my lips said, "Since when do you give a shit about such things?"




"I'm just telling you what I think, and I like a card with a separate photo." Now, I don't recall asking him to think, but he had made a valid point. So, I clicked back over to my cart at Exposures, zoomed in on the pretty, black card, and he says, "Yep, I like that one WAY better," as he's walking away. Dick!


To be honest, I liked that one way better, too. It's gorgeous, but it was expensive, and I'd have to take the time to stick the photos in the damn card before I could stick them in the envelope. Then, I got annoyed with the whole drama, hastily hit "checkout," and up pops a screen that lets me know NOW, after all that fucking work, that imprinted cards would not get here until a couple days before Christmas. "What's the point of that? What's the point of any of this shit? Damn kid. Damn husband and his annoying opinions."


Eight hours into this drama (not really, but it sure as hell felt like it), it turns out that if I ordered them without the imprinting that they were substantially less expensive than the Shutterfly cards. "They sure are pretty," I reasoned. "How hard can it be to write our names? No profound thoughts or wishes, like years past, just, 'Love, The Ebolas.' I can handle that. Done deal!"


Of course, I should have known that that was just the beginning of my Christmas Card Nightmare, Circa 2009. Now, we needed a darn good photo to put in the pretty cards. It had snowed, and the outside decorating had been done for weeks, so setting a scene was going to be a piece of cake. I spit-shined the boy and the three dogs, set up my shot before I dared to put them in it, got them all in place, and then the fucking sun came out. It had been cloudy all day, a photographer's natural lighting dream, but just when we're ready to say "cheese," the clouds parted, allowing the harsh sunlight to land exactly where it could not be for this shot to work. I cursed the clouds, told the dogs to "STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY" and yelled at the kid to quit whining while we waited for a cloud to cover the sun.


This it took a while. The boy gave it his all in the whining department, as did the dogs, but no one was going anywhere until I got a decent photo to put in the stupid fucking card I didn't want to send in the first place. If I have to suffer because my boy wants a Christmas card, so do they. As we all know, it's difficult to get everyone to look good at the same time in a photo, especially when you've got uncooperative subjects, but it can be done. Take a shit-ton of rapid burst shots, and you're bound to end up with one decent shot, which I'm smart enough to quickly scroll through before letting anybody move a muscle.



About halfway through my scroll, I saw one that looked like a winner, so I zoomed in on everyone's faces just to be sure. Okay, so it could be better if the boy took direction and looked over the camera, instead of down at it, but everyone knows he's got eyes somewhere in those two slits just above his nose and just below his eyebrows. Hell, he's smiling a real smile, doesn't look constipated, so that's a keeper. "You're all free to go now." "IT'S ABOUT TIME," says Mr. Gotta Have A Christmas Card. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to do this," I snorted as I walked in the house.


Being happy with the photo, I was getting into this now, feeling the Christmas card spirit of years past. I couldn't wait until the pretty cards arrived so that I could slap the photo of my adorable kids in it, stand back and admire the beauty before getting down to the nitty-gritty of finding addresses and stamps and going to the post office. When they showed up on our doorstep last Friday morning, I grabbed the box, ran in the house and excitedly ripped it open. Inside of that box was a very lovely, long box, with a pretty "Thank You" note from the Exposures packing elf. How sweet is that? Inside of that box was -- uh -- parts to be assembled into cards:



I thought I was getting this (minus the sparkly shit. I added a dash of glitter before sending them on their merry way, because I'm THAT fucked up):

Which I was supposed to open up, quickly slap in the family photo and end up with this:

But, since everyone hates Lola, including that lazy-ass Exposures elf who sent me a box full of supplies, instead of the falsely-advertised, pretty, black cards that my stupid husband talked me into getting, because my stupid kid wanted to send a photo of himself off to his friends only because their parents sent one to us, yours truly ended up with the most epic Christmas card project of all time.

After folding one flat, black "card" twice and sticking the lovely sparkly, cream-colored card stock into the four precut slots in the middle of the card (I'm surprised I didn't have to slice the slots myself), peeling off a photo dot so that I could finally slap one of the photos into the card, I closed it, opened it, laughed my head off, stuffed all the parts back into the box and threw it on the desk. "Bye-bye, Christmas card spirit. Catch you next year or maybe NEVER!"

The woman who was perfectly content with not sending cards ended up with this mess on her plate all because she wanted to make her kid happy? If Exposures had said, "Card kits, major assembly required," which they SHOULD have at least noted in fine print somewhere, I never, ever would have ordered them. I should have sent them back with a nasty note, threatening to kidnap and torture their packing elf or whoever thought this was a good idea to do to people during the busiest time of year, but even that would be more work than I wanted to do. So, the card kits sat, and I sneered at them every time I walked by; that is, until 2 A.M. Tuesday, when I decided to just do it.

After being hit by serious health scares on Friday and Monday (which I may or may not tell you about at some point), I couldn't sleep and needed a distraction. I got quite a few cards done before I couldn't take it anymore, but I was happy with the final product or what I thought was the final product. It was about 1 A.M. Wednesday that I decided what they really needed was a tiny sprinkle of silver glitter before I stuck them into the envelopes, because everything is better with a little glitter, after all. Who knew I'd reach the height of craft insanity when I hadn't slept for two days?

Eventually, I hit the wall Wednesday night and was able to sleep after some good news came my way. Sleep seems to have sucked the card-making mojo right outta me, though, and I have about ten more to get done right now. I was supposed to wrap all day. That was the plan anyway. Instead, I slept all day and then chose to blog instead of manufacturing Christmas card masterpieces.

Next year? No cards, no matter what!!!

***The cards are truly gorgeous in real life. My cell phone camera didn't do them justice, but I was too exhausted from making my own cards to have to walk upstairs and upload real photos. You'll just have to take my word for it, I guess.***

You Object? No, I Object...

The other day, as I was sitting in the waiting room of the Tits R' Us Imaging Center, clad in an extremely fashionable johnny, I decided to check my blog for comments via Crackberry instead of read the ABC's of breast health once again or try to make small talk with the other ladies waiting to get their tatas flattened into fleshy tortillas.

Finding no new comments to brighten my morning, I went over to SiteMeter to see if my daily lurkers were still skulking about or if there were any new disgusting search terms I could laugh at. Sure enough, they were there, lots of sicko freaks searching for dog-on-wife porn or worse, mixed in with my trusty lurkers checking to see if maybe I'd found my way out of the holiday haze and posted something. I hadn't. I swear, I have the most incredibly dedicated lurkers out there. They either love me or they're compiling enough personal data to track me down and kill me. Whichever scenario brings you to my blog door, I'm flattered. Just don't get any crazy ideas and come to my real front door, because I can be rather unaccommodating to uninvited guests.

As I scrolled through the referrals, I saw one link from the UK I had never seen before, followed by an "exit page" link I had never seen before. So, I clicked on it, and up popped a "You flagged this blog as having objectionable content" Blogger page. "What the fuck is this," I said to myself. Just then, my favorite boob basher called my name, so I had to put away the Crackberry, cutting short my investigation into who this twat/dick was that flagged my blog.

When my boobs and I got home, we got right back to our investigation, using good ole' Google to search for the Blogspot bully that flagged me. After much technical tweaking of the blog name (you know, putting "http://" in the beginning of the link and a "/" after the "com" that I always forget to type), BINGO. There she was, smiling at me from the corner of her generic-looking blog.

"Hmm... She doesn't look like a mean bitch, but she does look pretty uptight," I thought, and I started reading some of her posts. Yeah, not my kinda gal. Not a blog I would ever give a second glance, and seeing that she has zero comments and isn't a newbie blogger, apparently not many people give her a second glance either.

"Should I be her first commenter and leave a heartfelt 'Thank You' in her comment section? Should I flag her boring ass right back? Nah... Maybe she didn't do it," I reasoned, even though I was pretty sure she did.

Instead of letting her have it, because I'm all about the peace, love and forgiveness, I went back to SiteMeter and found another one of those "You've Been Flagged, You Dirty, Rotten Whore" links from someone in High Point, NC. I didn't bother tracking that one down, and I didn't keep searching for the "Dirty, Rotten Whore" flags either. Why bother? If these two holier than thou blog cops flagged me based on my last two or three posts that they spent all of four minutes reading, then we'll just assume that I've been flagged A LOT in the past year and a half.

This explains why Google in the US and Google in the UK and that trusty little Googlebot show up in my SiteMeter all the time. And here I was thinking that the folks at Google thought I was like the funniest damn blogger ever and were just waiting for the right time to make me their Queen Blogger, plaster my pretty face all over the place and pay me millions of dollars. While I'm completely shattered to find out that the only offer that Google is likely to make me will be the "You have this Objectionable Content warning slapped on your blog or we're deleting your objectionable ass right off the Interweb," I can't say I'm all that surprised.

Well, I guess I am surprised by these two particular flags, since my last few posts have been pretty tame compared to many, many posts of the past. So, you don't find a turkey shitting stuffing out its ass funny? Okay. Words like "whore" and "Skanky McFuckface" offend you? Uh, okay. References to vaginas, pooters, humping elves and smoking weed make you gasp? Yeah, well, then my style of poking fun at my own personal peccadilloes is obviously not for you. Get over it, tell me off or get lost.

Short of the terrible things I said about Monopoly, everything else was about me. I'm calling myself a whore and Skanky McFuckface (thanks to Auntie egging me on), so I don't really get the objectionable part, unless you created Monopoly, of course. If you're going to flag every blog that has swears in it or sexual references, then you might as well pack up your blog-hopping bags and stick to the oh-so-sweet blogs that are nothing more than love letters to their always perfect children (I'm sure there's a huge list of them somewhere) or give up entirely.

Unless you're incredibly naive, one would think that you'd click right on out of here when you see leopard print and a woman upending a bottle of wine instead of cute baby pics and family portraits. I'm certainly not everyone's cup of tea in real life or in the blogosphere, but does flagging me as objectionable make you feel superior?

Do you think that you're saving the poor children out there that might be scarred for life if they stopped by here, rolled their eyes at their obvious mistake and got back to their real search for dog-on-wife porn or some skank getting her face mcfucked? Does it give you a little thrill to think that maybe Blogger will put me in my place, banish me to blog hell, and my world will come to an end? Well, I'm still here, and all your judgmental flags do is make the major brat in me want to show you just how objectionable I really can be. Believe it or not, I censor myself quite a bit here.

While I was on the phone yesterday with my dear friend Monkey, we got to talking about this whole situation and agreed that we would never even think of flagging a blog unless it was talking about harming a child or something equally as heinous. Admittedly, it's pretty hard to offend either one of us, but even if I found a blog that was bashing yours truly or spouting hatred or ignorance toward others, I'd battle it out with them in their comment section or simply hit the big X up in the corner of my screen.

I feel no need to police what others say in their own blogs, and while I find incredibly boring or whiny blogs highly objectionable on many levels, I would never think to flag one just because I can. So, to you, my unfriendly flaggers, I say, "Get your flag fingers ready, and read my lips..."

Dirty Talk...

Unless you've been living under a rock or you've been out straight, like me, with the holiday drama and an endless string of December birthdays (yesterday, my boy turned nine - WTF! -party with friends tomorrow) or trying to make money to pay for the aforementioned shit, you know that our dear friend Aunt Becky has another contest going on. No, it's not a run-on sentence contest, because we all know there would be no contest with me involved, and you can just hand over all the prizes tout de suite.

This contest is called "Open Your Whore Mouth," and all you have to do is answer her probing questions to win a book or a world famous Aunt Becky happy ending massage at the hotel of your choosing or something like that. You'll have to visit her for the details, as I pay little attention to fine print.

Now, I must admit that I felt like I should be given a less generic interview by my former virtual lady love, and my feelings were hurt so badly that I was going to ignore this little contest of hers in protest. "Take that, Auntie! Your blog will never survive without my genius comments!!!" Then, after much inner struggle, I chose to take the high road and forgive her just a little and play along. Must be the joyful holiday spirit that's coursing through my Grinch-green veins.

Or maybe I figured I could use this contest as a quick, easy post to let you know that I haven't taken up residence in the mental institution (I wish) or run off with some dude dressed as an elf (I really wish). No, nothing that exciting. I'm still spinning my wheels here in reality and will take up residence in Blogtown again if I live to see the end of this week. So, this is more for me than you, Auntie. Plus, everyone knows I've got a major whore mouth, and a whore mouth is a terrible thing to waste...


Aunt Meaner asked everyone in the world:


1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?

We call them jimmies here in Assachusetts (or maybe that's just Podunkian), and no, I don't like them on my ice cream. In fact, I don't like ice cream all that much. Frozen yogurt for me.

2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?

V-A-G-I-N-A. Hate that fucking word. Love my vagina, spend lots of time with it, but I hate that word. Not sure why it drives me so crazy, but it always has. I much prefer puss; although, pooter makes me so happy that I call my little Stella "Pooter." I also call her "Tuna," but I think "Pooter" is an incredibly endearing name for a dog. Don't you?

3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?

"If" I were a flavor? I'm pretty sure if you took a bite outta me on any given day, I'd taste like garlic and red wine. Those are flavors, no?

4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?

Is there really anything more pointless than vacuuming when you've got three hairy-assed dogs (two of which are nothing but fur), two pussy cats and two dirty boys running around?

Laundry is way more annoying, but I guess there is a point to it if you're not a full-time nudist or if you don't want to stink. I may be a streaker, but I'm no nudist, and I don't like to stink of anything other than garlic, red wine and horny elves.

5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)

Nobody has ever really called me by a nickname, at least not to my face. Unless "Witch" or "Bitch" count, but I'm pretty sure the people who call me that call every chick that.

Lucky for us, I give myself all kinds of nicknames. Lola was my "stripper" name and became my blog name. Most of you know I like to call myself Lola Ebola, which is quite fabulous, but I think my favorite is Skanky McFuckface. Every single time I lovingly refer to myself that way, it brings a huge smile to my skanky mcfuckface.

6) You’re stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?

This question blows, for obvious reasons, but I'll give it a go: Bowie (large body of work, and I never get sick of that skinny body of his); Chili Peppers (girl's gotta dance if she's stranded); Nina Simone (for when I'm sad that I'm stuck on a fucking island); Seether (for when I'm angry that I'm stuck on a fucking island); Concrete Blonde Garbage (because I couldn't survive without them. Yeah, I know, that's two incredible bands made into one by yours truly, but since Becky only listens to queer pop music, she'll never know.)

7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?

Of course that's false. Greasy swine does not improve wine or weed -- err -- I mean chocolate.

8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell young self?

I would say, "Young, sweet Lola, do not start smoking at 12, because you will grow up to be rather short. Also, there is no such thing as perfect, so get the fuck over yourself and have fun. Oh, and never fall in love with someone named Aunt Becky, because all you'll get is a 'framed needlepoint' to hang on your blog, just like everyone else!"

Now, where's my happy ending?

Family Game Night...

Wednesday afternoon, just barely after noon, the boy got off the bus, walked in the house, dropped his backpack on the floor and announced that we need to institute a family game night around here. "Oh, yeah? Who came up with that idea," I asked.

"Me. It's all my idea," he said in his proudest voice. Knowing full well that he had absolutely nothing to do with coming up with the idea, I said, "Uh-huh." Thinking that my "uh-huh" was a "Why, yes, dear, that is such a wonderful idea," he took off running and began ripping open closet doors in search of a game.

"What are you doing," I asked, as if I didn't know. "I'm getting the game." "There's really no need to go pulling out all of those games right now, since it's 12:45, hardly night, and your father isn't here. Family Game Night is a ways off, especially since Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I've got a ton of work to do for the next two days."

"So, when can we play?" "How about Friday night," I said, knowing full well that I'd be hitting the couch to suck my thumb after putting the last dish away on turkey day. "Okay, Friday night it is. I'll call Daddy and tell him that from now on Friday night is Family Game Night." "Yeah, you do that," I said with a smile.

After he called the husband to let him know what we'd be doing every Friday night, he grabbed a pen and wrote it on the calendar. It was all pretty cute Wednesday afternoon. His excited reminders of our game plan got old by Friday morning, but I'd humor him every time he'd point to the calendar or ask, "You know what tonight is, right?"

I couldn't figure out why the kid who spends almost all of his time with his parents was so excited about a Family Game Night. We often play card games on Sunday mornings after the boys return from their flea market adventure, so it's not like we've never sat down and kicked his butt at Go Fish before or tried in vein to get him to improve his checkers/Connect Four strategy. The boy is the one who always wants to quit and go ride his dirt bike or dig a hole or something. Santa wasted $600 on Wii last year, because this kid is not at all interested in video games, even when you get to stand up and throw actual punches.

I decided that maybe it was the "night" part of the plan that got him all worked up and told him around 6:30 to pick a game so that he would stop annoying me. "I think it's going to be Monopoly," he yelled from the other room just before I heard all the other games crashing to the floor. "Whoops!" I was loving Family Game Night so much already.

Now, I haven't played Monopoly in many years, but I do remember I used to love it as a kid. I remembered it took a long time and that the rules would be a bit too complicated for the boy and WAY too complicated for the husband, but I was up for kicking their asses by the fire. Having stacks of fake money is kind of rewarding, I thought, so I poured myself a big glass of wine and sat on the floor with the directions in hand while the boys chose their car and cannon. I had already pulled the dog out of the pile of choices, because that's how I roll. There were a lot more directions than I remembered, so I sent the boy to fetch his old mother's reading glasses. The husband was whining already, because sitting down is synonymous with snoring, after all, and five whole minutes had passed while setting up the board.

So, I made him the banker, figuring that handling "money" should keep him pacified for a half hour or so. I really wanted to be the banker, but a whining husband is way worse than a whining child, and we were going to be here a while. I couldn't understand the new Fast Play directions, nor could I fully understand the buying houses directions enough to explain it to an eight-year old, so I made up my own version of a couple rules. I'm pretty sure they're the rules my mother must have made up all those years ago, because I don't remember this game being so damn complicated.

On and on it went, with me going to "jail" over and over again; with my husband whining, "When does this game end," and the boy excitedly buying properties like he was a mini Trump hopped up on speed. Just when he'd get down to a couple bucks and there was a light at the end of this Monopoly hell tunnel, he'd pass "GO" and get $200 more or draw a great Community Chest/Chance card and be flush with cash again. The junior real estate mogul was getting off a little too much charging us rent and kept yelling "I LOVE THIS GAME!!" every time we handed him cash.

My game plan was to keep going until the husband freaked out and lost on purpose, but two hours and a bottle of wine later, it was me who had to MAKE IT STOP by throwing the game. "Oh, thank god," the husband said, followed by, "We are never playing that game again," as he went off to bed. "That was awesome," declared the boy. "I can't wait until the next Family Game Night!!" "Go brush your teeth," I said, while I cleaned up and considered accidentally ripping the board into several pieces.

I know, I'm a cranky old hag, but that game BLOWS, and my ass was killing me from sitting on the floor that long. The only reason I must have liked that game as a kid was that I made my mother, sister and brother sit there long enough that they threw in their towels and I was declared the winner every single time. Since the boy is not going to forget about Family Game Night any time soon, and since the husband and I are NEVER playing Monopoly again, it looks like the boy will be getting board games for his birthday next week. This is where you wise parents/game lovers come in:

We've tried Scrabble (a game I will never, ever lose, not even for my kid); Trivial Pursuit (a game I couldn't possibly lose if I tried due to how much they suck at it); Pictionary (a game that I'm only good at guessing, not drawing, and I tend to yell out rather inappropriate things. The boy can't draw either but is all ears, if you know what I mean); checkers/Chinese checkers (games that no one can really beat me at, but I will throw for my kid occasionally, never the husband); Operation (one of my faves, since Mama's got a steady hand, but the endless buzzing from the other inept players drives me nuts), and various card games that the menfolk can't seem to follow. How hard is gin rummy, I mean, really?

So, Internet geniuses, help a desperate mama out and save Family Game Night for my kid by recommending some games that you think an almost nine-year old boy will enjoy and a half-awake 45-year old man, with extremely large hands, will be able to play. I'm talking board games here, not bored games, like Monotony -- err -- Monopoly. Just looking at the name of that game makes me want to cry...