Thursday, October 31, 2013

Your trick. My treat.

Never get between a woman and her chocolate.


Or you’ll soon discover just how scary a female can be...whether it’s Halloween or not.


“Where’s the chocolate?” I asked my husband one afternoon as I desperately searched through the kitchen pantry.

“Why?” he replied with no great concern.

As if the reason is in any way relevant to my query. 

It’s like asking why the sky is blue or why Congress is stupid.

Some things just are.

I shrugged and said, “I always eat chocolate when I write something really important.”

He looked stunned, “What? How did I not know that?”

In his defense, how often do I write anything important?

But I digress.

So I continued, “I’m a complicated person, one who needs chocolate for truly great inspiration.” I paused then snarked, “Now where is my chocolate, dammit?!”

And before my head started performing 360’s ala Linda Blair in “The Exorcist,” a bag of Halloween candy was flying through the air at my head.

Smart man.

That’s more like it. 105 pieces of chocolate goodness.

Your trick.

My treat.


Then the howling started.


My husband’s screamed curse must have been heard halfway around the world.

Or at least within a three-block radius.

I went flying down the stairs, clutching the Louisville Slugger bat in one hand and a kickass attitude to swing at anything larger than a chipmunk in the other, and skidded at the bottom of the landing where my husband stood by the front door looking as if he had stared death in the face.

Or had just seen our most recent electric bill.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER?!” I screamed. I spun in a circle, daring danger to show its ugly face. A quick perusal of the area showed...absolutely nothing.

My shoulders slumped and the bat fell to the floor with a loud thud. 

“Was it a spider? I know you hate spiders. I’ll go get the cat. She’ll take care of it,” I said to my husband, who was standing there looking more than a little embarrassed.

He shivered and answered, “No, it wasn’t a spider. It was that!” He pointed toward the front door where a large, bulky shape appeared through the glass.

“That” was the Grim Reaper decoration I had hung up earlier in the day. In my husband’s defense, it did seem that a person was standing right outside the door, peering inside in a ghastly I WANT TO KILL YOU kinda way. If you caught it just right, out of the corner of your eye as my husband had, it was more than a little freaky.

I smiled, patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, honey. Death doesn’t ring the doorbell.” 

But before I let him get too comfy, I added with an evil little smile, “He comes while you’re in the shower. Naked. Just like the spiders.”

Then I ran like hell.


Is there anything cuter than an 8-year-old singing in the shower?

No, not really.

Unless you are pranking an 8-year-old singing in the shower....

While our son was scrubbing all his spots clean, my husband decided to have a little fun. 

Our master bath is next door to our son’s bathroom, which means they share plumbing.

A vital clue to the upcoming performance about to begin.

My husband walked into the master bath, stopped at the sink and turned on the hot water tap.
About three seconds later we heard our son howl, “COLD! COLD! COLD! COLD!” He had no clue what was causing the change in temperature. 

A mother should feel some remorse for her poor child’s misfortune, but Holy Mother of God, it was hilarious. “Do it again!” I pointed at my husband then at the tap.

So he did. 

‘Cuz he’s just as mean as I am.

“COLD! COLD! COLD! COLD!” blared from our son’s open bathroom door.

Oh. My. God. This stuff was better than cable. We were both laughing so hard that there was a good chance we’d accidentally induce a coronary (him) or pee our pants (me).

And one would think our little trick would get old after, say, 10 times.

But, no.

It was a treat that delivered every. single. time.

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