BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Competition, in and of itself, is a good thing. A bit of healthy competition helps folks to strive toward excellence. It forces them to work harder for a reward, thereby helping them become better at what it is they are competing over, about, around, on, under, or otherwise with.

In the marketplace, it even tends to promote a little better pricing here and there. Sometimes it even spurs honesty – but then again, sometimes it spurs dishonesty, which is a bit less than healthy.

But, we aren’t talking about the marketplace here today. What we are talking about is “healthy competition” among friends. A contest, as it were, on an impromptu family & friend game night.

And it all starts with coffee…

You see, a dear friend of mine – we call her DeathStar because… well, if you ever meet her you’ll understand… Anyway, this dear friend of mine is a coffee roasting hobbyist. Actually, I think she has migrated from hobbyist to professional in recent months, but the real point is that DeathStar  hand roasts and custom blends some of the most INCREDIBLE coffee on the planet. And, since I am her friend I am fortunate enough to receive freshly roasted – as in less than 3 days old – coffee beans on a regular basis. If you are a coffee drinker at all you understand me when I say this is almost literally a case of “Java Nirvana. ” The aromas when you open the sealed package, the aromas when you grind the beans, and everything else that comes along with it… Because of DeathStar I even went out and purchased a French Press… Well, actually E K picked it up for me, and she doesn’t even like the smell of coffee, which just goes to show you that even someone who hates coffee with a passion knows how to respect the “Beans o’ DeathStar”.

And so… I have this coffee. And, I have this other friend who is a coffee fanatic. We’ll call her Anastasia. We won’t, however, call her ‘Stasia Mae. Only her husband gets away with that. But, if we’re going to be honest, we mostly just call her Luets. Long story there… But, anyway, Luets is a coffee fanatic, and whenever I come into possession of the sacred beans, she shows up at my door. As was the case recently.

Luets and her husband came by for freshly roasted, ground, and pressed coffee one Saturday. After juicing several of the beans and sitting around talking it had progressed into the late afternoon, so we invited them to stay for dinner. Afterwards, as we all sat around drinking Vodka-Tonics the Evil Redhead decided we should play a game (see… now I need a friend who distills their own Vodka…)

Now, normally when this happens it usually involves me wearing a collar and fetching sticks, tennis balls, and various chew toys for E K. However, on this particular evening the Redhead was looking for something we could all do, and she didn’t have enough leashes on hand to accommodate everyone.

But, seriously… E K came up with the idea that maybe we should play Uno or some other card game. Since the O-spring was involved, we let her pick and she decided upon Phase 10. If you’ve never played it, Phase 10 is sort of like what would happen if Rummy and Uno had a child. It’s a lot of fun, and we really enjoy it. And, it’s healthy competition…

Or, so we thought.

You see, Luets is competitive. When I say competitive I don’t mean healthy competitive. I mean insano, take no prisoners, needs a straitjacket competitive. With everyone…

Her husband, Mike, however, is not what you would call competitive at all. He’s more along the line of “Yay! Everybody wins!”… In fact, he is sooooo diametrically opposed in “competitiveness” to Luets, that he will literally go out of his way to help someone else win, even if it costs him points. In fact, he readily admits that he is happy to lose as long as he is able to drive Luets up a wall. It seems that when it comes to games, making Luets crazy is Mike’s real entertainment.

And so, we discovered this… with extreme prejudice, mind you…

At one point during the game Luets used a skip card, but didn’t skip Mike, even though he wanted her to. The reasoning, announced loudly and without apology, was that, “You don’t play the cards right.” You see, had she skipped him it would have set him up to help someone else win on the next round. She knew he was going to do this and was vying to prevent it, all the while seething and generally turning into a psychopath whenever anyone would inch ahead of her. To give you a verbal illustration of her behavior, Luets was even going head to head with our 10 year old, and was being brutal.

Fortunately, the O-spring can hold her own, as I shall now illustrate…

During a later hand, as Luets whined, seethed, grumbled, and shrieked, it came around to the kid’s turn. O-spring was in possession of a skip card herself, and she played it. On Luets…

Well, I probably don’t have to tell you that Competition Girl immediately became pissy. She demanded to know why the O-spring didn’t skip Mike instead because in her mind that would have been a better play. Without missing a beat our 10 year old looked across the table and completely owned her by saying, “Because just like you said, he won’t play the cards right!”

Yeah… The O-spring doesn’t fall far from the tree… Next time we play cards though, I’m thinking we might need to dial back on the amount of DeathStar Coffee we allow Luets to drink…

More to come…

Murv

“I’m home!” I yelled as I came through the door.

It was fairly quiet in the house, which should have tipped me off right away. Well, that and the remnants of the cardboard refrigerator box that had apparently been dismembered in our dining room. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was all about, to be honest. Especially since our refrigerator had been fine earlier, so there wasn’t really a need for a new one.

But, of course, living with an Evil Redhead, you learn not to ask too many questions. Not that such has stopped me in the past. I even have the scars to prove it.

So, anyway, I checked the time just to be sure. The o-spring was still at a play-date, but EKay’s vehicle was in the driveway, so I figured she was here somewhere. Of course, since I hadn’t heard her scream, “Lackey! Get in here right now!” I assumed things were all good. But, “things” can change pretty quickly around our house.

However, what with it appearing to be safe for the time being, I headed for the kitchen to get myself something to drink.

That’s when I saw it.

A big slice of the refrigerator box was spread out on the kitchen floor. E K was standing next to it, absently thumbing through a magazine while humming the theme from Psycho to herself. On the counter nearby sat a nearly empty, somewhat drippy looking, Ultra-Economy Sized bottle of Craft Glue.

This tableau was bizarre enough in and of itself. Well, to folks who don’t live here, anyway. But, I was sort of used to it. However, there was more to the picture. At EKay’s feet, sprawled out on the huge slab of cardboard, was a friend of ours. I’ll call him Bob, because that’s the name E K assigns to most men with whom she is displeased. Apparently it has something to do with an old boyfriend and (per the redhead) the fact that men are simpletons. Her reasoning is that Bob is easy to spell, even backwards, therefore even a man should be able to do it.

So, anyway, upon closer inspection, Bob appeared to be laying in a large puddle of the Craft Glue. On top of that – And I mean literally on top – the redhead was seeing to it that he stayed put in said puddle by use of a strategically placed stiletto heel pushing down on his head.

“Ummm… Hey, Bob,” I said.

“Hey, Murv,” he sort of mumbled.

“Hush, Bob,” E K admonished. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched for a minute as she continued thumbing through the magazine. While it wasn’t unusual to see my wife torturing some poor guy who had annoyed her, I had to say the glue and cardboard thing was new and different. But then, she is an awfully creative little dominatrix.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, I finally cleared my throat, and then asked, “Mother Jones or Cosmo?”

“Neither,” she said. “A new jigsaw puzzle catalog.”

“Oh,” I replied. I nabbed myself a soda from the fridge, which just  so happened to be the same fridge that had been there when I left, go figure. After a sip or two I cleared my throat again. “Ummm, your worship… May I ask another question?”

“That will make two in one day.”

“I know.”

“All right. What is it, lackey?”

“Why are you standing on Bob’s head?”

“Because he was squirming too much, of course.”

“Oh… I see.” Really, I didn’t. So, I paused for a second then said, “Ummm… I’m not sure I follow.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but didn’t look up at me.  Instead, she glanced down at Bob, leaned forward and pushed a little harder on his head and ordered, “Stop moving!” Then, she went back to perusing the catalog and addressed me, “Because he has to be still while the glue is drying.”

So, I had been correct. He was laying in a pool of glue.

“Umm… Okay. Why?” I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, lackey,” she admonished. “Oh, wait… You’re male. You can’t help it, can you? Hmph. Well, it’s simple physics. If  he moves around too much while the glue is drying he won’t stick to the cardboard properly.  If that happens then he will probably fall off.”

“Fall off?”

She sighed again. “Yes. When I hang him on the wall.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Okay… So, mind if I ask why you want to hang Bob on the wall?”

“That’s three.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed, then answered me anyway. “To teach him a lesson, of course.”

“About what? Art?”

“Exactly. That’s four, by the way.”

I hadn’t really expected her to say that. The “exactly” thing, I mean. The four I was pretty sure I saw coming the minute I asked the question. But then she’s an evil redhead. Her mind works in very mysterious ways and she expects you to either know exactly what she means, or just get out of her way and leave her alone. Sometimes she even wants both at the same time.

“Uhh, okay,” I replied. “I guess…” I paused again and stood there watching her thumb through the catalog. Finally, I gave in and said, “I’m sorry your worship, I’m still not sure I follow.”

She blew out a heavy sigh that spoke volumes. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, she sighs an awful lot when she is annoyed. At any rate, the particular volume this annoyed sigh spoke was, “My, my, my… Aren’t you just a complete moron today?” She tossed the catalog aside, then took a moment to stomp some strategic points on Bob that appeared to be coming loose from the cardboard. Then, she planted her foot on the back of his neck, crossed her arms, and glared at me.

“It’s simple, lackey,” she explained. “It came to my attention that he glued a jigsaw puzzle to a piece of cardboard. That’s unacceptable. Jigsaw puzzles are for working, then putting back into the box, and then working again at a later date.  Everyone knows this. They must never… and I repeat, NEVER… be glued.” She looked down and gave her heel a twist against the back of Bob’s neck and barked, “Right, Bob?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, mainly because half of his mouth was now stuck to the corrugated backing as the glue continued to dry.

“Right what?” she said, twisting a little harder.

Bob groaned and then mumbled again, “Right, oh Queen of the Jigsaw Puzzle.”

“Better,” E K said with a wicked grin.

As it turned out, Bob hung on the wall in our living room for about two weeks.

I’m here to tell you, it was a little disconcerting. Sort of like having the McDonald’s singing fish hanging next to the sofa. However, it did work out for parties and such. E K would just smack him in the back of the head with her shoe and order him to entertain the guests. So, he would tell jokes and even sing some old classic rock tunes. I’m inclined to believe he did this  out of fear, because I often heard the redhead threatening him… It always seemed to be something to do with “missing pieces.” I never asked, but I’m pretty sure I can imagine what she meant, especially since she was always holding an X-acto knife and a puzzle piece shaped template whenever she made the comment.

I think Bob knew exactly what she meant too.

But, eventually, as often happens, E K got tired of the “Bob Art”, so she took him down and put him out at the curb on trash night.

We haven’t seen him since, but I heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging in a private mental hospital upstate. Apparently he not only entertains the residents, but is also being treated for what they consider an irrational fear of redheads, craft glue, and jigsaw puzzles.

More to come…

Murv