Smile Politely

There’s a party in my basement

There’s a Party in my Basement

These days, another week at my house means another upgrade to our basement. Last week, the pool table went back up, and, just like the good old days, I kicked many dear friends’ asses. One night, my company was struggling to make shots, and tried to instate a “slop counts” rule. I had to veto that one while verbally berating them for even suggesting such blasphemy. They’re lucky I didn’t send them home immediately.

This week, the downstairs upgrades included a new flat screen television and a Play Station 3. Shopping for electronics has never been my thing, and this spree was no exception. In fact, I’m convinced Best Buy gives me a rash. After standing around scratching my head, I wondered how such a ginormous store could manage to carry absolutely nothing that interested me. I’m typically the one dragging my family around asking for just a few more minutes to shop. But this time I realized that these electronic stores need chairs for the wives, just like department stores have for the husbands — I love seeing old men napping while their perfumed wives pick out new red capris to pair with blue and white striped sweaters. But I digress…

Not happy with Best Buy’s PS3 selection, Game Stop was the next brutal leg of our journey. For the husband and six-year-old, this was a welcomed opportunity. For me, the fear of vomiting left me in the car. Just thinking about the smell of that store makes my nose scrunch up in disgust. My apologies to all you gamers, but you tend to be a little gamey. Thankfully, after a few minutes, my boys victoriously walked out carrying a new gaming system, and we finally headed home.

Shortly after the installation was complete, I found myself on the couch dozing off into nap land. Where was my husband? Where were my children? Ah … downstairs, inundated with the fabulous thrills new technology brings. It dawned on me, as I drifted off in peace, that I shouldn’t harbor such ill feelings toward the aforementioned franchises. In fact, they might soon become tolerable, at the very least. And my role in all of this — my Hero’s Duty — will be to keep my little gamers clean. I don’t want my boys to be gamey; I want them to have game … in a few years, of course.

Tids and Bits

We dropped the four-year-old off at a birthday party on Saturday and hit a fundraiser for a minute. A friend from college is building a sanctuary to temporarily house his hospice patients’ pets who will soon be in need of new homes — what a guy, right? It’s hard to believe anyone so noble even associates with me. After saying hello and making a dizzying trip through tables of trinkets and crafts, we dipped. With an hour to kill, we gave the six-year-old the option of heading back to the party or stopping at Esquire. Prepared to drive back into chaos, the darling child spoke music to our ears when he chose the bar. We had a quick beer and a toast to raising such brilliant offspring.

In more disturbing news, not only did The Esquire stop serving Guinness on draught, but they also decided not to run their famous March Madness tournament this year. These tragic paradigm shifts force me to question why I still go there four times a week. When Rich shaves his beard, I’ll stock up on canned goods and get ready for the apocalypse. You can find me in my basement.

If anyone is looking for bottles of Sierra Nevada, I have all of them. No one in my house likes the pale ale, but someone keeps bringing it over. I suggested we take a few dozen to a neighbor’s party, but my husband quickly dismissed the idea saying, “That’s rude.”

Some foreign terms were brought to my attention this week, so I wrote them down. Unfortunately, I have no idea what they mean. They include: The Siberian Scorchmark, The Austrian Neckbeard, and the Left-Handed Hair Cut. I am currently seeking origins and clarification.

Sunday morning, after lots of yawns and stretches, my husband started looking for his phone. Hours of searching, cleaning, and calling the device proved fruitless. I finally tried the “Locate my iPhone” app. When a map of northwest Champaign appeared, I squinted my eyes in disbelief. The phone managed to find its way home with one of Saturday night’s guests. Texting the moron about his offense, I got the reply, “Damn. It is so in my pocket.” It looks like the investments to our basement come with a few liabilities.

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