Valley of the Trolley Dollies

On Sunday, during the course of an hour of sweating, grunting, stretching, and stumbling around, I referred to my husband in the following terms:

• “F*cker!”
• “B*tch!”
• “F*cking B*tch”
• “B*stard!”
• “Cheating Queen!”
• “Lying Cheating B*stard!”
• “Crock of Sh*t Lying Cheating B*stard F*cker!”

Was it, you ask, some kinky Heavy S&M Scene - of the sort that my people are so famed for?*

No. It was a game of Badminton. One where, shortly after the fun began,  the love of my life started taking it seriously. Which, of course, meant scoring. Which, in turn, creates a “Winner” and a “Loser.”

“But we’re both winners,” I reasoned. “We’re spending quality time with the person we love, and we’re getting fit, working up a healthy sweat and a good heart rate.”

Then I lost the first game. Badly.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just a game any more…

Of course, the more my usually well supressed Competitive streak was exposed, the worse my language and frustration became, the funnier he found it. Til, in the end, he was bent double with laughter.

At which point I scored against him.

“Take that, F*cker!”

He still won. But there’s always next week….

*by “My people,” I refer, of course to the Homosexuals, and not ot the Irish, whose Idea of S&M would be “Shame & Masturbation,” of “Sinning & Mass”

You know how, some days, your head turns into some sort of mental jukebox, and plays random tunes to an empty bar?

Well, today, my internal jukebox has had three songs on repeat:

“Here comes that Sinking Feeling,”

“This City never sleeps,”

and

“Better to have Lost in Love”

All end-of album songs by the Eurythmics.

What’s that all about?