Husband Modification

Warning:  This story is written for women only.  We must stick together and join forces to abolish all undesirable male behavior!

I have a little secret that I hold dear to my heart.  This little secret is the key to sustaining a long, lasting, loving relationship with your spouse. It is so very simple that one may wonder “Why didn’t I think of that?”  This trick was proven effective by extensive trials using a double blind test.

I call this trick “Husband Modification.”  This little tactic can also be used on your in-laws, children, friends, neighbors and even Miss Congeniality behind the counter at the fast food restaurant.

Here it is:

EVERY human (or other animal’s) action is followed by either a REWARD, or a Punishment.  No matter what the action, it is ALWAYS followed by one of these two consequences.

EVERY living thing seeks rewards. Some examples of Rewarding consequences are warmth, love, attention, food, excitement, shelter, or silence.

EVERY living thing REJECTS Punishments. Some examples of Punishing consequence:  embarrassment, pain, jealously, fear, uncomfortable situations, or silence.  Note:  I’m pretty sure that “Punishing consequence” is not the correct phychological term, but I’m gonna use it anyway…You got a problem with it?  Didn’t think so.

ONCE AGAIN….(this is important) BEHAVIOR causes either a REWARD or a PUNISHMENT.

If a behavior causes a REWARDING consequence, the behavior WILL BE repeated.

If a behavior causes a PUNISHING consequence, the behavior will NOT be repeated.

 PLEASE STAY WITH ME, EVEN IF YOU DIDN’T UNDERSTAND ALL THAT YET!

 Let’s try this out:

BEHAVIOR: You walk into your neighbor’s yard.

CONSEQUENCE: Neighbor’s dog grabs you by the leg with his teeth, and shakes your entire body until you are a bloody heap on the ground.

NOW, if you consider that dog mauling you, a PUNISHING consequence, then you WILL NOT repeat your behavior, RIGHT?

Let’s try another one:

BEHAVIOR: You return your buggy to the buggy corral at Wal-Mart.

CONSEQUENCE: A really HOT looking buggy boy with bulging muscles, and abs of steel, walks over and, in a very sexy voice, says, “Thanks for putting that buggy away. Here Babe, let me help you with those groceries.” He proceeds to help you load your groceries into your car, and winks at you as you pull away.

NOW, if you consider attention from that buggy boy, a REWARDING consequence, then you will FREAKIN’ THINK TWICE ABOUT LEAVING YOUR BUGGY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARKING LOT NEXT TIME! Right?

 Now, let’s try a tricky one:

This one will focus on somebody else’s behavior and a questionable consequence.

BEHAVIOR: Your husband leaves his dirty underwear on the floor in the bathroom.

YOU have to pick them up (very carefully) and put them in the dirty clothesbasket.

Now, POP QUIZ TIME:

Did he experience a REWARDING consequence, or a PUNISHING consequence?

 …….time to think……..

We can answer this question by fast forwarding to the next morning……

shewshewwwshehwhshehwhwhshshh (fast forwarding noises)

Now, let’s stand back and watch him……If his behavior is REPEATED, then we will know that he had experienced a REWARDING consequence.

If his behavior is NOT repeated, we will know that he experienced a PUNISHING consequence.

(Husband again drops dirty underwear on bathroom floor and even smiles this time.)

YUP, Yall SEE! He had experienced a REWARDING consequence! He MUST have, or he would not have repeated that behavior!  He’s getting the benefits of a clean house without having to lift a finger!

Now, let’s rewind, and look at a different circumstance……

shewwwshehwhehshhsehsehhheheh (rewinding noise)

BEHAVIOR:  Your husband leaves his dirty underwear on the bathroom floor.

CONSEQUENCE: He wakes up the next morning and discovers that he has NOT ONE FREAKIN PAIR of clean underwear, AND is forced to “hang low” for the entire day.

Hmmm…..wonder if that behavior will be repeated….let’s take a look….

YES! He did it AGAIN! HA! Tricked ya! You see… for YOU, going without underwear may be a PUNISHING consequence, but we can tell by the fact that your husband’s behavior was repeated, that evidently, “hanging low” was NOT a PUNISHING consequence for your husband.

Fast forward to the next day….

BEHAVIOR: Matt Your husband drops his dirty underwear on the bathroom floor, and as soon as those Fruit of the Looms hit the tile, a freakin’ baseball bat comes flying round the corner, and catches him smack on the shins….

JUST KIDDIN’!….As soon as those Fruit of the Looms hit the tile, you walk over, take his hand, use HIS hand to pick up the undies, and proceed to pinch him on the bootie, and pop a Hershey’s Kiss into his mouth, and, give him the brand new “Motor Weekly” magazine that you picked up in the store for him, “just because he helps around the house so much.”

Do y’all get the picture?

Let me summarize:

BEHAVIOR causes either a REWARDING consequence or PUNISHING consequence.

If a behavior causes a REWARDING consequence, the behavior will be repeated.

If a behavior causes a PUNISHING consequence, the behavior will NOT be repeated.

 TURNED AROUND:

If a behavior is REPEATED, it must have been proceeded by a REWARDING consequence.

If a behavior is NOT repeated, it must have been proceeded by a PUNISHING consequence.

 MEMORIZE THAT, AND USE IT!  USE IT ON YOUR HUSBAND, ON YOUR KIDS, AND ON YOUR DOG.  IT WORKS!

I Think My Husband Has an Infidelity Problem

Okay, so tonight was Lily’s dance dress rehearsal.  Matt was supposed to take Lily to the rehearsal so he would practice the Father/Daughter dance with her, but since he was running late at work, I took Lily and he met me at the auditorium to trade places with me.  

So when Matt got there, I was sitting in the auditorium with Reagan’s mom (Lily’s friend’s mom) and when Matt got there, he found me and slid into the isle and sat down beside us. I handed him Lily’s dance bag and started giving him instructions.
“Lily is backstage getting ready for her ballet piece. Then she’s gonna come back out here to you and you need to help her into her tap costume, and tap shoes, and all her stuff is in this ballet bag, and you only have three numbers to get her changed and backstage again, and if you have any problems, this is Reagan’s mom and she can help you….”

I stand up to run out and Matt stands up to let me out of the isle, and Reagan’s mom stands up to let me squeeze out, and Matt was telling me goodbye and telling Reagan’s mom hello.  As I was leaving the auditorium, Matt caught up with me and grabbed me and spun me around and looked at me with panic and said,
“Did I just kiss you?”
And I was like, “What?”
“Did I just kiss you? Please tell me that I just kissed you!”
“What are you talking about? I think so, I guess. Why?”
“Oh My Gosh! I just kissed somebody and then I got a wierd feeling and I’m wondering if I kissed that other lady!”
I busted out laughing! “I really don’t remember if you kissed me or not.”
“But I can’t go back and sit next to that lady if I KISSED her! MAN! I do this all the time!
“What? Kissing other women is a habit with you?”
“Well, everytime I get off the phone with Gwen (his secretary) I accidentally tell her that I love her! She’s about ready to file a sexual harrassment case against me!”

I laughed and left. I texted him in about five minutes and asked him if he had found out if he kissed Reagan’s Mom, and he texted back,
“I don’t know, but I came back to my seat and she’s sittin here rubbing on my leg.”

Brooke’s First Day Wearing a Bra

It was time.  Time for Brooke to start wearing a bra.  I was terrified.  After long deliberations, I went to Wal-Mart and purchased one that I thought would fit. 

 

I took Brooke into my bedroom, where there was more room to perform the old body slam.  With trembling hands, I pulled the new bra out of the bag. Brooke stood there looking, not even wondering what was about to happen. The quietness and stillness in the room sent chills up my spine.  I was fully aware that danger lie ahead.  I could very easily, within the next few moments, suffer a cerebral contusion.

 

As soon as the crisp, white, training bra was pulled from the bag, a smile spread over Brooke’s face.  I told her what this strange object was, and ask her if she wanted to try it on.  She, so very cooperatively, held her arms up over her head.  By now, the air in the room was beginning to feel heavy.  I was having trouble breathing.  There was something wrong here.  This was far too easy.

 

Moments later, we stood in the middle of the room and I told her to turn around.  It fit.  Brooke seemed almost happy about this new garment.  She did her usual little dance around the room, which she always performs when she gets new clothes.  She was even giggling.

 

After she had all her clothes back on, she walked toward the door, and with certain determination, headed down the hall, and through the living room.  This was causing me great concern. Where was she going?  There was no question; she had a destination in mind.  She passed through the living room, still giggling, and headed for the back door.

 

Just then, the phone rang.  I answered it, as I saw Brooke closing the back door behind her.  I explained to my husband on the phone that I had better hurry to catch up with Brooke, for I had seen that look in her eyes before.  That was that determined look that usually proceeds her eating something non-edible or removing lug nuts from one of our automobiles.  I set the receiver down and ran out the back door.

 

I scanned the back yard, and finally saw her.  She was slipping one foot into the pool!  “Oh My Gosh” I said to myself!  “She thinks her bra is a bathing suit!”  Now, it didn’t matter that she was also wearing a shirt, shorts, panties, shoes, and socks!  Oh NOoooo!  She was thinking, “I am wearing a bathing suit top, so HEY!  It’s time for a dip in the pool.”

 

I ended up taking the bra back off of her.  This, after pulling her out of the pool at least three times.  I have extra laundry to do today, due to her making it all the way into the pool twice.

 

This morning, she wore the bra to school. I kissed my family goodbye at the back door, grabbed the cat as I always do, and ran to the front door to wave a goodbye wave with Beaumont’s paw.  As I was lifting the cat, and taking off toward the front door, I could hear my husband speaking very loudly outside.  He was trying to load all the children into the car, and seemed to be having a hard time.

 

 

“Brooke, NO! We are NOT going swimming!  GET IN THE CAR!”

I then heard a loud scream come from Brooke, who was obviously irritated by the fact that she was wearing a bathing suit and not being allowed to go for a dip..

 

Now I sit and wonder…… Will her teachers find her sitting in the water fountain today?

Don’t Try This at Home

There should really be some sort of warning on that box.  I mean, if some NIM-WAD out there can sue McDonalds over a cup of hot coffee then, dangit, my family should be able to sue somebody over the mental anguish they were put through, by this gingerbread house kit.  It should say something like this: 

 

“WARNING:  Do not attempt to assemble this freakin gingerbread house while suffering from a mean case of pre-menstrual syndrome.  Doing so may cause such symptoms as extremely high blood pressure, tightness in the hands and feet, pulsing of the temples, sudden loud outbursts of obscenities, objects flying across the room, the inability to breathe, the violent stomping of feet, and possibly divorce.”

 

You see, I don’t have JUST PMS!  Have you ever seen that commercial on TV about the woman that is screaming at her husband, and fighting with the grocery cart?  The one where the announcer guy explains that some women have what is called PMDD, which is an extreme and dangerous kind of hormonal overload?  Well, I don’t have PMS or PMDD either.  I have PMDFUSA!  (Putting My Damn Foot Up Somebody’s Ass!)  I’m telling you, I could make the woman on that commercial look like Mary Poppins.  I could take her DOWN!  Two Hits!  Me hitting her, and her hitting the ground!  Okay!  So perhaps, with this knowledge, I should have known better than to attempt to put together that gingerbread house!

 

It all started quite calmly, with my family having no clue that their mother was about to turn into a raging mad person.  PMS was slowly taking over my body like an alien life form devouring June Cleaver.  This particular PMS episode began as I became determined to sit down as a FREAKIN family and put together this sweet little gingerbread house.  This was gonna be easy.  There was no cooking involved.  All the pieces were already cooked so this project was right up my alley.  My family wasn’t extremely excited about my starting yet another, family Christmas tradition, but after I screamed at them and demanded that they “GET THEIR BUTTS IN THAT KITCHEN AND SIT DOWN BEFORE I CLUB THEM ALL LIKE BABY SEALS”, they agreed to do so.

 

Now let’s just say that making all these gingerbread walls stick together by squeezing icing on all the edges was a LOT harder than it looked.  I would just love to meet the Saint who put together that gingerbread house pictured on the front of the box. I just know that there has to be a Saint Ginger out there. Just looking at that picture on the gingerbread house box makes me wish that Martha Stewart would walk through my front door.  I would just love to see her face when she noticed me flying through the air with one foot stretched out in front preparing to kick her in the teeth!  I mean, who in their right mind would expect any normal human to be capable of squeezing icing and placing candy bits on slabs of cookie only to set it on the freakin counter and not touch it?

 

I remember at one point Matt went searching for a knife.  I think by that time, my PMS had reached it’s full potential.  Matt opened the dishwasher and asked me if the dishes in there were clean or dirty.  I don’t really remember what happened next.  I think fire may have shot from my retinas because my face got really hot, and my middle daughter who had been standing between Matt and I, jumped out of the way.  From that moment on, Matt seemed reluctant to maintain any sort of eye contact with me.

 

We eventually had to pay each of the children two red-hots to GO AWAY while Matt and I attempted to get the basic structure to stick together.  After I threatened to pull all his leg hairs out with my teeth, we decided to give up. 

 

We called the girls back into the kitchen and all sat at the table eating the gingerbread house parts.  So much for a cute little gingerbread house to look at. 

 

Now, on to untangling those strands of Christmas lights.

Something Sweet Happened

This afternoon, Brooke and Courtney were playing together in Courtney’s room.  I remember thinking how odd it was that the two were playing for so long, so sweetly and I had peeped in on them a couple times.

 

Later last night, as I was getting the girls ready for bed, I noticed something weird on Brooke’s feet.  Because Brooke doesn’t talk, we have to keep a close watch for splinters and blisters, so I chased her down to find out what was up with the toes. 

 

I have never been so shocked in my life.  Her toenails were painted yellow.

 

Now, let me give you a little history.  Brooke allows nobody, and I mean NOBODY to touch her feet.  In order to cut her toenails, Matt and I have to set a time for the operation without her knowing.  Then we both body slam her at the same time, hog-tie her, and spend about an hour risking our lives, just to get the toenails cut.  So I stood there in amazement wondering how in the world Brooke’s toenails got painted.  I asked Brooke about it and she smiled a really big smile and pointed to her yellow toenails.  She was so proud.  This was just too weird.

 

I found Courtney and asked her about it, and she said, “I did it Mom. ‘Cause Brooke wants to be pretty too.”

 

I’m thinking that I really need to go check under Courtney’s bed.  I just know that she must have a tranquilizer dart gun hidden under there.   Or maybe she just has a great big love for her sister.

My Kitchen Floor

When we bought our house twelve years ago, the ONE thing that I didn’t like about it was the kitchen. It was teeeee-Ninnny!  I’m talking; there was barely room to turn around in there.  I knew right away that with my glorious culinary skills, I would just have to have a bigger kitchen.  I waited a long time.  I dreamed of a huge kitchen where all the guests could congregate, and sit partaking in chips and dip, and laughing happily.  Meanwhile, when we had company, everybody would seem to squeeze into our tiny kitchen and we could not help but stand no more than an arm’s length from the fridge.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I pestered my poor husband continuously, for years, for my new kitchen. 

 

Matt still insists that I caught the old kitchen on fire, on purpose, that morning just so that we would have to build a new kitchen.  He still questions me about why I was cooking fried chicken at 5:45 a.m.  I WAS JUST HUNGRY!  If HE hadn’t been sitting on the throne, he would have heard me screaming “FIRE!” and we wouldn’t have had so much smoke damage.  Now, back to my kitchen…

 

About three years ago after the fire engulfed our small kitchen, we finally added on to our house, and I got my new kitchen.  My new kitchen is 480 square feet, just a tad bigger than my 100 square foot old kitchen.  Now, y’all don’t get me wrong…. I like my new kitchen.  We have a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, a large desk where the computer lives, and a stuffed hog head hanging on the wall.  We have plenty of room for our kitchen to serve as a dance floor.  We have counter-space for days.

 

It used to take me a washrag and two and a half minutes to clean my kitchen floor. It now takes me three entire days.  I spent two hours yesterday sweeping, then another three hours mopping.  My kitchen floor smelled like Mr. Clean himself had marked the territory.

 

After I paused for a minute to marvel at how beautiful my kitchen floor could be if I could afford a full-time maid, I moved my impeccable cleaning talent into the laundry room. 

 

In order to sweep my laundry room floor efficiently, I needed to move the litter box.  I picked up the litterbox and moved it just outside the laundry room door.  I placed it in the doorway leading into my kitchen.

 

We have a large opening between the kitchen and the laundry room.  In that opening is a step about six feet long.  That’s where I put the litterbox, JUST FOR A FEW MINUTES while I swept.  It’s not like I put the litterbox right in the doorway.  There was a whole four feet to step around it.

 

Brooke was in the back of the house watching TV.  Just as I was finishing my sweeping, I heard a car driving into our driveway.  Brooke heard it too, and came running to see who it was. 

Now, Brooke has this problem with watching where she is going, so when I saw her heading towards the kitchen, I peeped out of the laundry room to make sure that she saw the litterbox. 

 

She saw it.  She even took a big step to hurdle it. BUT…  The heel of her shoe caught the far edge of the box.  I watched in horror as the litter box flew into the air.  The bottom of the box was forced forward, toward the other end of the kitchen. I really do think that time must have slowed down for a few minutes, because I could see the litter along with the cat shit flying in slow motion from one end of my kitchen to the other.  I could no longer see my clean black and white checked floor.  All I could see was a sea of gray gravel.  The litter was exactly one pebble deep, and covered every square inch of my kitchen. 

 

As the litter had sprayed across the floor, it had hit Brooke on the back of her legs, and she stood frozen a few feet from the litter box..  I ran to help her because she will refuse to walk on unfamiliar surfaces.  It was sort of like walking on marbles.  I pushed her out of the way, into the other room and welcomed my friend in the back door. 

 

I wish y’all could have seen the look on my friend’s face when she saw it.  My friend looked at me strangely and said, “What are you doing?”  Would you believe that she actually thought that I had done this on purpose?  I mean, I know I can come up with some insane things to do in an effort to keep my kids occupied, but spreading cat crap all over my kitchen floor is NOT one of them!

 

Well, I got it all cleaned up, but I’m going to have to mop AGAIN today.  Even though I mopped twice yesterday, I’m still finding tiny rocks everywhere.

 

Shh.  Don’t tell Matt, but, now is just one of those times that I wish I had my little kitchen back!

The Gallon Jug

As I was facebooking my sister this morning, the subject turned to a story that I wasn’t sure that I could share over facebook.  I decided that I would just have to e-mail her the story so as not to gross anybody out.  And as I was telling her how the events were unfolding, I realized that this had turned into another story.  (If you happen to know our Daddy, you will understand.  This is PRICELESS!)

Here’s how the conversation went:

ON FACEBOOK

 Me:  Hey, have you heard the stoy of Daddy’s gallon jug yet?
London:  No, Do tell.
Me:  Well, I’m not sure if this is facebook appropriate, so I’ll e-mail you and we can let all our facebook friends wonder!

THE E-MAIL

Hey, I talked to Daddy yesterday.  Seems as though he is having a squirrel problem in the attic.  He is afraid that the squirrells may chew the wires, so he has been lying akake at night worrying about what it would cost if a squirrell caused some damage.  So he did a littl research, and found out that instead of PAYING somebody to come take care of the problem, it would be cheaper to purchase FOX URINE, soak rags in it and place them in his attic!!!! 

So, he finally found fox urine at Bass Pro, but it was $6 an ounce so he kept looking.  Then he found somewhere on line that sells it by the gallon.  Hmmmm….is there really that big of a market for fox urine?  Anyway, he bought a gallon for $35 and the post office would not deliver it to his house because its a bio-hazard.  (I’ll pause while you finish laughing your ass off, and pick yourself back up off the floor.) 

 

So, while I’m listening to him tell me this very important and detailed story of the gallon jug of fox urine, I’m wondering what on EARTH mom is going to do when she comes home and finds freakin FOX URINE in his possession!!  He said that it was packed in a sealed jug which was sealed in two heavy plastic bags which were in a box again wrapped in plastic and you could still smell it when he walked inside the post office to pick it up.  He said the guy at the post office told him that “something must have spilled because it had been smelling really bad.  (Do I need to pause again???)

 

Okay, so he gets it home and puts it on the tailgate of his truck and opens it and I’m assuming that fox families all over in the woods were sitting there thinkin, “What the?  What’s that smell?  Oh Hell!  Somebody is invading my territory!”   So I asked him if he thinks that may cause fox to start coming around, and he was like, “Oh…..I didn’t think of THAT!!”  Anyway, I can’t wait to call him today and find out….

 

Where he is gonna live when mom comes home and smells that smelly smell that smells smelly…..

How many male fox species have attacked his truck……

If Shadow has had a heart attack yet…..

How much sleep he got what with the constant barking from Shadow trying to protect him from the fox.

When the divorce will be final.

And if he has seen any evidence of any fox / squirrell half-breeds!

London’s Response:

Ohhhh Myyyyyyy… That’s all I have to say… unbelievable, but believable at the same time. That’s so gross. And I thought he refused to buy anything online (b/c of credit card fraud)… I’m sure fox urine salesmen are not the most legit out there.. not the best place to start, I wouldn’t think.

Me:  I just talked to Daddy again.  Now he’s scared to put it in the attic because the smell is so strong that he thinks it may damage the Christmas tree and all the other things Mom is storing up there.  Translation:  Mom said, “NOT NO, BUT HELL NO!”  But there’s good news.  He thinks he has found a BUYER for it!  Scary, huh?

London:  Now I wonder what that falls under in the classifieds?

Me:  Oh, I’m laughing so hard that I can’t breathe! 

Gallon jug:  99 cents

Contents of said gallon jug:  $6 per ounce or $36 per gallon

Fuzzy feeling you get when you know you don’t have to squeeze any more fox:  PRICELESS!

Nalker Nerf War

We were having a pretty calm evening last night.  Matt had cooked hamburgers on the grill, and we had a nice meal and then everybody retired to the living room and were sitting around looking sorta board.  I decided that it was a little too calm, so I sneaked into the little girl’s room and grabbed the Nerf Gun and a handful of ammo. 

I tip-toed into the living room and sat on my couch unnoticed.  Matt was sitting in his recliner watching TV.  I quietly aimed and cocked my weapon.  Nobody noticed the click of my gun.  I aimed, one eye closed, and pulled the trigger.  SMACK!  Right on the temple!  Matt instantly knew what had happened and leaped from his chair.  Logan, her boyfriend, and Courtney followed his lead and they all took off running for the playroom.  I kept firing at them as they ran for the play-dough box on the top shelf in the little girls room.  This play-dough box is labled, “Guns and Ammo.”  They all grabbed a gun and started returning fire.  Within minutes, we were all in the living room in full out war.  The little girls instintivily picked up their Easter baskets and started collecting the spent nerf bullets and began delivering them to whoever would scream, “I NEED AMMO!”  Bullets were flying in all directions and about every three seconds somebody would scream, “OH!  THAT ONE GOT ME RIGHT IN THE RETINA!” or, “OH!  MY EAR!” or, “NO FAIR!  THAT WAS POINT BLANK RANGE!”  Logan was hit in the lip five times despite her beautiful dive behind the couch.  Courtney became famous for sneaking up behind us and hitting us right on that soft part of the neck.  Russell hid behind the couch like a weenie, Matt wore his hat as armor (which we finally got away from him cause armor is so totally not fair!)  and I am proud to say that I’m STILL the Nalker family Nerf Gun Champion!

Surefire Cure for the Hiccups

There’s nothin’ I hate more than having the hiccups. I actually get MAD when I get the hiccups. If my kids arn’t around you can hear me lettin’ loose with a “not so nice” word after each hiccup. (I usually try to vary my cuss words for a better effect.)

I also enjoy pickin’ on my husband about his funny little psychological defect that came about sometime during his childhood. You see when he was a kid, his mom had this little trick she would use when he stubbed a toe or skinned a knee. She would give him one of two things; a Tums or a spoonful of peanut butter. A mouthful of either of these two edibles would serve as a very effective placebo and could heal anything from a headache to nervous jitters. (I’d just about bet that a Tums would make him run faster too.) Even today as a grown man, he won’t leave home without Tums.

The other night, I got the hiccups, and I was walking around the house letting loose with those choice words under my breath. Matt seemed to find my frustration funny and was laughing at me. After a few minutes, he went to the pantry and grabbed the peanut butter saying, “Hey Lace! Come here. This will help.” He began to fill up a spoon with peanut butter.

Now, let’s get something straight. I don’t dislike peanut butter, but I just don’t like a baseball size glob of it in my mouth.

“No! I don’t want that! (Hiccup) Go AWAY!” I walked into the other room.

“Just come here! This will work, I promise!” My husband was following me.

“NO! They will go (hiccup) away in a few minutes!” I walked back into the kitchen.

My husband was still following me with the spoon, heaping full of peanut butter. Suddenly, he grabbed me from behind and forced my right arm under his, and held it down with his massive strength. I grabbed the spoon with my left hand and tried to keep it from nearing my mouth, but it was no use. He was totally overpowering me! I was screaming at the tip top of my lungs, “Nooooo!” I could see the spoon coming at me, and I remembered that old safety strategy.

Women have much more power in their lower bodies, so if a woman is ever grabbed, she is supposed to drop to the floor and use her legs to kick. I use this lower body strategy a lot of times when I have to move very heavy objects before Matt gets home from work.

I tried to drop to the floor, but I think he knew that was coming, because he was ready for it. He just whipped one leg over my body and sat on me. By this time the kids had run into the kitchen to see what all the ruckus was about. They found Matt sitting on top of me, pinning my body down. I was clawing at his back with my left hand, and screaming at the top of my lungs, but he didn’t even seem to notice. My kids began to cheer him on.

The spoon headed for my mouth, and I knew I only had two choices: holding my lips together with all my might and getting the lower side of my face smeared with peanut butter, or opening my mouth, taking the glob in, and having a chance of survival.

I opened my mouth wide. I had come up with a plan. My plan was to try to grab the spoon with my mouth, and clinch down with my teeth. Hopefully then, I would be able to use the handle of the spoon as a weapon.

Well, that didn’t work either. Just as the spoon neared my mouth, I reached for it with my teeth, and he pulled away. I watched as the spoon speared up the left side of my face, over my eye, over my eyebrow, and up the northwest part of my head. This was SO totally on purpose! I could tell by the evil grin on his clean face. Then Matt held me down even longer and let the kids stick popcorn bits to the peanut butter on my face.

Then my husband proceeded to tell me very sarcastically that he was sorry. While he CONTINUED to hold me down, he began brainstorming out loud, of ways he could remove the peanut butter and popcorn off my face. I have lived with this man for the past eleven years. I knew he would soon be coming to an idea that would involve his tongue, and my face.

With that thought, I suddenly unharnesed my incredible strength. I wriggled out from under him, and ran to the kitchen sink, and you know what? My hiccups were gone!

I guess my mother-in-law was right about that peanut butter after all!

Nalker Family Air Hockey Rules

I found this old crumpled up piece of paper stuck with some old important papers. This was written back when we had an air hockey table in our house. Don’t remember whatever happened to that table, but back when we had it, Matt and I would gather around it about every four hours and challenge each other to another air hockey championship. After about the 36th tournament, we came to realize that more intense rules needed to be set up in order to prevent many of those end of the game knock-down-drag-out heated arguments. Following are the Nalker Family Air Hockey Rules:

Safety being our main concern, all children, regardless of where in the house they may be, must wear protective headgear and safety goggles. (Air hockey pucks have been known to fly off the table, make the turn from the game room into the living room and fly at approximately 345 miles per hour down the hallway.) Any children who may want to serve as cheerleaders to one or more of their parents must do so in a respectful manner. No cheering, hollering, or chanting will be tolerated while the puck is in play. This loud noise may distract the players and give reason for contestment of point making. All loud encouragement should be saved until directly after a point has been made.

Any injury to the children, which occurs during play, will be considered the fault of the child. In short, “Kids, Stay out of the way!”

The puck and puck hitters must remain on the air hockey table. The puck hitter may not be removed from the air hockey table to be used as a Barbie merry-go-round, and no Barbies will be allowed to ride the puck around the air hockey table.

Having not read the “official” rules of air hockey, we are to assume that the red line, which stretches across the middle of the air hockey table, has a purpose. This purpose is supposedly to divide the table into turfs. If your arm crosses that red line onto the other player’s turf, it is susceptible to being crushed by the other player’s puck hitter. In fact, the other player is invited to score ten extra points for crushing their opponent’s hand if the aforementioned hand crosses that red line.

The secondmost concern we have is scorekeeping. After having lost count of how many games each of the adults in the house have won, we have decided to keep a cumulative score. The score of each player must be calculated, added to the last game’s score and recorded on the Power Puff Girls chalkboard, which lives near the telephone in the game room. Any tampering with this scorekeeping will be punished by the responsibility of changing the next five poopy diapers.

If a child is struck by the hockey puck, (even though this is considered the fault of the child) five points will be deducted from the player whose puck hitter was the last to touch the puck. If an adult, on the other hand, is struck by the hockey puck, five points will be ADDED to the score belonging to the last player whose puck hitter touched the puck.

Any whiney baby complaints of puck hitter calluses or air hockey elbow will result in ten points being deducted from one’s cumulative score.

Any household object, which becomes broken during an air hockey game, must be placed in that box of broken things outside the back door. Exception: light fixtures. These must be replaced immediately to insure proper lighting for the next tournament.

It is against the rules to scream like a girl and hold your hand over your hole in an effort to prevent your opponent from scoring a point. (My husband made me add that rule.)

If you accidentally sink your puck into your own hole, the referee must be consulted as to whether that point counts for or against you.

Strip Air Hocky is only to be played between the hours of midnight and 4:00 a.m. and only if all the children are asleep. And last but not least, I am the self-appointed referee and my decisions on all point making will be Final. Oh and as usual, my husband is not allowed to contest any of my decisions.