Made an enormous roasted dinner tonight. Mr HSBoots decided he'd like a roast beef and apple crisp, so while he went out to buy the sirloin I put on the Yorkshire puddings and cut up a bunch of root vegetables which I tossed in a baking dish with melted butter, oil, salt and pepper.
Post-feast lethargy set in as soon as the last bite was consumed, of course, and I retired to the living room with a glass of wine and two knitting projects. Loreena McKennitt was singing about monks and paganism and Catholicism and Beltane and incense and rowan trees, my mellow light was on, and all was right with the world. The kids were in the other room, playing quietly (believe me, a rarity).
I had only been settled in my seat for a few minutes, when:
Enter Mr HSBoots, with a box in his hand. He called the girls from the playroom "Hey kids, c'mere!", plunked the box down in the middle of the living room floor, not three feet from me, and pulled out "Hungry Hungry Hippos".
Now, some of you might remember this game from back in the day, when we were all sporting bowl cuts, happily wearing turtlenecks and polyester flares, drinking Freshie and eating Chex mix while sitting on the dark brown carpet in the basement rumpus room. Others might not know it, so let me describe it.
You bang your hippo-lever as hard as you can, and as fast as you can, so his upper jaw shoots out and captures as many as possible of the little marbles which you have earlier deposited in the middle of the game. So let's be clear about this: laminate floor, two-year-old, five-year-old, highly amused 34-year-old, hard plastic game which you win by pounding as hard and as fast as you can.
I'd write more, but I have to go turn off the stereo (Mr HSB claims Loreena McKennitt is making him feel "overstimulated") and get some Tylenol.