"I'm gonna have to go with 'divorce.'" That was the judge's call. Good call too, it was my answer. Well not the judge, and not my answer to that big issue--Here, let me back up, I'm talking about the Apples to Apples judge. Our Apples to Apples judge is far more arbitrary than any court judge I know, and well, I don't know any. That doesn't matter, tonight, there's a fickle wind blowing between winners and losers, and right now it's a warm breeze blowing my way. I rock.
For those of you not in the know (or not in the care), Apples to Apples is a party game played with cards. You try to match the noun card in your hand with the adjective card on the table. The person who comes closest to a match, wins the round. The adjective was "furious" I played divorce. I won that round. When everybody playing the game has been through a divorce, nobody's gonna argue with that match, thank you very much.
I know, games with nouns and adjectives, not the bong hits at your party, but we're writers. We're snooty, self-important, and boring. We like words. Nouns, adjectives and a bottle of wine, don't bother us, we're getting rowdy.
That was our writers group party. It was really nice. Everybody sat around, ate, and talked. Towards the end of the evening, our host's kids wanted to play a game. They know a rube when they see one, so they threw apples at me until I wanted to play too.
"Dance, monkey!"
"Ow! Ok! I'll play!"
If somebody plays the "relentless" card, these kids are winners.
Apples to Apples, the choice of a belligerent generation. Pretty soon the other divorced people joined in too while everybody spouse-stuck ran home, whimpering their goodbyes. People who choose to stay married, rarely play party games together. If you ever see MyUnwife, ask her about Bob Scrooge, you'll understand.
Divorced people and children play games. It's our bitter rebellion against the world. "Insignificant?" says one player as the card is played. "Where's the 'ex husband' card?" We all laugh. Hey wait. I'm an ex-husband…
I had my John McEnroe moment. The word was "explosive." Our judge called the winner, "James Bond."
"What? What about 'car bombs? They're not explosive?"
"Oh you're right! I didn't see that one!"
I wrestle the card from the loser. In your face, 13 year old girl! I bounce it off her forehead for good measure.
As the kids fall asleep, or flee in terror, the divorced pack continue to play. It was a weird camaraderie of wolves. We talk about everything from natural child birth (ok, I didn't really join in that conversation, but I did listen) to haunted barns. We didn't talk about divorce. We don't feed on our own.
It didn't stop me from beating them at the apple game. That's what I do. I'm good at games. Oh, and a little competitive too, and it's good to feel like a winner. Nabbing victories lately has been a Steven Segal Oscar moment: it just don't exist. So Saturday night I basked in glory.
Apparently, I didn't offend too many people: I now have something to do tonight. Tonight, I'm going to watch one of the high school choirs perform. Oh, I'm going alone, but I'm not alone; victors never are; we're spoiled. Sometimes one victory leads to another. Sometimes it's in a child's laughter, or a angel's choir. You just have to look. Even Steven Segal can get lucky once.
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