we are at war, after all

I think I've mentioned it before, our "playgroup" on Friday nights. Well, we hosted it last night. The Lad was so excited because he would be able to share all his new toys with his friends, most of which is military in genre. He's six now, and we are at war. Time to start basic training.

We snacked and drank, as usual (no dinner, though - we forgot). The kids made a right bloody mess of the toys, as usual. But fun was had by all so we didn't care... much. One of our party was on a diet, of all things, so he'd been at the gym and came in late and barely ate anything and had one, count 'em, one beer. He's my drinkin' buddy, so I'm disappointed to say the least. As retribution I'm angling to have him drive us designatedly tonight, though the prospects of that look grim.

We all ended up in the sitting room off the kitchen. Now, in most of these houses around here it's the "family room," (translate: there is one focal point which is the tv). However, we prefer to watch tv in the theater, so there is no tv in that room. Kids were in and out (they were mostly in the theater or upstairs with the toys). Usually we hang in the kitchen, but the fire was on, so the OTHER girls all had to sit on the hearth by the fire. We had the furnace set at a balmy 70 degrees, but these girls are always cold. (Editor's note: The author wished to administer some advice: "Here's a fucking clue: it's fucking wintertime so put on a fucking sweater. Sheesh." But the editorial board thought offence might be taken and the statement is still under review for inclusion in this post.)

Granted, this big old house is drafty, but the whiskey always warms me right up. Anyway, we were chatting; baring a breast or two; yes, we agreed with ourselves that Cryptic is cute (for one so young), and there was otherwise much poking of fun at each other. Anyway, shit was in typically constant fling-state; the husbands bitch goodnaturedly about the wives and the wives bitch not-so-goodnaturedly about the husbands... You know, the usual.

Now to one side of this room is a long catwalk which overlooks the foyer and the sitting room. The kids love to play up there; they run rescue ops of toys between the floors, shout to each other, throw stuff over onto us, and otherwise be obnoxious and kid-like. But last night, maybe because we were in their space, the kids were particularly sweet-acting and quiet in their play.

They like to come to Friday night playgroup (none of them have caught on yet that it's not actually for them) and we've been getting together for so long that the kids treat all the parents more as a unit. It doesn't happen so much any more, but when they were younger you'd just as likely have someone else's wee one standing between your knees waiting on you to open a juice box, or sitting on your lap crying when they'd gotten hurt. Little Monkeylass came in and climbed all over PHF repeatedly (she missed him, he'd been gone) and the other kids would wander in, indiscriminatley distibute a hug or monkey-climb or two, and wander back out again. Though they were active, the obnoxiousness was held to a mininum, and when PHF and I finally retired for the evening, I was congratulating ourselves on having a successful, relatively mess-free evening (one glass of water and one box of juice spilled total. Pretty good, considering). "And they played so quietly," I was saying. "They were just so sweet..."

We stopped at the top of the stairs and stared.

The whole of the Lad's fleet was assembled up on the catwalk; I'd guess some thirty vehicles - armored personel carriers, Bradley fighting vehicles, armored trucks, tanks, ships, ATVs armed with M60s, motorcycles with bolted-on rifles, jets readying for take-off... all led by the Pirate Ship proudly flying the Jolly Roger, men high in the rigging for lookout ("Enemy ship, ho!"). Approximately 100 troops had been gathered for the assault, and all were in position, lurking with military precision in the darkness above, silently waiting for the order to attack.

Their target?

The nose of every weapon was pointed straight at the fireplace, where us, the little darlings' parents, had been gathered all night.


Fire Faerie said...

I'd like to go on the record, saying that I and my other frigid friend on the hearth were dressed in layers. Gortex, wool scarves, gloves, etc... are usually needed to ward off the arctic chill in su casa! Last night was not bad, though. Thanks for dusting off the thermostat, firing up the logs and lighting the candles.

*We should plan an assault on the munchkins for next week. RETALLIATION! Can't you just hear the sob stories to the therapists in 20 years...

*Have fun tonight with vir-ti-go. Get your "Lord of the Dance" on!

T Kwong said...

"(Editor's note: The author wished to administer some advice: "Here's a fucking clue: it's fucking wintertime so put on a fucking sweater. Sheesh." But the editorial board thought offence might be taken and the statement is still under review for inclusion in this post.)"

... and thus including it in anyway, you're so clever.

You're children have probably become a resistance force bent on liberating themselves from the iron grip of the parental dictatorship. They're just not old enough to do so with narcotics, your (the horror) booze, or sex with people you don't approve of.

sex scenes at starbucks said...

FF- retaliation? I'm thinking... babysitters, perhaps?

T- I dunno, it go pretty quiet at times down in the basement. And we did find the beer-fridge door open and a scattering of bottlecaps nearby...

T Kwong said...

Well, are you sure the caps weren't from your own adventures and wouldn't you notice the smell, unless they're doing hard stuff already.


sex scenes at starbucks said...

Since the kids are all 7 and under I really hope they didn't get into the liquor!

Greg said...

ya know if you get them started drinking at a young age they'll probably drink less when they're older. I hear the Russians do it all the time.

daniel said...

group of women. baring a breast or two. using computers.

Sounds like a recipe for big-ebusiness to me. Just needs a splash of kink, a dash of daring, and a good stir.

PS. You lie. about the breasts and about me. LIES! but a little flattery goes a long way...

sex scenes at starbucks said...

Cryp- HEY! That wasn't a lie!

I do subscribe to a standard of 60% Truth minimum, which is stated in the fine print of this drivel-blog, but you think I just came up with "baring a breast or two" with no inspriration from rl?? Fire Faerie was a witness to those festivities.

As to the other, I don't even approve of posting pix on blogs because it usually ruins my little loin-stirring fantasies, but in your case... yummy. And you DO look like the main characters (twins) in my books. (I'm just going to keep at it until you turn all red and shit - ask Greg or Jack.)

Fire Faerie said...

SS@S sticks to her 60/40 truth/fiction, but I have no such limitations. I only speak the truth. Her boob (the right one) was flopping out of her shirt ALL night long, and I kept looking at it, bcs it was practically poking my eyes out. So, I had to say something to her about it...at which point she FLASHED me and my chilly friend at the fireplace. I just love our playgroup...it'll be even better when we all get our boob jobs, eh SS@S?!

daniel said...

[quote]my little loin-stirring fantasies[/quote]
lmao @ expression.

Ok.. i belive you about the boobs. That was the 60% truth part. the rest was lies. :P

sex scenes at starbucks said...

"...we all get our boob jobs, eh SS@S?!"

What do you mean *we*?? Are you planning on donating some boobage when the time comes? Lord knows you've got enough to go 'round, lucky duck.

I, for one, am coming to terms with my body just the way it is. I always heard "more than a mouthful is a waste" anyway.

sex scenes at starbucks said...

Cryptic: be careful where you stick that tongue. Licking turns me on.