Whoopie...

Didgeridoo Boy has a whoopie cushion that's recently resurfaced after about eight months of being lost in the box in which he swears it was hidden. (I know nothing.) We had the occasion to sift through that box Sunday night.

I should have left the thing there. I should have noted its location, re-buried it under some stuff, and left it the hell alone. Instead, I decided to be a nice little wife and say, "Oh! Here's the whoopie cushion." Didge replied, "Ooooooo. You done f***** up now!", and did the little skippy walk he does when he's decided to have a go at shredding the last remaining vestige of my sanity a little further. I know that walk. And I know what's coming because of that walk - I just don't know when or where these things will come.

And just as I should have left the whoopie cushion in the box, I should have known he would pounce when I did him the great injustice of leaving him by himself for an hour so I could have my evening yoga practice. I was deep, deep into a soothing round of pranayama when an explosion of horrible noise came from the door to the room in which I lock myself for obvious reasons. This drives him bananas. "One" must be entertained and kept company. And his method of expressing this last night was to inflate his whoopie cushion, fit the nozzle under the door of the room, and deflate it with all his might.

I screamed bloody murder. And since he then decided to jack up the volume of his surround sound system to "seriously irritating", I gave the hell up. I'd had my morning practice, anyway. I grabbed the whoopie cushion and prepared to chuck it out into the front yard. Why I decided against that I will never know. (Coulda, shoulda, woulda....damn it.)

We're having a new storm door installed today, and the confirmation call for the appointment came last night. I wandered back into the bedroom so I could hear, and to get away from Didge, who had started his evening dancing a couple of feet away and was about to do God-knows-what. He tippy-toe-jogged right straight into the bedroom and blasted off the whoopie cushion right beside my head. Giggled, and ran out. I screamed, and explained to the nice gentleman I was talking to that I was about to kill my husband and destroy his whoopie cushion.

While I was in post-dinner anxiety collapse on the couch with Totsi the Dog, he walked up and set the damned thing off right over my head. I jumped. The dog jumped. And the cat - the cat jumped, too, and I saw the little light of, "Ohhhhhhhhh!" in Didge's eyes. He had an idea.

He scared the cat with the whoopie cushion, who was relaxing in her new favorite spot on the shelf under the coffee table. I've made a nice bed there for her out of a towel, and she loves it. That's where she hangs out in the evenings, and is the point from which she launched using only the muscles of her belly, her eyes bulging in a disturbing fashion, and with her feet still tucked almost all the way underneath her, but with her claws fully extended out to the sides. She was flying at the side of the couch. The dog ran, I screamed, and Didge?

Didgeridoo Boy danced. Again.

Later in the evening, after he'd put a pair of his boxers around the dog's neck and the cat had come out of hiding, he finally seemed to sense that I was a little bit peeved. He snickered and said, "You married me. You thought that would be a great idea, and now you are a stuck ass." I got up to make a nice, soothing cup of hot chocolate. "Yeah", he said. "And now you KNOW."

And then he danced yet again.

But he was damned right that I know. Oh, yes. I know. Silly Didge left his whoopie cushion sitting on the coffee table, and I know I am probably going to bury it in the back yard before this day is out.