Vii is for VICTORY!

Every Thursday, Michael and I go on a pre-weekend lunch date. I drive down to his office, dressed up extra cute, and he comes out to meet me, a big smile on his handsome face. We hop in the car like a movie couple having a giggly, illicit affair (except we're married... and there's a toddler in the back... but ya know) and take off for Jillians. Jillians poses as a hip arcade/billards/pool/bowling hall, but really it's far too full of harried executive types to count as "hip." But we let them have their illusions. They also have a restaurant, a nice hostess named Becky, and a Thursday special where the Guacamole Bacon Burger happens to be half off for lunch, providing us both with a tasty, decadent meal for a happy 8 bucks. We love our lunch dates.

This past week, Michael challenged me to a race on the "Need for Speed" arcade racecars. I quickly agreed, cleverly restraining the fact that I used to play need for speed ad nauseum with Eric and his pals growing up. I never reached their prowess, but I can certainly hold my own. I played the wimpy female, and Michael offered to hold the babe. I accepted, took my post, and put the pedal to the metal. Five minutes later, I emerged, VICTORIOUS, as my screen read "FIRST PLACE!" and Michael's, darkened, said "UNFINISHED RACE."

HA! TAKE THAT, SUCKER!

I'm a terrible winner. The rush of victory is far too thrilling and unusual for me to take it gracefully. Michael blamed it on the child. I laughed and pointed and did a victory dance. I rubbed it in for days.

So, Sunday, while at his parents, Michael challenged me to a rematch of Wii Mariocart. I accepted. I lost the first game. Last place. Then I lost the second. Last place. Blast. Then I discovered the joys of MooMoo Manor (or whatever it's called) and I was back on my game. VICTORY! Then, VICTORY again. And a final TROUNCING just to show him who was boss. Then a few games of tennis during which my husband's poor ego was thoroughly trashed. He had to come home and go to bed early.

BOOYAH! (What does that mean, anyway? But it feels so... appropriate.) Must be all the "Car and Driver" reading since we were married. Maybe I should try out for NASCAR. Must be in the Indiana air.