Man-poker night.

 (This was written several nights ago.)

It is nine forty four.  Isaiah is not in my house.  Actually, he is in the garage with some big, burly boys.  Okay, so some of them are big, some of them are burly, and some of them are kind of in between.  And, there might be a few who are not big or burly but are happy that way.  None the less, the presence of Isaiah and many man friends in the garage playing poker is a very common occurrence.  Many man friends, I might add, who are often too excitable and eat way too many potato chips.  I am in my house thinking about how much I pretend that I hate man-night.  I tell myself and Isaiah that too much ridiculousness goes on, and that there will be way too many man dishes that are sticky with things like greasy pizza cheese that I will dutifully wash for them.  I will claim that they play too late, and will be very tired for bed long before I hear him coming up the stairs apologizing to me for plating too late and for loosing our life savings to his best friend.  I will pretend that I am already asleep and act very annoyed but inside, I enjoy these evenings. I enjoy them because it reminds me to be thankful for the good men in my life, even if they get greasy and slightly irresponsible, because then I am reminded of how important women are to men  because we can curb their enthusiasm to a healthy level.  I also am so glad to have a quiet evening once the children are asleep, but at the same time I know that there is a room full of men just an ear shot away.  This first of all makes me feel like I can have solace without feeling alone, and secondly if anyone came in the house and tried to hurt me, they would be very sorry.  I also confess that I am thankful for the leftover Doritos.