Gnip Gnop

So, most of the relocation of toys is complete. Most everything is sorted and put upstairs. Unfortunately, there is excessive furniture left in the playroom. Anyone need bookshelves? Rocking chairs? Sofas? Excessively large TVs? Coffee tables?
Regardless of how overstuffed the playroom is, we have a friend who is a prof at MSU coming to visit us this weekend. MSU and M used to have epic games of Monopoly and apparently, MSU is also a mean ping pong player. SO, this means we had to get the ping pong table purchased, brought home, and assembled yesterday so that MSU and M can have their epic ping pong tournament. There's your background info. Now let me tell you the saga.
We go to Academy Sporting Goods and look into the ping pong tables. A man of few spoken words (but ironically completely covered in tattoo writing) gives us sparse information and directions for pick up. The ping pong table weighs nothing short of a thousand pounds. Two HUGE dudes with scary tattoos lift it on to the top of the Highlander which audibly sighs under the weight. Apparently, because of lawyers, Tweedlepsycho and Tweedlescary are not allowed to tie the thousand pound box onto the top of my car should it slide off in transit and kill someone. M and I tie the thousand pounds down with this rinky dink twine, that by the way, will not stop the box or keep it from killing someone. As I am doing that, I open the car door to stand up taller, and S is leaning on the door. He falls out as I open the door, I scramble to save him from landing on the ground on his head.
Ping.
We get the table home, and S is asleep. I vaguely wonder if perhaps he has a concussion from hitting his head on the side of the car. Should I wake him and deal with the wrath of S? I take my chances on the concussion.
Pong.
M and I basically keep the unwieldy table in a controlled fall from the top of the car. We manage to drag, pull, maneuver it into the playroom. (4 feet from the carport, mind you). Inside the box are relatively few pieces, since we bought the partially assembled table, and instructions. The instructions optimistically inform us that assembly takes approximately 30 minutes...
Ping.
...On Pluto. We did not argue, go back, make mistakes, or in any way screw up, and we were still working on it 2 hours later. The instructions were translated from the original Sanskrit and therefore completely incomprehensible. We were left squinting over microscopic and completely confusing diagrams. The phone rang unanswered, S woke up, E came home from school, all events which passed vaguely through our consciousness as we pored over our work.
Pong.
Eventually, ta-da: our ping pong table was assembled (except for net). On the upside, my physical labour for the day was finished. On the down side, it was now time to start dinner. Gin and diet tonic to the rescue.
Ping.
I made the kids' favorite dinner, which is fondly called yummy crust chicken. Which I find funny because while it does have a yummy crust, it is pork. I made a pork schnitzel with spaetzle. (That's a lot of z's for one meal). M made a lovely arugula salad (we share Obama's elitist salad greens preferences). S was not up for yummy crust chorken, so I indulged his little Ebola-infected self and made him Stouffer's mac and cheese. I have to point out at this juncture that mac and cheese were three words I did not expect to hear at all yesterday.
Pong.
We sit down to eat, and S decides he made a mistake, and should have opted for the buttery spaetzle. So he starts to cry. I explain calmly that he can eat the mac and THEN eat the spaetzle. A well balanced carb dinner. Temper Tantrum erupts.
Ping.
My dinner was awesome, in case you were wondering. I used a combination if Italian bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, and panko crumbs for the crust, and it fried up to this lovely golden color. Yumm. I used this delicious food to tune out S's tantrum. I sipped my g and t as though I were in a fine, quiet restaurant. The constant whine of "I don't want mac and cheese" faded into the background. Randomly, and suddenly, E falls out of his chair.
Pong.
On to the floor. Along with his (thankfully) melamine plate. What the frig? He explains he was trying to stop Clooney from eating some mac he spilled (E had mac and spaetzle along with his chorken). E now has mac in his hair, on his clothes, all over the floor, everywhere. G and T mommy thinks this is pretty funny. M scoops some of S's still untouched-due to tantrum-mac and cheese on to E's plate.
Ping.
Tantrum escalates. Sam's refrain now changes to "I want ALL the mac and cheese. Don't give it away," despite the fact that the portion left on his plate is untouched. G and T #2 really helped me out at this juncture. E ate everything on his plate. S's mac and cheese that he STILL wanted all of is untouched. I'd had too much spaetzle for my diet. I scooped out more.
Pong.
The arugula salad was excellent. So easy. Baby arugula, lemon, olive oil, and fresh Parmesan Reggiano shaved on top. Yumm. E was eating dessert while S was still demanding that he get ALL the mac and cheese. He must have said the words "mac and cheese" three hundred times by this point.
Ping.
E clears the table, I begin washing. S FINALLY ate his mac and cheese. He brings me his plate and asks for dessert. G and T#2 mommy snorts.
Pong.
Finally, the kitchen was clean, the kids were bathed, tucked in, medicated, etc. The house was silent. I was ready for my favorite show on TV. My hour of escapism. I was ready for it. I earned it. My post ping pong assembly body ached. My post S temper tantrum head ached. Give me my hot David Boreanaz and Emily Deschanel sexual tension and give it to me NOW.
What's this? Fox has rescheduled my show? It has replaced it with reruns of some crappy reality shit? Screw it. I'm going to bed.
Game. Set. Match.