Men are from Wars...

Last night I dragged myself through the front door, exhausted after an 11-hour day the office. (One of course filled with nothing but happiness and magic kittens and singing cartoon bluebirds tweeting sweet sounds of encouragement and praise into my ears all day.) I was too late for the kids.

I kissed the sleeping Sage on the forehead, and Thalia and I squeezed in one tight, heartfelt hug in the dark before she flopped down and went back to bed.

I slumped onto the living room couch and threw my feet up onto the coffee table, breaking out the laptop and enjoying a glass of cool Albarino and the silence but for the tapping of my keys.

At which point Nate thought it was a fine time to hook up the Wii and turn on MODERN WARFARE II, filling the house with sounds of MACHINE GUNS and PEOPLE SCREAMING and GRENADE FIRE and DEATH AND CARNAGE ARGGHHHHHHH.

"You know," I said. "Those aren't exactly the most relaxing sounds to come home to. They're not quite filling me with the serenity and and peace I would hope for right now."

He didn't hear me. He was too busy yapping into his bluetooth headset to long-distance teammates, and wondering whether the player named BrooklynDaddy was someone he already knows or should be BFF with. So they could bond. Over Brooklyn and daddying and DEATH AND CARNAGE ARGGHHHHHHH.

So I grabbed my wine and went into the bedroom. And turned on the small TV.

Because the sound of nasal-y New Jersey housewives fighting in high-pitched voices over who pulled whose hay-uh? Now that is the civilized way to unwind.