T: “Just give me a minute to move the shield around.”
B: “Okay.” Continues flying towards the death ray blocking the path as if nothing was said.
An explosion rocks the screen. We. Are. Dead.
Tabitha, Wyatt, and I battled through the first level of Lovers in a Dangerous Spacetime. I could feel the tension as we all raced around the pink spaceship. Each of us scrambling to man the proper command console:
- Pilot – Thrusters
- Block – Shield
- Search – Radar
- Fire – Guns / Super Gun
Meanwhile, enemies kept attacking from all directions. To be stationary is to be space dust.
Communication is not optional:
T: “Give me a moment to move the shield around this time.”
B: “Okay, I can do that. Wyatt, are you firing back?”
Our second run through the first level went much better than the first run. We survived!
But I’m not sure whether we’ll be playing Lovers in a Dangerous Spacetime again soon. Even if the boy kept asking:
“Can we play the lovers game?”
After a long day at work, a cold glass of Coke sounded good. Really good. So I grabbed a can and walked across the kitchen to get a glass. Somehow, someway, the can dropped from my hand and hit the floor just right. BOOM!
The Coke can spun around on its side like a firecracker. Coke flying across the floor, onto the cabinets, the stove, etc. All aided by a floor fan that was right behind me when I dropped it (I was set up!). As the can settled down, I looked around and noted that the kitchen was doused in carmel goodness.
Tabitha laughed. Then she sprang into action and told me to go get cleaned up. She is so sweet!
That’s when I noticed that the Coke had somehow shot up my shorts. Did I mention that I was all ready to walk out the door for Bible study that evening? Figures.
A quick side story: Back when my wife and I lived in a duplex, she somehow managed to explode a bottle of BBQ sauce all over the kitchen. When we went to move a few years later, we were still cleaning up BBQ sauce that we had initially missed. I guess now my wife and I are even. If this was an intentional contest. Which it wasn’t.
Good times. Good syrupy times.