SmackDown

BoyChild and Babycakes have spent the last few Sundays down at our local Pokemon den, better known as Aardvarks, getting schooled in the art of war. It's pretty much what you'd expect - boys in black t-shirts hauling around huge binders of cards. Scary huge binders. With wheels and handles. Like I'd have to be on EBay 24/7 for those kinds of binders.

As much as I want to knock it, everyone there is just too nice and really, really helpful ... and I can't even find it in me to write something snarky about them. As it is, I want to find a nice college-aged girl for the Pokemon Maestro, Nick, who had the patience to sit with BoyChild and friend for two hours explaining things and setting up their decks. I can only sit with BoyChild for two hours if it involves a large screen TV and cerveza.

Well, BoyChild conned me into my first Pokemon card game. I sat down, hoping I wouldn't hurt his feelings too badly when I spiked the game ball in the end-zone. Much to my self-esteem's dismay, I was pretty soundly trounced AND he shook my hand afterwards - "Good game Mom." Was that pity in his voice?

Of course, BoyChild DOES have the advantage of having memorized the 8 billion cards that are involved. He's also managed to work through the higher math (OK Mom, my damage is 20x the number of heads you flip) and started spouting words like "retreat cost" and "weakness" causing me to wince. I've discovered that I'm actually going to need STRATEGY if this happens again ... which it will ... because the other Pokemon Mom wants to battle me. Does this make us hip and cool or just tragically sad? Whatever, as long as all future battles include a gin & tonic. Plus, I need Nick to fix me up a deck that doesn't suck ... maybe he's free Friday night.