Poker Face

Don’t laugh, Bethany. Whatever you do, don’t laugh.

“Tsss...”

Hold it in, Woman. Suck it up. Think bad horrible ugly thoughts.

“Tsss heh heh…”

Man slaughter. Puppy mills. Miracle whip.

“Tsss sss sssch…”

Fine. Whatever. Let it out you pitiful excuse for a human being.

“Tsss heh hah ha HAAAAAAAAA!


The above illustration is why I really shouldn’t attempt April Fools spoofs. My poker face looks more like an over-filled water balloon. I rarely make it to the punch line before exploding into hysterics. I give myself away EVERY TIME.

But like a fool, I still attempt little pranks anyway. I have to. Ryan is always getting me good—teasing me ruthlessly, hiding things from me, tickling me. I must retaliate. But I shouldn’t.

Case in Point (A): Ryan is up late watching the playoffs. He thinks I’m already asleep so he tiptoes into the bedroom as to not wake me up. He kneels down and begins saying his prayers. That’s when I get my brilliant idea. I quietly slide his pillow under the covers and underneath my legs. I resume my “sleeping” position.

I try not to think of how hilarious it will be when he lays down and instead of finding his fluffy pillow he will be confronted with the cold and lonely mattress. I try not to picture him roaming around the dark house in search of his pillow. I try not to think of those things.

But I think of those things.

And then the space behind nose gets all tickly. My throat expands and contracts. My chest gets tight with pent-up energy. Oh my heck! It’s coming and can’t be stopped!

“Ahhhhh! Ha ha haaaa!”

Ryan opens one eye and looks at me all perplexed.

“You okay, Buns?” he asks.

“Mmm hmm,” I chortle.

“I was praying, you know,” he says.

I nod reverently.

“Where’s my pillow, Buns?”

I remove his pillow from between my knees and offer it up. I feel kind of dumb. I had jumped into the deep end without my floaties.


Case in Point (B): Ryan and I are both in the kitchen. He is making a protein shake. He turns around for a brief moment to cut up a banana. Now’s my chance. I grab the blender full of frozen strawberries and protein powder and stash it in the cupboard. I look to see if he noticed. Nope. Still slicing the banana.

So I run away. I run into the bedroom and jump into bed. I pull the covers over my body and hide. Maybe if I can’t see him and he can’t see me, I won’t laugh.

But I start shaking. I cup my hands over my mouth to stifle the inevitable “tee hee hee’s”. But I hear his footsteps. He knows where I am. He knows what I did.

“Ahhhhh! Ho Ho Ho! Heeee!”

The covers fly off of my body. I am there. I am laughing. I feel vulnerable.

Ryan pulls out the “tickle finger.” I feel more vulnerable.

And then I get the tickle torture of my life. And I deserved it and I know it. And I’m loving it. And I’m proud of myself. Especially when he asks me where I hid the blender and I won’t tell him.


Did I mention that I have a great life?