I feel like Salman Rushdie. This is just a little LO exploring the dark side of my family and games. If my family ever discovered this on-line, I'd be a dead woman. So let's not tell them, shall we?

Thank you for looking.

Whenever we visit my family, games always enter into the mix. Whether it be Mexican Train, Rummicube, Farkle, or Bananagrams, after-dinner time is usually the time reserved for fun ... at least, that is the intent. I love my family dearly, but let’s be honest -- we are a competitive lot. My dad, the stoic German, is usually the first to enter into a bad humor. One or two difficult rounds for him are usually enough to start him sulking, a trait he inherited from his mother I’m afraid. And my sister -- well, she seems to be trying to “prove” her worth. She either becomes short-tempered if she’s losing or insufferably cheery if she’s not. Mom ... well, she just gets frustrated with Dad’s foul mood. Me? I am my father’s daughter, but I try to remember “It’s just a game.” After the mix of sour grapes and sugary sweetness, however, I’m not in my “happy place” anymore. So, why do we keep playing games? If I figure it out, I’ll let you know ...

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