Following is an excerpt from this week’s column on AL.com. The link at the bottom takes you to the full column.
Sweetums knows I would never publicly ridicule him. I only write about him as a sort of research exercise – you know, to gauge by reader response how normal he is…n’t.
This column, however, broaches a touchy subject, one we women lament about on girls’ night and social media: Men and their toys. I’m not talking about motorcycles or throwing axes or things considered to be “grown-up toys.” I mean real-for-sure, ages-eight-and-up-choking-hazard toys.
It would have been difficult for me to miss Sweetums’ devotion to toys before we married – mainly because the shelves of the game-loft-slash-man-cave are lined with action figures of varying types, Bigfoot, “Sons of Anarchy,” “The Simpsons,” GI Joe, even a Slimer from “Ghostbusters.” Sweetums refers to them as “collectibles,” which is a Latin word meaning “grown men trying to cover up the fact that they play with toys.”
They aren’t fooling anyone, y’all. And they aren’t even nice about it. Once, when I asked Sweetums if I could play with his Charlie Hunnam doll (the nummy buns who played Jax Teller on “Sons of Anarchy”), he wouldn’t sharewith me. That’s, like, the first rule of toys.
Sometimes I worry Sweetums has gotten a little out of hand with his play pretties, as my grandmother used to call them. For example, two weeks before Christmas we were in a discount store that had display tables stacked with games, Barbie dolls and animatronic dinosaurs. I stopped to look at a box with a Play-Doh factory inside and sighed. “I miss buying toys,” I said to Sweetums.
“We can buy some Play-Doh if you want it,” he said.
“No, silly. I miss buying toys for kids. You know, when I had a legitimate excuse to spend hours in the toy aisle asking the Magic 8 Ball questions, or making Lego indentations in the Silly Putty.”
He didn’t seem to hear. His attention was drawn to a lower shelf where he’d spotted a Ghostbusters logo. I mean it was way down near the floor. Sweetums is six-foot-seven. It was like he could smell it, y’all. Like catnip. He picked up a box containing an action figure of Peter Venkman from the “Ghostbusters” movie and held it up, a big grin on his face.
“You’re going to buy that, aren’t you?” I asked, just wasting perfectly good words. Because of course he was. Click here to read the full column on AL.com.