“YOU… ARE… OUTTA…HERE!” Like an umpire commandeering home plate, I stand poised above the crib-board, one hand pointing at the door, the other arm scribing maniac circles in the air.

My husband groans and starts picking up the playing cards.

“Talk about horseshoes,” he mutters under his breath, “You’ve got horseshoes stuck so far up…”

I sit down and do the pigeon-head salute. Apparently, I’m not listening. I break into song and start crooning Mark’s personal favorite: a rousing rendition of “I am the Champion.” I crank it up a notch, do a jiggy-jiggy dance across the floor, and turn back to my husband. “Sing along with me, if you will…”

“Ah-huh…”

Okay, so maybe it’s juvenile. Maybe it’s as close to unsportsmanlike behavior I can get without falling off the edge of the playing field. I’ll give him that. But don’t get me wrong, I truly did whoop him.

I plug my nose and sniff gratuitously over the cribbage board.

“Do you smell something foul in here?”

Mark gives me the eyeballs of doom. “I get it, I get it!” he snorts, “You skunked me, alright? You skunked me.” I pass him the deck with a smile as sweet as taffy. Heck, it’s not my fault I have good kard-ma.

So, what do you do when you live in a shoe that clearly resembles a combat boot?

My personal opinion? There’s nothing healthier for a relationship than a vigorous bout of full-contact crib. Forget screaming and fighting. Forget power struggles, warring for control, domestic violence, or all night brew-haha’s. If you have an issue with your spouse you don’t know how to resolve, throw your dispute onto the card-table.

I scoff at Mark’s two-point hand and pitch him an insult. It’s one of those rare, sparkling opportunities to say the things you want to say, without really saying the things you want to say. Take, for example, the following card banter:

1. “If you sucked any more, you’d be working for Hoover.”
Translation: If you don’t stop picking your toenails in the livingroom, I’m going to lop off your lower digits with a bread knife.

2. “Nice move! I’ve got golf clubs that are smarter than that.”
Translation: Use my razor to shave your legs again and I’ll lock Dr. Phil off the satellite.

3. “You’re a… loo-oo-ser!” (Sung to the Beatles tune with fingers in the shape of an ‘L’ on forehead.)
Translation: For the sake of all things holy, and for the very last time, would you put the toilet seat down?

And so on. Believe me, it’s healing. Not to mention, a monumental opportunity to unload core issues off your chest. So, let me unveil for you the game playing strategy:

1. Name calling, pot shots, serious sarcasm… IN.

2. Feelings of frustration, need to strangle spouse, psychotic episodes… OUT.

Now what could possibly be wrong with an exercise like that?

“Did YOU deal this?” Mark grunts. “I can’t believe the cards you’re dealing me! And I call you my wife?” He massages his brow and I make like I’m playing the violin.

“Aww… poor baby. Gonna take your ball and go home?” I wobble my bottom lip at him.

Mark tosses in his cards and thumbs his nose.

Translation: There’s no question you drive me nuts… but hunny, I truly couldn’t love you more!