The making of a mole

"And now it's time for...MOLE BOY!" husband-head announced as he padded from the bedroom to the couch early on a Sunday morning.
He carefully let down the blinds and drew the curtains in the living room, making it extremely dark. Then he flopped on the couch.
"Where's my pillow and my binky?" he demanded as he turned on the TV. "I need to MOLE UP!"
I dutifully retrieved a pillow from the bedroom and reached behind the couch for the binky - his favorite TV-watching blanket.
It never ceases to amaze me that this is a man who practically needs a fire station alarm to get out of bed during the week, yet if there is a football game on - or any program with the word "football" in it, for that matter - he can wake up easily and on his own.
"YESSSS!" husband-head cried out in glee as he snuggled under the binky and wriggled with delight in preparation for 12 hours of non-stop football in the darkened room.
"I could live like this, you know," husband-head confided to me. "I could be in the Guiness Book of Records for being the world's biggest mole."
I wasn't so sure about that.
"Actually, you'd have competition with some other famous moles," I pointed out. "The one under Madonna's right nostril...the one by Cindy Crawford's upper right lip..."
This prompted husband-head to sing his own version of a Tommy James and the Shondells song.
"Here she come now, say, Moley Moley!" he belted out at the top of his lungs. "Shoot 'em down, turn around...come on Moley!"
He stopped abruptly in the middle of the song.
"Hey, don't you have one those things on your left shoulder?" husband-head asked. "And doesn't it have, like, a big ol' hair growing out of it?"
"No it does NOT," I snapped, incensed that he would bring up my dirty dermatology laundry. "And besides, it's not a mole - it's a beauty mark."
"I feel PRETTY! Oh, so PRETTY!" husband-head taunted.
A little while later, husband-head, aka "Mole Boy", decided he wanted some grub.
"Yo! Beauty mark!" he yelled from the darkness. "This mole is hungry!"
"Then the mole should dig himself a tunnel into the kitchen!" I yelled back.
But Mole Boy wasn't about to leave his dark den.
"I read somewhere that moles eat worms," I informed husband-head. "Can I interest you in a wiggly worm sandwich?"
Husband-head looked disgusted at the thought.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a cheeseburger," husband-head admitted.
Everyone knows moles don't eat cheeseburgers.
"I also heard that moles don't get along with other moles," I continued, nonchalantly. "So...how about a knock-down-drag-out fight?"
This was not what husband-head had in mind at all.
But seeing as I was going to live with a mole, I decided to research and find out more about them.
"Were you aware that a mole's mating season runs from February to April?" I asked husband-head, poking my head into the darkness.
"Well that makes perfect sense," he agreed. "It's after the Super Bowl and before pre-season games start..."
Somehow I wasn't buy the fact that moles mated around the NFL football schedule...
I was about to protest when husband-head put his little mole finger to his little mole lips and indicated that talking was not allowed during the game.
"Shhhh," he said in a soft voice. "Good little moles don't talk during football."
"Gee, maybe there will be a MOLE BOWL," I whispered with excitement. "The teams could play in the dark and the quarterbacks could dig tunnels to the end zone for a touchdown!"
Husband-head shook his head.
"Nope," he disagreed. "Players aren't eligible to be moles. Only die-hard football fans can obtain mole status."
With that, he buried himself even deeper under his binky.
"Hey, hey I'm the MOLE BOY!" husband-head sang to his own version of the Monkee's famous song. "People say I'm MOLE'IN around!"