Cry Me a River That Flows Past Park Place

I never cry, even if I drop the last bite of brownie in the kitty litter where the five second rule doesn’t apply,

I don’t cry at baseball, even though my team manages to lose in creative and expensive ways each season.

I don’t cry when I’m picked last for teambuilder activities, even though I was the acknowledged and celebrated Red Rover champion in the fifth grade and the only girl on the First Baptist softball team who could catch a pop fly.

I don’t cry at tearjerker movies that are written for the express purpose of generating tears (unless it’s Secondhand Lions and that’s the law).

But there is one thing that makes me cry like a newly crowned Miss America with the cameras rolling.

I’ll clue you in, but you have to promise not to tell.

Pinky swear.

It’s. . .

Monopoly.

I’m not sure if that’s why I’m banned from playing it at my house, but there’s a reason that during the last game we ever played, Son I, William the Conqueror, gave me an extra life and called it Monopoly: The Bailout Edition.

All I know is that if someone that I carried in my body for nine months can charge me $1,200 to stay at his hotel for five minutes without even considering an AARP discount, he wasn’t raised right and I’m a failure as a mother.

Son I regularly takes top honors in Careers, Sorry, Uno, and The Barbie Game and I live to fight another day even when he insists on playing by the rules on the box instead of House rules.

Son II (The Pokemon Master, for those of you in the know), has reigned as the Connect Four champion since he was eight years old. I would brag about him in my knitting circle if I could knit.

But Monopoly is personal.

Anyone who can refuse his mother bail when she’s been behind bars for more than three turns is a menace and shouldn’t be allowed to pass Go.

I can’t catch a break, or break even for that matter.

I can’t hop a freight train. (I have all the railroads, Mom. You owe me extra.)

I have poor design sense. (None of your colors match, Mommo. If you get any money, try to buy properties with the same color.)

I need magic dice. (Motherrr, I own all the properties on that side; you need to roll 15.)

I regret the days I let this kid win at Candy Land.

The money was still wet when we put the game away for the last time and passed around bandages to the competitors. Everyone agreed that the additions of Senior discounts and Buy One Get One Free offers enhanced game play.

The family Monopoly game still looks like new. My guys are grown now and life is busy.

But I can always find a way to start a conversation.

I say, “Hey, does anybody want to play Monopoly?”

Then I sit back and watch the fun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

An Inspirational Birthday Message

10 Reasons Why I Hate My Sister

1. You always got all the boyfriends. On second thought, after unsuccessfully training two husbands, I’m not really envious of extra men in your life.

2. You got all the craft talent. But I’ve got enough hand-beaded jewelry to last me until I’m 375 years old, and you helped Ryan make a shoebox float for Carnivale that won first place in German class.

3. You got married and moved away. But you had a pack of kids that have been like sunshine on my flower garden for most of my days. (Okay, maybe flower garden is a bad analogy because all mine are dead, but you get the point.) Also, you have a daughter that gave me a glue gun. On purpose.

4. You got the rogue common sense gene in the family. As soon as I figure out why that’s important, I’m going to fire off a letter of complaint to the Management.

5. You started the tradition of taking Mr. Beason’s classes for high school English. But because you did, I already knew that half the class would fail when I walked in his door. Also I used what I learned there to ace the Advanced Placement test and exempt college freshman English.

6. You’re the sweet one. But then I had to be the funny one, and I sailed through school on the strength of humorous English compositions, and have collected a nice bit of pocket change from the same sort of thing telling about the trauma I suffered at the hands of my siblings. Also, my kids want to come live with you. Could I drop them off tomorrow morning?

7. You have grandchildren. Of course, when my kids are gone, I’ll still have two Labradors, a diva Dachshund, three cats and Captain Bill to take care of. Could I drop Bill off tomorrow morning, too?

8. You can do math in your head and I can’t. Come to think of it, I don’t really have a problem with this one.

9. You always win at monopoly. (See number 8.) But I'd rather shave my legs with a potato peeler than play Monopoly and because of unsportsmanlike conduct I've been served with a lifelong Monopoly Ban by the kids, so it goes to show that things always work out for the best.

10. You were born first. But Mama & Daddy were so tired by the time I came along, I got away with everything. And you talked mama into letting me wear hose when I was the only barelegged girl left in fifth grade. And you’ll always be older than me. Come to think of it, I don’t really mind having you around at all. (And I have a pair of pants that need hemming, and I broke my pink earrings, and I lost my new bracelet and . . .we need to have a craft night real soon!)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LORY! MY BEST FRIEND AND SECOND MOM! I LOVE YOU!

Take a Risk

With the exception of a spirited round of Monopoly in which at least one family member gave in to displays of aggression (which eventually led to excommunication of the indicated party from Monopoly eligibility), our family has always enjoyed board games.

However, now that the boys are grown, I’m less likely to find Candy Land or Battleship in my house than I am to find the kitchen table sporting a board with a colorful world map, and everyone at Risk. Or, on random weekend nights it’s not unusual to come across a fighter, a thief, a rock troll, and a Feegle balanced on chairs and stools around the table entranced in a role playing adventure based on Terry Pratchett’s DiscWorld novels.

It no longer shocks me to hear such statements as, “If you’re a dwarf, you get to use bread as a weapon.”

Or to hear a tiny blue man screech “Waily, waily, waily,” when he gets caught guzzling kerosene by the Head Lady In Charge.

Or to come across a rock troll muttering, “They have sledgehammers, so I’m wielding a man in armor. (Granted, trolls don’t have the command of the language that, say, a personification of Death might display, but I think I’m fairly close with the translation.) All in all I find that Rock Trolls are inclined to engage in fisticuffs. If you call planting warriors in the ground like rows of corn, fisticuffs.

What I do have trouble with is the care and feeding of the players. Ever since we found out The Captain of our little clan has higher numbers than Stephen Hawking can imagine when it comes to triglycerides, we’ve cut back on nonessential food items.

Unfortunately “nonessential” is an abstract term whose meaning has come under intense discussion at our house. The latest example came Friday night when the alternate species filed into the kitchen for game night.

Apparently, “Man Snacks” do not include diet ginger ale and sugar free pudding.

Nor is angel food cake with raspberry fruit spread acceptable as an alternative.

You just can’t please some rock trolls. I explained the dietary restrictions in my calm, peacekeeping voice.

“Don’t worry about her,” the thief whispered to the Dungeon Master as I left the room. “This is nothing. You should hear her when we play Monopoly.”

You're It!

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t lack the competition gene. If it were up to me, not only would the National Football League still allow excessive displays of emotion after every goal scored, the victory dance would stand on its own as a separate event, complete with judges murmuring together over technique and holding up cardboard placards with the scores. Interpretations of the Chicken Dance would rate extra credit.

I don’t mind coyly pointing out that I’ve been known to perform my own ritualistic dance of victory, choreographed with vigor and soul to a stirring rendition of Aretha Franklin’s version of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I used to trot it out after family games of Parcheesi, Scrabble, and Monopoly until that unfortunate incident with the dog got me banned from participating in Family Game Night. That turned out all right because I ate all the leftover roast and blamed it on him, so his name is still on the naughty list right beneath mine and he’s not trusted alone with a roast. Anyway, a victory dance, although still satisfying to the soul, is not completely effective after a rousing game of computer solitaire.

It is my opinion, and therefore accurate, that appreciation of competition need not go hand in hand with rigorous physical exercise. Therefore, when I got tagged by the ever-gregarious Wordsmith, I immediately checked the rules on her insightful and well-written (Erika, you owe me extra for the infomercial) blog (Musings From the Mitten) to see if any actual physical exertion is involved. While an enthusiastic proponent of competition, I’m not a fan of sweat, and have often considered dressing the dog in baby clothes so that I can avoid the physical exertion of a long walk by grabbing the parking spot at the front door of the market marked for mothers with small children. However, the dog is still harboring a grudge from the roast beef incident and refuses to cooperate.

Thankfully, the only aerobics involved in this game of tag are fingers flying low over the keyboard. I’m clear for take-off.

The way I understand the rules of the game, bearing in mind that rules are often subject to my own colorful interpretation, is this:

Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share five facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. (Although random and weird are often synonyms in my case.) Tag five people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Alrighty then. Sit back and prepare to be entertained. Amused. Well, just sit still long enough to count to five.
1. I’ve been in a building that was on fire. It was a church. I came out okay. Well, not with anything I could bill the insurance for, anyway.
2. I wear my husband’s socks. Girl socks just won’t stay up.
3. I broke my arm in high school. I fell three inches. I don’t feel that this incident is in any way indicative of my physical coordination. (Perhaps I should disable the blog comments at this time.)
4. The blog entry I wrote about the results of my son’s personality test showing he has the same traits as Hannibal Lecter was true. Except for the part where I mowed down the stop sign. I barely touched it.
5. My husband took the same test. Same results. I’m afraid to open meat tenderizer in the kitchen.

Okie dokie, for the fun part: I’m tagging. . . let’s see a show of hands now. . .KODB at TheDoggerelKing, Wynter at FlibbityGibbet, Ltd. at Mama Needs A Book Contract, Janna at Something She Wrote, and Sdarb at From Rebel Deb to Doublewide.