Only Make Believe

“I can’t believe they won’t let me move my stable.” I huffed at the unfairness of video game logic.

My son, voice dripping irritably with common sense and reason, “So you’re upset because your imaginary horses can’t get to your imaginary barn?”

“It’s on an island, so there’s not much space. The bride and groom don’t have room to get out.”

“Right.”

My son doesn’t understand the urgency. I recently installed a game on my tablet that runs on hidden pictures, and I have to buy items with game currency to fuel the game to produce more hidden picture scenes. It’s all very technical.

“I need to organize my decorations before my observatory finishes renovating or the stable won’t fit.”

He squinted over my shoulder at the cartoon island.

“It says you have 11 hours and 29 minutes to go. I could clean my room in that much time.”

“Let’s see it.”

“I thought we were still talking make believe.”

“I have to hurry. I have two wedding carriages and they shouldn’t be near each other.”

“I don’t even want to know why.”

“They should each have their own wedding experience.”

 “Are there any imaginary people inside the imaginary wedding carriages?”

“No.”

“And what is that?” he pointed to a sandy pit.

“That’s a Zen garden. People go there for peace and contentment.”

“It looks like a litter box.”

“It doesn’t fit anywhere. Last night I dreamed the wedding carriage got stuck in it.”

“You’re having nightmares about your peace garden? Who designed this game, Stephen King?”

“They said the lighthouse is haunted.”

“Who said? Your imaginary people?”

“No, that wouldn’t make sense. The lighthouse keeper said it.”

“There’s a lot of empty buildings and the keeper of a haunted lighthouse? Where is Scooby Doo and Shaggy? In the carnival tent?”

“You talk big for somebody who plays a game full of chickens.”

“Those chickens are saving the world.”

“If I see one chicken on my island, we’re having it for dinner.”

“Let me see your tablet.”

He performed some magical flourishes over the surface of my tablet and handed it back.

“Wedding crisis averted.”

“Where is my carriage and flower-strewn path?”

“On your cargo ship.”

“I have a cargo ship?”

“Yep. They’re going to have their unique wedding experience on board.”

“But where will they go on their honeymoon?”

“Well I don’t want to give you ideas, but. . . “

“Yes?”

“Your haunted lighthouse and nightmare litter box make a package Scooby would die for.”

Chuting for the Win

Chutes and Ladders is a children’s game constructed so that even the smallest child can participate in the breakdown of society. Whoever designed this game must have fostered a deep-seated hatred for humanity and have the sordid past of a recovering alcoholic with manic tendendcies.

When a nasty turn of nature shut down the power grid in our area, and the only ones in the house with access to electronic entertainment was a teenaged boy with a supercharged video game and a Labrador with an electronic catnip mouse, we trotted out the kerosene lanterns and jumped right in to a family bonding experience.

“Why do we have to do this?” Son One, aged 22, is ever the encourager.

“Milton Bradley says Family Game Night will bring us closer together.”

“The dog’s asleep on my foot. How much closer can we get?”

A warm wet tongue washed a pizza stain from my pants.

“You’d be surprised.”

He peered at the rules in the dim light. “It says the youngest goes first. That would be me.”

“They have that rule so little kids won’t pout. Let’s roll to see who goes first.”

“Okay, if you want to cheat a little kid out of a turn.”

“You haven’t been a little kid since Barney the Purple Dinosaur faded into lavender.”

“I’m younger than you.”

It’s amazing how people act when they don’t get their way.

“Okay Mom, let go of my ear. You can go first.”

The game proceeded. It suddenly came to me how unfair it is to teach children how their young lives can end with a roll of the die.

“Mom, you got the big slide. You have to go back.”

“The slide is out of order due to road construction.”

“Road construction?”

“There’s always road construction.”

Just as Son One was about to display a lack of self control, the power came back on and the room was flooded with light. Someone accidentally knocked the board off the table during the excitement.

“You were supposed to go down the big chute. You cheated!” Son One was wounded by the hand of injustice.

“Of course she did,” the Captain caught my eye and leaned in with a tone dripping with “she owes me a favor.”

“But this time we’ll let her slide."

Potted Payback

A full moon is nothing compared to the first full day of sunshine after a winter full of sullen snowflakes to make people act crazy. The first day I looked to the heavens and felt the sunshine warm my face with magic fingers, I knew it was time to murder more houseplants.

If Christmastime is the season of Poinsettia Slaughter, then March brings Geranium Massacre Madness. Garden shops are teeming with folks loading up their carts with future victims. Satellites overhead are busy transmitting my picture to plant nurseries across the country: Armed and dangerous. Spotted with peat moss and a trowel. Before nightfall my mug shot will be hanging over the succulents at Home Depot stores everywhere.

I still have three house plant survivors from the Flora Trail of Tears that so many African Violets and Swedish Ivy cuttings have taken over the years, across my kitchen counter to the waste bin outside my back door. The road is difficult and tortuously long, but I have faith enough to keep widening the road and beginning beautification projects along its borders.

Just now I’m rubbing my hands together and gazing lovingly at two jade plants and an aloe, ripe for repotting. I think my neighbors phoned in a tip to CSI. Helicopters hover over my house. SWAT teams are rappelling down the chimney. Hostage negotiators are ringing my cell phone. “Back away from the potting soil and nobody will get hurt.”

With sunshine streaming in between the blinds, I lock the door and carefully spread newspapers across the table. Is it a bad omen that I have selected the obituary page for this project? I turn the paper over to government news. Somehow that seems more fitting for the spreading of manure.

My sons, both avid participants in Role Playing games, roll their dice to determine my luck. Hmm, Critical Fail. Yeah, but naysayers told Christopher Columbus to turn left at Nova Scotia, too. If he had listened, we wouldn’t be sucking the cream filling out of cannolis today. Sometimes you just have to stick to the North Star and make sure you have the right ratio of dirt to fertilizer.

Thirty minutes later the deed is done. I fling open the back door and announce, “The transplant was a success!”

Then I trip over the old pots on the back step and land with an overly large crash in the trash can by the door. Picking peat moss out of my hair and feeling a bruise the size of a dieffenbachia on my backside, I realize something important.

The Trail of Tears has claimed another victim.

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.”

So Help Me Erma

Sometimes when you write, the words float from your pen like a perfect curve ball on a summer day. You could pitch a perfect game without ever leaving your desk. But even All Stars have a little trouble from time to time getting the ball to the plate, the pen to the page. Don’t let the secret out—not for free, anyway—but there are ways to help yourself out of a jam when the count is high and you don’t really have your stuff.

In view of present-day performance enhancement and past Congressional proceedings concerning America’s Past Time, though, I’ll be sure to keep my stuff source confidential. I’m dreading the day some Government Honcho asks me to tell the truth, not miniscule portions of the truth, so help me Erma:

Honcho: On Monday morning did you intentionally partake of a foreign substance to enhance your writing ability?

Me: Yes, sir.

Honcho: And could you tell us the name of this substance?

Me: It was. . .coffee.

Honcho: I see. Is this coffee the only performance-altering substance that you ingested?

Me: Well, I added sugar. A lot of sugar.

Honcho: What did you hope to accomplish by this act?

Me: I hoped to remember how to turn on the computer and to be able to spell my name correctly.

Honcho: And were these actions made possible when you ingested this substance?

Me: Well, I had to wait a few minutes for the caffeine to take effect and the sugar to shift into gear, but yes. I was even able to find my files and tell the difference between an adjective and an adverb.

Honcho: I see. Was this your first experience with this substance?

Me: No, sir. My Dad drank it every day when I was growing up. My husband drinks it now. He uses a personal-sized drip coffee maker.

Honcho: You have coffee paraphernalia in the house? Did your husband coerce you into using this substance?

Me: (sensing a scapegoat): Well he did bring me a cup and tell me it might help. It looked so warm and rich, I couldn’t resist.

Honcho: Are you willing to supply any more names in connection with this substance?

Me: Well there’s Juan Valdez. . .

Honcho: We’ll make a note. Now, do you use any more substances that enhance your abilities?

Me: Well, there’s a substance writers like to call chair glue.

Honcho: You inhaled glue?

Me: No sir. Chair glue is what writers use to stay in their chair long enough to accomplish their goals. It’s not something anyone else knows is there.

Honcho: So it’s odorless and tasteless?

Me: It’s more a state of mind. It helps you make your dreams come true.

Honcho: So it’s hallucinogenic.

Me: Well, it makes all things seem possible.

Honcho: I see--it’s mind altering. Why do you apply it to your chair?

Me: You don’t really apply it. It sort of comes from within.

Honcho: I see. We’ll list that as an undesirable side effect. Do you feel that these substances advanced your abilities in any way?

Me: Well, I’ve had several essays published.

Honcho: You’re a published writer.

Me: Yes, sir.

Honcho: Well, let me tell you about this novel I’ve been working on. Perhaps you could take a look at it. There’s this one part where the hero just doesn’t have any motivation, and. . .

Me: You might try some of that coffee sir. And the chair glue.

Honcho: Where do you procure these substances?

Me: Well, I can hook you up with some coffee, no problem. As for the other thing, see me after the hearings and I’ll point you toward some websites with good tips.

Honcho: You’re free to go.

Me: Thank you, sir. I’ll meet you at Starbucks in half an hour. The first one's free.

Jammin' with Jimi

I’m standing ankle deep in the living room shag, legs spread apart, guitar hanging from a strap that crosses my chest like a shoulder bag I’m stowing away from purse thieves. I feel like a Freedom Shopper.

Santa in his jolly elven wisdom brought the children a video game that uses miniature plastic guitars as controllers. That’s like bringing Stephen Hawking a Playskool computer. Personally, I'm having trouble working up to technology that advanced.

Five colored buttons on the guitar correspond to notes on the televison screen. I can type 85 words a minute without so much as a peek at the space bar. So why can’t I play Slow Ride in easy mode without holding the guitar up to my bifocals to help me distinguish the red button from the green?

As the colored numbers disappear down the yellow brick road onscreen, I’m wildly pressing buttons at random, humming “If I only had a brain,” at chipmunk speed in my head.

I press the yellow button in time to score a point and figure I’m in the zone. “Jimi Hendrix, eat your heart out!” I squeal, sinking to one knee and head banging with enough gusto to take the curl out of my perm.

“You know Jimi Hendrix?”

Apparently I’m earning Mom points with my specialized history knowledge.

“Who doesn’t know Jimi?” I’m in the zone. I feel the music.

I also feel pain in my old roller skating injury. “Help me up. My knees are locked.”

I’m just getting into the rhythm of the thing when the song ends. The virtual rock star onscreen shoots me a disgusted look and the audience jeers.

“Gee Mom,” says Son One, ever the encourager. “You got booed by a fake crowd.”

Son Two, heaven’s answer to Eric Clapton, picks up the guitar. “Like this, Mom.”

By the time he’s through playing Freebird, we’ve all linked arms and are swaying back and forth. The dog is holding a lighter aloft and wiping a tear from one eye.

Oh sure, kids today have video games that have more moves than the real people we actually knew. But my generation had Jimi before he was an electronic rendition. We had the Beatles live. We had Elvis in his prime. You can’t duplicate that. Not with a plastic guitar and a six inch cartoon figure whose pixels won’t swivel.