What Child Is This?

Welcome to the Absolute Write October Blog Chain. This month's theme is Masquerade. And I can't help wondering. . .Who is this kid?


Talk about blended families. Our family tree has more ex’s than a Tic Tac Toe tournament. At 2:00 in the afternoon on holiday weekends all the children automatically rotate parents from force of habit. This weekend, I found myself seated at dinner next to an entertaining young man who was engaged in a fork joust in an effort to to keep his creamed corn from touching his potato salad.

“Well, hello.” I’m nothing if not a sparkling conversationalist.

The fork executed a remarkable thrust and parry to save yet another food item from corn domination. “Yo.”

Limited verbal motivation. Uncombed hair. Aversion to cohabitation of vegetables. I hate that nagging feeling that you’ve seen someone before and can’t remember where.

“And who do you belong to?” I really should write this stuff down.

“You. I’m your first-born male child. I inherit your kingdom, such as it is.”

“What’s your name?”

“You told me not to tell anybody that doesn’t say the code word.”

“What’s the code word?”

“Nice trick. You warned me you might try that.”

I liked him better when he was poking holes in the entrée.

I squinted critically and turned his face side to side with my palm. “You don’t look like me.”

“Yet one more thing to be thankful for.”

I paused to consider. Wit coupled with a side order of sarcasm. A single sterling family trait does not make him an heir to my fortune in frozen Girl Scout cookies and unrecycled grocery bags.

“So what’s your name?”

“Nice try, Mom.”

“If I’m your Mom, tell me something personal that only I would know.”

“You hide leftover Easter candy in your underwear drawer, you can’t reach the Tupperware bowls on the second shelf, and you cry during the end of Secondhand Lions whether you see the first half of the movie or not.”

A few lucky guesses does not equal a DNA match.

“And what happened on Friday,” I queried, conjuring up memories of Family Scrabble Night.

He swallowed the last bite of uncontaminated potato salad and guzzled a half gallon of iced tea without stopping for breath. “Friday was allowance day. You owe me five dollars.”

Anybody with that kind of money memory has my blood in his veins.

Now how can I get him to tell me the family password? Maybe I can buy a vowel.


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Auburn Assassin and direct link to her post

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Ralph Pines and direct link to his post

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Laffarsmith and direct link to her post

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CScottMorris

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Dolores Haze

Aheila

FreshHell

IrishAnnie

Lilain

Semmie

Bettedra

Jingle Bill$

Now that Thanksgiving is tucked conveniently away in freezerbound Tupperware and I’ve sewn the button back on my accidently expanding waistband, I can look forward to my favorite December pastime; counting down the days until Christmas. There is a complicated formula involving a calendar and a red marker that I could use, but I prefer the new math method. I count the number of sales flyers in the newspaper and divide by how many gifts I have left to buy.

Many of the area retailers have been infused with a generous helping of the Christmas spirit since the eve of the autumnal equinox, but I’m very firm about leaving the Christmas goodies on the shelves until the last of October’s candy corn is gone and the turkey leftovers have disappeared into the Dachshund. There’s something about toting red and green wrapped gifts home in a Frankenstein Trick or Treat bag that takes away the festive air of the whole project.

So I’ve been out this week, taking in the sights and sounds of Christmas. I noticed that “Debit or Credit” is the greeting of choice around town. Waffle House must be the only place left that still takes cash. They have to have something to give the folks behind the mask during the twelve days of armed robberies.

I got all my Christmas shopping done at a store that advertised cut-rate sale prices on all the merchandise. A perky sales clerk in a Santa hat rang up my purchase. When she hit the Total button, the machine started flashing like a jackpot winner on a slot machine. I guess a long list of cheap stuff still turns into a big bill. Especially when they add the state’s share at the end.

As I looked around the store, my eyes reflecting the soft glow of the cash register’s LEDs, I saw the walls were festooned with greetings for every holiday from Christmas to Kwanzaa. Now that we’re all celebrating different things this time of year, there’s only one greeting that still applies to everybody.

Peace on Earth.

Plus Tax.

Trash Talk

I lobbed a blackened cabbage toward the trash can and groaned as it bounced off the side and spun across the linoleum. It sounded like an eighteen wheeler losing a retread at ninety miles an hour.

“I need a vacation.”

“You need a free throw coach. That was a terrible shot.”

Bill Dear and I have discovered that teamwork activities are a cheap form of marriage counseling. Cleaning the refrigerator may not seem like an exercise in compromise, but we’ve found that many of life’s problems pale in comparison to a quicksand patch of Mrs. Butterworth’s that’s about to claim the life of a helpless pot roast.

We are presently in the kitchen seated side by side in wooden chairs, facing what he calls the Rottery: three shelves of timeworn tuna, meatloaf meltdown, and a swamp of sweet tea that could support a pontoon brigade.

The whole affair has the engaging scent of a garbage barge on an extended search for a home port.

I handed him a largish hunk of something that once resembled cheese. “Okay, Michael Jordan. Your shot.”

He banked the object off a handy Labrador napping nearby.

“Swoosh! That’s how you do it.”

“No fair. You had an assist.”

“And you had a vacation. Remember last month? You stayed home for a whole week.”

“Five days at home with two flu-ridden kids is not a vacation. It’s an internship.”

He attempted a three-point shot with a stray Brussels Sprout. The Lab intercepted the object with a snap on the downward arc, swallowed the thing in one gulp, and looked accusingly at his Pop. He hates Brussels Sprouts.

“Sorry, buddy.”

With a sigh, Bo settled his chin on the floor between his paws.

“That’s the trouble with dogs. They’ll forgive you for anything.”

“That’s why we take them on trips in the car instead of our wives. If you would act nice, I’d let you ride to the dump with your head out the window, too.”

I popped him with a wilted celery stalk.

He pulled a Tupperware bowl from the bottom shelf. The lid was puffed up like a chef’s hat, and a peculiar life form was clinging to the inside like a fruit bat.

“Have we ever had anything that color?”

“I don’t think they make food that color.”

“Well, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He lobbed the offending container toward the trashcan.

The bowl dropped to the bottom of the can like a laser-targeted depth charge. The lid spun for a minute before rocking back into place. We watched silently, ready to run if an explosion seemed imminent.

Bill Dear leaned back with the self-assured air of an NBA star at a post-game interview.

“But if it’s packed in Tupperware and the top is rising like a shot from center court, save yourself the painful learning experience and throw the whole thing away.”

We closed the refrigerator door and stood up.

“So now can I have a vacation?”

“Sure. Come with me.” He picked up the trash can and held it at arm’s length. I’ll take you to the dump.”

“Now that's foul.”

He loaded the car and I watched as he headed down the driveway with the big Lab perched happily in the passenger seat.

I dropped into the chair at my computer to Google exotic vacation destinations. The cat padded across the desk and nestled in my lap.

"Well, Kitty," I purred as I typed in a verification, “If life is a basketball game, I'm about to be charged with traveling."