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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

Add Children. Blend Carefully Into Family.

Talk about blended families. Our family tree has more exes 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 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.



Son One? Who Knows?

 



Point and Shoot

I was born in February and I’m a little concerned that the symbol for my birthday month is a fat, naked stalker baby with underdeveloped wings and a bow and arrow. I don’t know about you, but I go some places a baby should be afraid to follow, even armed with projectiles.

Somehow the thought of an undiapered toddler, especially one packing a weapon designed to shoot warm fuzzies, accompanying me to the mall clearance sales and auto-flushers seems horribly inappropriate. I still bear a French manicure-shaped scar from reaching for a cunning pair of Capri pants on the red dot clearance rack. If that naked baby grabs the last pair of Prada pumps on the sale table, he’s likely to lose something more important than a finger.

I can see why he’s armed. Anybody named Cupid who goes parading around in his birthday suit is likely to suffer grievous knuckle prints from guys named Pork Chop or Tiny here in the red mud section of South Carolina. And if he ventures out to watch the Nascar drivers go fast and turn left, he just may get tire marks someplace where parking is prohibited.

So just to be sure we’re on the same track, I checked with Cupid to see how he felt about his job.

Me: So, Cupid, how does it feel to go to work naked every day?

Cupid, the God of Love: Well, I save a lot on dry cleaning and there’s no dress code, so it’s kind of empowering. I use an awful lot of Chap-Stick, though. I’m trying for a corporate sponsorship. My endorsement deals keep me living in the life style of my dreams.

Me: You dream of flying naked for the rest of eternity?

Cupid: Don’t knock it. Even in the weather that frosts my feathers, it beats a business suit and 80-hour work weeks. And I don't have any place to carry a cell phone, so the boss can't ever call me on my lunch hour.

Me: But do you think it’s safe for a baby to fly around by himself?

Cupid: It’s not like I’m unarmed. (He tested the point on a heart-tipped arrow.) Hey, I’m the one that made Kanye apologize to Taylor Swift. It didn’t matter where I hit him. I just grazed him to let all the hot air out.

Me: If you’re such a sure shot, why are there so many divorces? You know, I’ve been married before and I’d rather shave my legs with a potato peeler than go through that again.

Cupid: Hey, everybody makes mistakes. Actually I was aiming for someone else, but, when you bent over it was like a heat seeking missile and a barn fire.

Me: So you’re saying the whole fiasco was my fault?

Cupid: Well every action has an opposite and equal unexpected consequence. That’s math you know. Or science. Whatever. I was a Liberal Arts major.

Me: I can identify with that. I graduated with honors, but they don’t take GPA in the Express Lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

Cupid: Well, don’t be eyeing my job. I had to knock off a guy with winged feet to get this gig.

Me: So once Valentine’s Day is past, it’s the off season for you. What keeps you busy the rest of the year?

Cupid: Oh, there’s lots to do. I like to spend part of the summer posing as a sculpture in a wishing well fountain. All that loose change comes in handy for the bathroom vending machines.

Me: Is that all you do? Make people think their wishes will come true, then steal their money?

Cupid: Of course not. Somebody’s got to keep up with the Kardashian sisters. Those gals make Snooki look like Hannah Montana. I think I’m gonna need a bigger box of arrows.

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.


Follow the blog chain. There is no weakest link!

Auburn Assassin and direct link to her post

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Aimee Laine and direct link to her post

Ralph Pines and direct link to his post

Veinglory and direct link to her post

Laffarsmith and direct link to her post

PASeaholtz and direct link to his post

Madelein Eirwen and direct link to her post

Amy Doodle <== YOU ARE HERE

CScottMorris

Orion_mk3

Dolores Haze

Aheila

FreshHell

IrishAnnie

Lilain

Semmie

Bettedra

Movin' On. . .In?

“Buying a house is like choosing which dog in the pack you want to bite you. You can pick the big one that takes one big hunk of meat at wallet level or select the little one that grabs hold of anything that dangles and hangs on til a better tidbit comes along. Either way, you’re broke.”

“So you’re not in favor of the idea.”

“Well, we’re dangerously close to having extra money this month. I was afraid we might be forced to do something rash, like buy gas or have meat with dinner this week.”

I’m trying to persuade the Captain to buy a house. A cozy little home of our own where we can raise kittens and cucumbers and drill holes in the wall any time we like. Actually it’s not buying a house that he’s against. It’s the description of the particular house I’ve discovered on my latest foray. And I probably should have saved that kitten idea for a surprise later on.

“Handyman’s Dream” it said in the guide book. When I called, the realtor sounded giddy. Then again, perhaps she was just really lonely, because she offered to put off dialysis just to meet me. She even gave me a charming aerial photo of the the house to show off when I got back home.

“I’d rather cover my seats with Viennese lace.” The Captain didn’t really say that, but his actual comment, although rich in imagery, had the same odds.

“Think of the money we’ll save,” I said, ducking down and to the left as I turned on the faucet. An icy blast of water shot out of the sprayer attachment and nailed Precious, the cat, with pinpoint accuracy. I saw Precious make a mental note to poop in my Reeboks later in the evening. He’s held a grudge ever since the surgery, anyway.

“You mean in plumber’s bills?” he asked, wiping up water with the picture of my dream hovel.

“In rent.” We could be making payments on a house we owned so we could retire.” I reached under the sink and turned on the hot water. A gush of steam erupted from the faucet like Old Faithful. Bill pushed the landlord’s speed dial button on his cell phone.

“We’ll need to save money so we can pay for our own repairs.”

“We’ll do everything ourselves.”

“You mean like when you hung that doily over the hole in the living room wall?”

“That was short term. You’re a great repairman.”

“I fix computers. There’s a big difference between replacing a sound card and snaking a toilet. Computer maintenance doesn’t require the use of a wrench big enough to wrap your upper plate around your tonsils.”

“No, but you have to deal with people who think a user’s manual is a book that teaches you how to take drugs. With this project, you’d be totally in charge. It would be exhilarating.”

“It would be exhausting.”

“I’ll help you.” I grinned invitingly.

“There’s no need to threaten me.”

“You can go to the hardware store any time you like.”

If there’s one thing men crave more than quiet at fourth down and goal to go, it’s sifting through tenpenny nails without a reason. That and strolling through automotive departments to sniff the tires, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

For now I still have some convincing to do. I realize there are more obstacles on the way to buying a house than there are splinters on the stairway to Paradise. But I think I’ll win.

I showed Precious where to find the Captain's shoes.

Headliner

Just now I’m cruising toward the intersection of Heavy Sigh and Bless His Heart.

The daily newspaper for the metropolitan area where I live with hundred of other people ran a headline recently that shouted, “Shotgun Blast Kills Woman.”

While I shook my head at the level of violent crime in our world today, my teenaged son peered over my shoulder.

“Why did that make the news?”

What did I raise? A wild animal in the Jungle of Man? A zombie with no heart, not even somebody else’s?

I never miss the opportunity to dish up a life lesson like it was biscuit gravy. “A woman was killed. Thankfully that doesn’t happen much around here, so it made the front page.

“That’s not what is says. They’re all worked up over the blast. Are they surprised that a shotgun actually shot somebody?”

“That’s just the way they wrote the headline.”

“They should be careful what they say. It would be news if the shotgun pulled a knife, or if it popped somebody over the head for a bad joke. But a shotgun blasting somebody is like saying a woman went shopping at the mall.”

“It’s not exactly the same thing.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you cause more damage at the mall.”

I needed to continue this discussion, but just then I spotted a coupon for a favorite department store.

“Well you should feel sorry for her family.” I reached for my scissors.

“I feel sorry for the writer who doesn’t know about the shotgun thing. He’s gonna feel mighty stupid when he finds out we knew about that cause and effect theory all along.”

I begin to clip. Twenty per cent off, even for sale items.

“Well what sort of headline would you come up with?”

“Well I would sure point out that there was somebody who pulled the trigger.” He watched me as I started to tuck the coupon into my wallet.

“See, Mom, it’s just like you and the mall. Coupons don’t save money.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“People do.”

I checked the fine print on the small slip of paper. Not good on clothing, glassware, food items, or school supplies. The thing was no more effective than an empty gun.

Somewhere the head of the NRA is weeping over the spokesman they’ll never have.

Big Business--A Retrospective

My son, Donald Trump, is to big business what Bill Gates is to electronic solitaire. He exploits the common good to create a formerly free product that people stand in line to pay money for. If Omarosa had taken lessons from this kid, she would have a corner office at Trump Tower and the Main with the Ugly Hair would be matching up accessories for her.

My son “The Don” maintains a network of dedicated employees that work hard to support his extravagant lifestyle. The fact that he’s in the seventh grade is a bonus. Money made under the school desk is not easily tracked by results-oriented Internal Revenue officers. I’m nourishing hopes that he’ll support me during retirement in case of undesirable Social Security trends.

One morning as The Don was leaving the car for Algebra class, enough change fell out of his pockets to finance gumballs for a middle school chewathon.

“It’s okay,” he shrugged, nonchalantly sweeping the pile into a mini dustpan and dumping the lot into his jacket pocket where it ripped through the lining and crashed to the sidewalk, chipping out a divot in the concrete the size of a gold bar. “I’m rolling in it.”

“That’s preferable to stepping in it,” as my Old Man, an old hand at Black Jack used to say.

Normally this sort of statement from a twelve-year-old is alarming to a parent. But, having lived with this particular twelve-year-old for about forty years, I was as cool as Frosty’s button nose—on the outside. The turmoil inside could have caused his corncob pipe to spontaneously combust. I couldn’t help but remember The Kid’s past forays into Big Business.

Taking a lesson from his older brother, who cleaned out the pockets and lunchboxes of all the kids at Daycare playing draw poker until I discovered the trend and made him repay the winnings—nickels, drink boxes, and all, he stuck to value-added enterprises that ensured customer satisfaction. During the last fad faze, The Kid bartered his lunch for highly collectable trading cards and took advantage of an established market of eager ten year olds who readily traded their allowance—and their lunch—for hard-to-come-by cards. He scored his first card for a Twinkie, invested in a carton of Ho-Ho’s, and by the time The Kid graduates from high school, he will either be a multi-millionaire or a convicted felon. Either way, I’m not liable for college tuition.

I’m not saying this kid is different, but last year he listed an underground laboratory, strength of a gorilla, and stock options as the main items on his Christmas wish list. In a fit of sudden inspiration, he invested his birthday money in a metal detector and now he collects treasures on the playground the way other kids collect bubble gum wrappers in their jacket pockets. He’s gathered enough jewelry at recess to open his own pawn shop.

Other kids have dressers to hold their clothes. This one uses his bureau like a cash register: tens and twenties in one side; fives, ones, and loose change in the other. I borrowed spare change for coffee from him until I realized he was charging ten and a half percent interest. I stopped giving him ice cream money when he offered to change a fifty.

His latest venture is pure genius. In an age where instant gratification is as close as your Blackberry, today’s tykes spend their pocket money on cheat guides for video games that are obsolete before the clerk hands them their receipt. My young entrepreneur launched a line of energetic young players with well-conditioned thumbs, who beat the games for their less talented or motivationally challenged friends. For a price, of course.

When I discovered this enterprise, I didn’t know whether to pat him on the back, send him to his room, or sign him up for political office. “Kids PAY you to play their video games?” My mind couldn’t grasp the concept.

“Technically, that’s not the exact truth,” he explained, as serious as Dan Rather under intense questioning. This kid knows more about technicalities that Johnnie Cochran knows about loopholes. “I created the concept, so I don’t actually do the physical labor. I assign a customer service representative to handle the problem, and he pays me out of the money he earns.”

“You’re getting paid for playing games you’re not even playing?”

“Ummmm. Yes.”

“Any chance I could get in on the action?”

“Mom, this may be a family business, but I’ve got to be realistic. You’re lousy at video games. You always die. But you can give me a ride to Jake’s house. I have to make a pick-up.”

“Okay,” I said, grabbing my keys. “But it’ll cost you.”

What can I say? A girl’s got to get ahead the best way she can. And unless The Don cleans his room pretty soon, he’s looking at a hostile takeover.

What's Cooking?

I’ve had it the same way every Tuesday night since I got married.”

“Sunday for me. And it’s always the same. Rub it with butter, turn on the heat, and wait til it’s done.”

“If they can show me one new thing to do with a chicken, it’ll be worth the money.” I sighed, peering again into the refrigerator. I’m hanging on the door hoping the Food Fairy has arrived with a creative new dish for supper. My two sisters are there to fight over the wishbone.

“That’s it. Let’s go to the cooking show. What could it hurt? Besides, we don’t have time to cook before it starts, so we’ll have to eat out.”

An hour later, Laudy, Quirky, and I, blotting bleu cheese and bacon bits from our blouses, surrendered three bucks each and filed into our seats. The woman in charge of the cooking show resembled a test pilot instead of a test cook. With that microphone headset she wore I expected to hear “Cheese manned and ready, sir!” any minute. I couldn’t imagine measuring flour in front of 500 women. At home, I can’t tolerate even one living person near me as I jerk open drawers and slam doors looking for the quarter cup. I was there as much to see the kind of person who possessed such bravado as I was to get free food samples. Okay, truthfully I was there for the free food, but there were other important things as well, like discovering new ways to put the “hot” into hot wings and entering the raffle for the free mixer.

The stage was set up with a small kitchen that looked like it was delivered on the back of a pickup truck from Toys R Us. A woman browned chicken with more enthusiasm than most people generally reserve for sex. Another one created a sugar free peach dessert that made an audience full of mid-life belly-roll ladies yearn to rush the stage like it was a Tom Jones concert. Still another showed us more creative things to do with cream soup than I could do with a tub of gelatin and a turkey baster. A woman next to me, who wore diamonds like the rest of us wear polka dots, tucked coupons she found on the floor into her goody bag. Laudy scribbled her phone number on the back of an old recipe for round steak she found in her pocketbook and attempted to sling it on stage.

At the end of the show, we twittered like sparrows in springtime as the hostesses awarded door prizes. A woman in front of me won a kitchen gadget that I had lived 40 years without knowledge of and would probably live my next 40 without need for. Envy covered me like ivy on an outhouse. A middle aged woman, whose striped blouse was tucked into blue polyester pants just under her armpits, won two wooden spoons. It looked like all the good stuff was going first.

Finally, slow as the last hour of work before a three-day weekend, the last name came out of the basket. I was still checking my ticket when Quirky, wearing a smug expression like it matched her pumps and purse, pushed past me on the way to claim her prize. She won an autographed cookbook full of recipes for ground beef. The unfairness of the universe consumed me.

“I thought we were here for the chicken,” I hissed as the traitor squeezed past.

“Oh, rub it with butter,” she smirked. “Hamburger. Now that’s where the action is.”

X-treme Reindeer Games--A Holiday Rant

Okay, let’s get real. Who among us believes that any animal with a name like Dasher or Dancer is going to make the cut for a team of high-performance reindeer that has to fly around the world in one night? Those guys might make the top three on Dancing with the Stars, but they aren’t the go-to alpha males for endurance muscle. I’ve checked all over Amazon.com to find the real story of Santa’s team, but the closest I found was Reindeer Games for Dummies featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle. In all honesty, Rocky would be a little more in character than a flying reindeer named Prancer. In the South, that’s the sort of name that gets you beat up every day at recess. By first graders. Who take your lunch money. And give you wedgies.
I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back. When three wolverines and a hyena try to hijack Santa somewhere over the Great Plains, I want a reindeer that is not afraid to put his hoof down. So what if he needs a little hoof enhancement to get the job done? I haven’t resisted forwarding sappy e-mails and shoving my mouse through the blue screen of death on my computer all year just to see all my goodies go down some prairie dog’s hole. There’s a pound of chocolate covered cherries out there with my name on it, and I don’t want some sissy reindeer that doesn’t know his antler from his elbow trotting up to me with an empty box and a silly smile.
Let’s get some of these reindeer who are “big for their age” off of the sidelines and into the game. Rumors of spiced hay buffets ruined the careers of too many talented coursers. It doesn’t matter to me why Bruiser’s antlers can pick up television signals from three time zones away or that Buster has the biggest jingle bells in international sleigh team competition. I don’t even care that Barney has a rump roast you could play the Pro Bowl on. As long as there’s an A-Team that can get the old guy in red to my house, I don’t care if they’re swapping sips of carrot juice from a hip flask, although that does explain why Rudolph's nose lights up.
You might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When S. Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program. But at least Santa's annual ride will be protected by bodyguards with enough muscle to thwart sleighjacking attempts by children who are hopped up on dancing sugarplums. Just remember that when these guys say "Dash away all," they mean "in a twinkling" and not a moment later. And don't go laying a finger aside of your nose. Vinnie the Reindeer might get the wrong idea.