The Blame Game

                                                                         

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Host: Welcome to The Blame Game where children blame their parents for everything that's gone wrong in their lives and vice versa! Let's get started by introducing the Weasel family. Curt Weasel is a student at Cal State, and he's here with his parents. What are you studying, Curt?

Curt Weasel: Human behavior, social habits, movement and motion...

Host: So you're a psych major?

Mrs. Weasel: Not quite. He's been living on campus for two years trying to find himself. Though he's been accepted by the university, Curt hasn't officially accepted them. He's decided to live on campus for a probationary period until he's made his decision.

Host: So Curt has all of the benefits of college without actually being a student. Does he work to help cover his expenses?

Mr. Weasel: Does Curt work? No, finding himself is a full-time occupation. I, on the other hand work two jobs, and his mother runs a cathouse.

Host: Do you enjoy taking care of cats, Mrs. Weasel?

Mrs. Weasel: Well, the big tippers aren't so bad, but some of them are a literal pain in the butt.

Mr. Weasel: I thought you had that looked at?

Host: Considering the sacrifices your parents have made for you, what do you blame them for?

Curt: Just look at them. Mom's losing her teeth, and Dad wears socks with sandals. I can't be seen with them in public. They're an embarrassment.

Host: And Mr. and Mrs. Weasel, what do you blame Curt for?

Mrs. Weasel: He's such a sweet boy, but we do wish he'd call or write more often.

Host: Let's have the audience decide who is more to blame.

They tabulate the votes from the audience. Buzzers are beeping and lights are flashing. After a brief commercial break, the winner is announced.

Host: Well, the audience has made their decision. It was a very close race, but Curt is the winner! Let's find out what Curt has won.

The audience is simultaneously applauding, while cheering Curt's name.

Off-stage Announcer: Curt has won an all-expense-paid trip to a luxury resort in Maui where he'll have fun in the sun by day, and enjoy fine dining and entertainment by night.

Host: Curt, normally we provide a trip for two, but in this case you're entitled to bring two guests with you on this once in a lifetime adventure!

Mr. and Mrs. Weasel smile as they hold Curt close.

Curt: That's great! I could really use the time off. I think I'll bring these two hot girls I met backstage with me. Come on out ladies!

Two bimbos come out from behind the curtain. Curt places an arm around each girl, and exits the stage. Curt's parents and the host are left standing with their mouths wide open. 

Cue The Blame Game theme music. 

The Trouble With Lying About Your Age

                                                                             

I'm (on the right) with my adorable sorority sisters in 1981. l'll never tell which one was my partner in crime.

I've always done it. From an early age, my parents even encouraged it. One year, they had my older brother pretend to be nine when he was twelve in order to get into a drive-in movie for free. My dad quizzed him several times to make sure he could smoothly rattle off his fake date of birth, so that our parents would only be charged for two tickets instead of three. I could rest easy, as I was really nine, and in the clear. My brother worked well under pressure, and passed with flying colors during the practice drills. When my dad pulled up to the front of the line, the cashier asked him our ages. Before my brother could speak, my dad anxiously blurted out, "He's twelve and she's nine." They never asked my brother to lie again, but I was a different story.

As I grew, the lies grew with me. When I was fifteen, I passed for eighteen at my brother's college campus. The drinking laws were very lax in the 70's, so I just had to say the fake date and year I was born in before I transformed into an instant coed.

Things became more difficult during my college years. The drinking age changed from nineteen to twenty-one, and if you were caught with a fake ID, it was immediately confiscated. Fortunately, my tall, blond sorority sister came to the rescue with a copy of her driver's license.

It's true how everything comes around full circle. Now I fib about my age at the movies in order to get a senior discount. Some of my friends have caught me in the act, and hide while I purchase our tickets. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't the same age, and older.

As for my lovely, kind and considerate older sorority sister, today she has a bionic hip, and still looks great in a bikini. Though at fifty-four she is a year older, she could pass for ten years younger. You would think I'd learned my lesson, but once a liar always a liar.

At a recent college graduation party for a family friend,  I decided to join in conversation with a group of women whom I'd never met. Introductions were made, and the topic of age came up. One woman said she was forty-five, another fifty-four, and then it was my turn. As they waited for my response to this silly question, I thought it only appropriate to respond with a silly answer. I concentrated on keeping a straight face when I told them I was seventy-two. Without missing a beat, the younger woman replied in all seriousness, "Well, you must have stayed out of the sun then."

Middle-Aged Bragging Rights

                                                               
                                                 
 

                                                                                                             

Do you ever notice how some people can't go one minute without bragging? They start at a young age, and every conversation turns into a competition. They go to the best schools, graduate with the best jobs, marry the best spouses, and move into the best homes.

After their gorgeous and gifted children move away, they come to the realization that they have very little to talk about. They're at that awkward age where their bodies are creaking, and their weight is shifting in the wrong places. Trapped in middle-aged limbo: too young for retirement, yet too old to sit in a chair without dozing off. If only they had grandchildren to bounce on their knees before arthritis kicks in. Here they are, a group of friends gathered around the picnic table bundled up in blankets beside a roaring fire on a balmy summer evening playing the latest board game. 

It's Toots and Bladders, Battered Hip, and Crazy Mates all rolled into one: the game where it pays to decay. A player draws the first card which asks, "Have you ever had a cyst lanced from your perineum?"  Raymond answers "yes," collects $200, and advances his miniature oxygen tank down the board.  Pearl throws the dice, and lands on Constipation Blvd. Everyone presses the buzzers at once. To break the four-way tie Lexi shouts out, "How long has it been?"  Pearl answers "five days," Raymond three, Lexi two, and Leonard adds, "since lunchtime."

When Leonard proudly admits to having hair plugs he is forced to move his miniature enema kit into the Unnecessary Cosmetic Procedure Pavilion forfeiting his next turn. Now the competition has shifted from earlier conversations about material possessions to who has the largest surgical scars.  The couples are thrilled to have something to talk about, even if it means battling it out to see who has suffered the most. 

Lexi draws the final card which reads, "Congratulations on your fifth anniversary of being cancer-free..." Lexi can't believe that her husband and closest friends remembered it has been almost five years to the day since she underwent her last radiation treatment for breast cancer. She is so excited that they went to all the trouble of ordering a customized version of the game just for her. Then she reads the rest of the card, "...and your mother-in-law will be joining in the celebration tomorrow, when she moves in with you after her hip replacement surgery." With that everyone turns their winnings over to Lexi, right after prying her hands off of Leonard's hair plugs.

This is a repost from November 2011.                              

IWSG: Stamping Out Horrible Handwriting

It's time for the August edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit  Alex J. Cavanaugh, and the rest of the talented bloggers who will welcome you with open arms.

 I'll never forget the summer of '67 when our parents took us to Anaheim, CA to see the All Star Game. My dad and brother were huge baseball fans, and my mom and I were excited to be minutes away from Disneyland.  Many of the best players in baseball were staying at our hotel, so my brother had his autograph book with him at all times. 

Though I was only six, I still remember my mom calling my dad to come directly to the pool, as Sandy Koufax was seated only a few lounge chairs away from us. My brother got his autograph, along with Willie Mays, and several other Hall of Fame players. He guarded his autograph book with his life, and couldn't wait to show all of his friends when we came home. 

These memories came flooding back to me when my husband went with my brother, and our boys to a baseball game over the weekend. When they were younger, they also enjoyed waiting for their favorite Cubs to sign their baseballs. 

Though I never had any luck getting famous authors' autographs, I've dreamed of being asked to sign a copy of my own book. Unfortunately, that dream could turn into a nightmare, as I've always had horrible handwriting. It was especially illegible on hot school days. As a lefty, my teachers delighted in seeing my smudged papers. Most autographs are written with permanent marker, which means trouble for me even on a cool day. Though I haven't actually written my life story yet, and odds are no one will be lining up for my autograph, all it takes is for one displaced person to ask. 

This brings some important questions to mind. If this person is kind enough to pay for my book, is it right for me to deface it with my careless cacography? Would this crime go on my permanent record? I could pretend I'm a Notary Public, and carry my own personal stamp with me at all times. Better yet, I should just change my name to Anonymous.