Camp Mama was pretty lame last week, as I sent Jude to soccer camp. For five afternoons, I entrusted my child to a group of hot, young Brits, apparently imported across the pond for the summer to foster the love of “football” in young Yanks. I was briefly worried that the coach’s accents would confuse him. I remember when I was a little girl that I had a friend named Ruth who had just moved to Texas from England, and I didn’t understand a single word she or her mum said. “Blah, blah, chips and biscuits, blah, blah, aloomineeum foil, blah, blah, the boot of the car, blah, blah, the telly, blah, blah, blah. But of course in today’s global society with Thomas the Tank Engine, Harry Potter and The Beatles, this problem was obsolete.
So, since the Brits freed me up a bit this week by occupying my child with international brotherhood and games, I decided to offer up some Random Tuesday Thoughts.
Jude has invented two new games this week. You can judge me/my parenting as you wish:
1. Smell My Breath – This game has taken the place of my alarm clock every morning, and is every bit as effective and startling a method of waking me up. Player One is a six year old boy who appears in his parents’ bedroom in the early morning. He positions himself directly in front of the face of his sleeping mother, opens his mouth and exhales a big blast of little boy morning breath directly into his mother’s nose. When Player Two (aforementioned mother) wakes up gasping, Player One shouts “SMELL MY BREATH!” and runs away laughing hysterically. Much fun is had by all.
2. Come and Get Me Fatso! – This one is entirely my husband’s fault, and luckily, he is the one who suffers the consequences. The origins of this game are a bit murky, but apparently are based in a story Jimmy heard years ago about Marlon Brando. The story goes that one night when Brando’s son, Christian, came home drunk, they got into a fight and Christian yelled “Come and get me, Fatso!” to his father. Brando then chased his son around for an hour trying to catch him. The game is played thusly – Player One (six year old boy) sneaks up on his unsuspecting (though deserving) father (Player Two), smacks him on the belly (I’d say beer-belly, but that would be unkind), shouts “Come and get me, Fatso!” and runs away laughing. Player Two is then expected to chase Player One around, pretending he is an overweight middle-aged actor in a caftan. Jude is teaching this one to his friends, who gang up on Jimmy, thumping his belly and screaming “Come and get me, Fatso!” It’s like something out of Lord of the Flies, if it was directed by Fellini.
I am always obsessed with some mindless game or another, but lately, I’ve been drawn in by the MOST USELESS, BRAIN SUCKING game I’ve found yet. Farm Town . I play it on Facebook, and I CAN’T SEEM TO STOP.
You’re given a tiny virtual farm, on which you can cultivate, and harvest tiny virtual crops. You then sell your tiny virtual crops at the tiny virtual marketplace for tiny virtual money. As you gain experience, you are given the opportunity to grow more profitable crops. If you save up enough virtual money, you can buy yourself a tiny virtual farmhouse or a tiny virtual barn. You even get tiny virtual animals who roam around mooing and baaing and cock-a-doodle-dooing. And you can invite other game player’s tiny virtual people to come visit your farm for a hoedown and to harvest your crops for you. And in a WEIRD synchronistic coincidence, one of my tiny virtual friends is the VERY SAME RUTH who I couldn’t understand when we were 4, who has now moved to Australia and calls herself Maggie! But I digress…I’ve tried to stop, but if you stay away too long, all your crops die! And that’s just…sad. Jimmy came into the office the other night, heard the sound of neighing and clucking emanating from the computer and asked me what the hell I was doing. “Farming,” I answered. “What do you mean, farming? Do you get food from it?” “No.” “Do you make money doing it?” “Well…I get Farm Bucks.” “What the hell can you do with Farm Bucks?” Hmmm…embarrassed…guilty…”I buy fencing. And trees. I just bought a silo.” Beat. “Why?” I DON’T KNOW!
Can you believe this business with the Governor or South Carolina? What the hell? Could this man be stupider? Did you read their icky love emails? A man who McCain seriously considered for the VP spot actually said this - "I love your tan lines...I love the curves of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of night’s light" What kind of middle-age crisis causes a man’s brain to actually shrivel up and drop between his legs in this way?
I’m really, really, really good at Wheel of Fortune. It’s always been Jimmy and my backup plan for if we ever go completely broke. I’d be sure to win big. Once, I was watching and the category was “Before and After”. They lit up the blank letter squares – _ _ _ _ _ & _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _. _ _ _ _ _ . “Helen & Rutherford B. Hayes” I shouted out before anyone had guessed a single letter. I was right.
My only problem with actually going on the show is that someone told me this Vanna White story once, and I don’t know if I could keep a straight face with the woman. This guy I knew once worked as an assistant at the Playboy Mansion . He swore that once he was sent to clean up one of the bedrooms where Vanna and her boyfriend had been entertaining themselves, and he said the whole room was COVERED in Vaseline. That there were Vaseliney hand prints sliding down the leather headboard! _ N _ L S E _. May I please have an X, Vanna?
Okay, I’ll leave you with that thought. I’ve got to go harvest the back forty and plant my watermelon patch.