I was wondering recently if my kids would be loyal to me if I really needed them to be, and I’m starting to think they wouldn’t. That’s just like kids, isn’t it? Unwilling to bend the rules for dear old dad.
“You don’t want dear old dad to go to jail, do you?”
They’re about to yell “No!” and then they think: “hmmm.”
Not that there’s anything I could possibly go to jail for. Heh heh. Except maybe that I dote on my kids too much. Always giving them chocolatey goodies whenever they want them (slight exaggeration). Constantly reaffirming that they are allowed all the ice cream they can eat until the end of time (which may not be so far into the future, by the way). But only as long as they are loyal.
Which is absolutely NOT a quid pro quo.
But here’s the thing: they totally can’t handle loyalty. They might take it from me, but they are not necessarily going to give it back.
In this respect, my children are like my cats.
I recently heard that, by and large, we humans are not consuming enough chocolate.
I’m pretty confident that I consume enough chocolate for several people, which can only mean that some people out there aren’t pulling their chocolate consumption weight. They claim to eat their fair share and sometimes even manage to, but then they slack off, and soon are failing to make chocolate an integral part of their diets. If there’s chocolate around maybe they’ll indulge, but they aren’t creative enough to think consciously about how to get their chocolate numbers up.
Guess what: that person used to be me. I know you think of me as a chocolate hero, always eating extra chocolate to account for the laggards who aren’t willing to put in the sweat-equity, always managing the house’s stores of chocolate and variety of selection, always ready with a friendly quip or adage about chocolate.
Close. I do go above and beyond, but the fact is I haven’t been ready with a quip about chocolate in quite some time. Will be talking to my life coach about this at our next session.
How long has it been since we last talked mustard?
Too long, that’s for sure. It’s like mustard isn’t even part of my life anymore, the way I never bring it up in any serious discussion on the future of human beings.
But trust me on this: it’s a huge part of my life. Rarely does a day go by when I don’t think about mustard. Or consider when I might next use mustard. Or have little droplets of mustard floating around deep down inside my subconscious mind, such that I don’t even realize I’m thinking about mustard until months pass and the media start to get all over me: Hasn’t Mentioned Mustard Yet This Year! and so forth.
Sorry, but I have mentioned it. Maybe the media just aren’t receptive to hearing it. I’ve said things like, “How come we have so damned much mustard, honey?” And the response, invariably, has been “Costco.”
My parents used to have too much mustard in their house as well, but that’s because they entertained. Needless to say, if they were entertaining, they were serving mustard. Roasted mustard, creamed mustard, baked mustard. Not to mention that some people requested it as a condiment (!).
Bear in mind that I’ve actually been consuming my fair share of mustard during this so-called “period of silence.” What, I’m going to go to a Red Sox game and not eat the free mustard they have? It’s just sitting out there in gallon-sized tubs with attachments that squirt out as much of the golden goo as you’d like! How foolish it would be not to take advantage of that.
Heading to the ballpark tonight with mustard on my mind.
When an unknown voice at the other end of the line asks for your credit card number for some sort of purchase you’re about to make, do you ramble it off in one long stream-of-consciousness flow of numbers, or do you pause between each four-digit array?
Or are you one of those people who needs to get feedback from the disembodied voice, a grunt or “OK” after each set of four numbers is conveyed to indicate that s/he has recorded the digits without which you’d be unable to buy that set of awesome pocket squares you were dying for? “And the expiration?”
“And those three numbers on the back of the card?”
I find that most people taking my order expect my verbal commas and like to chirp “uh-huh” after 4th and 8th digits are read, and add “OK” after the 12th digit. I hope the nation’s psychologists are investigating why this pattern exists.
Also, did I tell you I’m moving?