Read Online Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! by Erma Bombeck - Free Book Online
Authors: Erma Bombeck
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steroids.”
“Or maybe he posed nude for National Geographic when he was younger and needed money,” I said.
“On the other hand,” said his father, “he could walk off with Miss Congeniality and a doughnut endorsement.”
Our son looked at us. “Are you two putting me on? Because there is a prize of $1,000.”
“That's different,” said my husband. “If you won, you could fog this whole place and claim your own bed again.”
We talked about it on the way home. Actually, the cockroach and our son had a lot in common. They both came out at night, ate cold fast food, and knew how to empty a room.
Still, their relationship seemed unnatural.
In retrospect, I've learned a lot about kids on their own since the first ,one peeled off. You never drop in on them unless you have a nitroglycerin tablet ready to slip under your tongue. It is possible to maintain a rapport with them and still know where the dog eats and what a quart of milk is doing on the back of the commode. Just give them four to six weeks' notice before visiting.
You never ask to see the $88 wool afghan you brought them from Ireland unless you're prepared to see it after they washed it in hot water, tossed it in the dryer, and are now using it for a coaster.
Resist the temptation to bring their apartment up to health standards. It will only cause you pain when you return in a few months and find everything as it was before you cleaned it.
I know a lot of parents who get very discouraged. There is one thought that keeps me going. One of these days they will have children of their own.
Come to think of it, it's the only thing.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU LEFT HOME”
Friday: 8:30 p.m.
It was my fourth trip to the garage since one son had transferred the snake from the utility room to the hood of my car. This time I had three phone books to add to the top of the cage.
“Whatya doin', Mom?” asked his owner. “You giving these phone books the pitch?”
They're for the snake," I said.
“Trust me when I tell you he doesn't know a soul in town to call.”
“That's not funny. I'm making sure he doesn't escape.”
“Jeez,” he gasped, “you already have a bag of cement, two 50-pound weights from the weight bench, and a car battery on top of the cage. If it ever caves in, you'll kill him, and every time you try on a pair of pumps in I. Magnin, you'll wonder if it was ”your son's friend.' "
“I don't know why you are doing this to me,” I whined, “you know how terrified I am of snakes. Remember that time we stopped by the road in Michigan on vacation? I was a nervous wreck.”
He sat on the garbage can with his feet drawn up under his chin. “We sure had some 'interesting' times on vacations, didn't we? That summer in Maine ... and that dude ranch in Indiana. It was always good for you and Dad to get away, I guess, but it was sure tough on us kids. We had to sit there in the back seat like statues afraid to breathe. We couldn't talk. We couldn't move. Just ride. The three of us cramped together like sardines used to envy you and Dad laughing and talking with nothing to do but ride and read the road map. Remember?”
Remember? I was not likely to forget the hitchhiker who, after 20 miles, wrote us a check to let him out of the car. God, how I envied him. Those trips were like death marches.
A lot of families play games in the car to pass the time, like “Count the Cows” or “Out-of-State License Bingo.” Our children played a game called, “Get Mama.” It was a 400-mile nonstop argument that began in the driveway and didn't end until I threatened to self-destruct. Through scenic highways, majestic mountains, and amber waves of grain, they argued.
They argued for 75 miles on whether or not you could run a car 100 miles in reverse without stalling. They debated how workers in the U.S. Treasury Department could defraud the detectors by putting $100 bills in their mouths and not smiling until they got past security.
“Or maybe he posed nude for National Geographic when he was younger and needed money,” I said.
“On the other hand,” said his father, “he could walk off with Miss Congeniality and a doughnut endorsement.”
Our son looked at us. “Are you two putting me on? Because there is a prize of $1,000.”
“That's different,” said my husband. “If you won, you could fog this whole place and claim your own bed again.”
We talked about it on the way home. Actually, the cockroach and our son had a lot in common. They both came out at night, ate cold fast food, and knew how to empty a room.
Still, their relationship seemed unnatural.
In retrospect, I've learned a lot about kids on their own since the first ,one peeled off. You never drop in on them unless you have a nitroglycerin tablet ready to slip under your tongue. It is possible to maintain a rapport with them and still know where the dog eats and what a quart of milk is doing on the back of the commode. Just give them four to six weeks' notice before visiting.
You never ask to see the $88 wool afghan you brought them from Ireland unless you're prepared to see it after they washed it in hot water, tossed it in the dryer, and are now using it for a coaster.
Resist the temptation to bring their apartment up to health standards. It will only cause you pain when you return in a few months and find everything as it was before you cleaned it.
I know a lot of parents who get very discouraged. There is one thought that keeps me going. One of these days they will have children of their own.
Come to think of it, it's the only thing.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU LEFT HOME”
Friday: 8:30 p.m.
It was my fourth trip to the garage since one son had transferred the snake from the utility room to the hood of my car. This time I had three phone books to add to the top of the cage.
“Whatya doin', Mom?” asked his owner. “You giving these phone books the pitch?”
They're for the snake," I said.
“Trust me when I tell you he doesn't know a soul in town to call.”
“That's not funny. I'm making sure he doesn't escape.”
“Jeez,” he gasped, “you already have a bag of cement, two 50-pound weights from the weight bench, and a car battery on top of the cage. If it ever caves in, you'll kill him, and every time you try on a pair of pumps in I. Magnin, you'll wonder if it was ”your son's friend.' "
“I don't know why you are doing this to me,” I whined, “you know how terrified I am of snakes. Remember that time we stopped by the road in Michigan on vacation? I was a nervous wreck.”
He sat on the garbage can with his feet drawn up under his chin. “We sure had some 'interesting' times on vacations, didn't we? That summer in Maine ... and that dude ranch in Indiana. It was always good for you and Dad to get away, I guess, but it was sure tough on us kids. We had to sit there in the back seat like statues afraid to breathe. We couldn't talk. We couldn't move. Just ride. The three of us cramped together like sardines used to envy you and Dad laughing and talking with nothing to do but ride and read the road map. Remember?”
Remember? I was not likely to forget the hitchhiker who, after 20 miles, wrote us a check to let him out of the car. God, how I envied him. Those trips were like death marches.
A lot of families play games in the car to pass the time, like “Count the Cows” or “Out-of-State License Bingo.” Our children played a game called, “Get Mama.” It was a 400-mile nonstop argument that began in the driveway and didn't end until I threatened to self-destruct. Through scenic highways, majestic mountains, and amber waves of grain, they argued.
They argued for 75 miles on whether or not you could run a car 100 miles in reverse without stalling. They debated how workers in the U.S. Treasury Department could defraud the detectors by putting $100 bills in their mouths and not smiling until they got past security.
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