"I bought you your birthday present, Dad"
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Earl sets aside his study guide, shuts off the associated cassette tape of Spaniards speaking Spanish, and removes the headphones of his Sony Walkman. He's been in the parenting game long enough to discern the opening line of a meaningful conversation.
"And I spent my ten dollars, too," six-year-old Daniel adds, before El Gordo (The Fat One) can reply.
Remembering his son's first, and only, ten-dollar bill, El Feo (The Ugly One) finds this news dismaying. "Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't have spent so much!"
"I got five one-dollars back."
"Ah, that's good—"
"And some coins."
"Well, then I—"
"And I bought something for myself, too."
# # #
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 9
Step to the bar, ladies
Let no cups runneth over
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The idiom "in her cups" has acquired special meaning for the always luscious Susan E. Beemer. The former indispensable but not worth an extra four bits an hour pharmacist's assistant for Arbor Drugs has secured a post befitting the elegance and femininity that radiate from her like Roentgens from plutonium.
"I've more or less evolved from a Marianne's girl into a Hudson's woman in the twenty years I've been married to my present husband," she explains, "so becoming a Hudson's employee seemed like the next logical step."
And the logic of assigning someone so chic to their tony lingerie department must fairly have smacked top Hudson's brass like a board in the face.
"I'm 'manning' the bra bar, as they call it, measuring bustlines and helping women tame unruly boobs with brassieres of exquisite fit," she says. "And I'm loving every minute of it and making a buck-and-a-quarter more an hour than I made at Arbor. Plus, I get a twenty-five percent discount on everything I buy!"
Standing suddenly, she hoists her mid-length rayon skirt, fawn with subtle checks of muted black, and exclaims, "I even get free panties, too—see?"
# # #
Let no cups runneth over
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The idiom "in her cups" has acquired special meaning for the always luscious Susan E. Beemer. The former indispensable but not worth an extra four bits an hour pharmacist's assistant for Arbor Drugs has secured a post befitting the elegance and femininity that radiate from her like Roentgens from plutonium.
"I've more or less evolved from a Marianne's girl into a Hudson's woman in the twenty years I've been married to my present husband," she explains, "so becoming a Hudson's employee seemed like the next logical step."
And the logic of assigning someone so chic to their tony lingerie department must fairly have smacked top Hudson's brass like a board in the face.
"I'm 'manning' the bra bar, as they call it, measuring bustlines and helping women tame unruly boobs with brassieres of exquisite fit," she says. "And I'm loving every minute of it and making a buck-and-a-quarter more an hour than I made at Arbor. Plus, I get a twenty-five percent discount on everything I buy!"
Standing suddenly, she hoists her mid-length rayon skirt, fawn with subtle checks of muted black, and exclaims, "I even get free panties, too—see?"
# # #
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 8
First million
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The Beemer children's millionth "shut up" occurred last week in a brief but spirited altercation among Thea, Kelly, and Remy concerning which of them will initiate all or most of the verbal combat predicted for Easter vacation by their anxious mother.
The honor of notching number 1,000,000 fell to the copper-haired Thea, 14, who recommended that Remy shut up after Remy had posed the identical suggestion in Thea's direction and sought parental authorization to "sock" the girl.
Asked how she felt about missing the one-million mark by a single shut-up, Remy, 15, answered, "I'm not surprised Thea got it. That little wench gets everything, including all the babysitting jobs."
"Oh, shut up, Remy—I do not!" Thea offered.
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The Beemer children's millionth "shut up" occurred last week in a brief but spirited altercation among Thea, Kelly, and Remy concerning which of them will initiate all or most of the verbal combat predicted for Easter vacation by their anxious mother.
The honor of notching number 1,000,000 fell to the copper-haired Thea, 14, who recommended that Remy shut up after Remy had posed the identical suggestion in Thea's direction and sought parental authorization to "sock" the girl.
Asked how she felt about missing the one-million mark by a single shut-up, Remy, 15, answered, "I'm not surprised Thea got it. That little wench gets everything, including all the babysitting jobs."
"Oh, shut up, Remy—I do not!" Thea offered.
# # #
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 7
Apocalypse now
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Stung like someone who's just had her knee whacked by the burly henchman of an unscrupulous female figure skater of trailer-park provenance, an anguished Susan Beemer could respond only by collapsing to the floor, clutching her head with both hands, and shrieking, "Whyyy? Whyyy? Whyyy me?" She'd all but forgotten Easter break, and the sudden realization that her children would be home from school and in her face for 11 straight days would have sent her through the roof had it not sent her to the refrigerator for a goblet of psyche-salving Chardonnay.
"If they think they're gonna hang around the [unprintable] living room all week and argue, they're out of their [unprintable] gourds," Susan exclaimed, crossing her shapely gams and smoothing her black pleated skirt for emphasis. "I'll [unprintable] 'em up but good, and I'm not kidding."
Pressed for a reaction, an indignant Thea Beemer insisted, "It isn't me—it's Kelly and Remy. They start everything, and so does Erin."
"That's a lie, Thea!" retorted Kelly heatedly. "You're the one who starts everything, so shut up!"
Leaping to her feet and striking a menacing stance, Remy Beemer interjected, "Why don't you just shut up, Thea. You're such a little wench. Dad, can I sock her?"
"Oh, shut up, Remy!" came Thea's prompt rejoinder.
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Stung like someone who's just had her knee whacked by the burly henchman of an unscrupulous female figure skater of trailer-park provenance, an anguished Susan Beemer could respond only by collapsing to the floor, clutching her head with both hands, and shrieking, "Whyyy? Whyyy? Whyyy me?" She'd all but forgotten Easter break, and the sudden realization that her children would be home from school and in her face for 11 straight days would have sent her through the roof had it not sent her to the refrigerator for a goblet of psyche-salving Chardonnay.
"If they think they're gonna hang around the [unprintable] living room all week and argue, they're out of their [unprintable] gourds," Susan exclaimed, crossing her shapely gams and smoothing her black pleated skirt for emphasis. "I'll [unprintable] 'em up but good, and I'm not kidding."
Pressed for a reaction, an indignant Thea Beemer insisted, "It isn't me—it's Kelly and Remy. They start everything, and so does Erin."
"That's a lie, Thea!" retorted Kelly heatedly. "You're the one who starts everything, so shut up!"
Leaping to her feet and striking a menacing stance, Remy Beemer interjected, "Why don't you just shut up, Thea. You're such a little wench. Dad, can I sock her?"
"Oh, shut up, Remy!" came Thea's prompt rejoinder.
# # #
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 6
Tent boy takes off
He'd had it up to here!
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Daniel Beemer packed his sack and headed for the door and when Remy caught up with him on that cold, moonless night he was almost to Gardenia Avenue.
Having misbehaved and been banished to his room while his parents were out looking at computers, he'd taken stock of his home life and decided enough was enough. So, into his Power Rangers backpack went two stuffed toys, a jacket, his jammies, and his blanket, and on went his parka, his mittens, and his rubber boots, and out the back door went Daniel Lee Beemer, 6 years old.
"I had to pick him up and carry him back home," noted Remy, 16, who'd been left in charge of her siblings. "And he was kicking and screaming like crazy."
"He said he hated everybody and everybody hated him and he was running away," added sister Kelly, 11, who witnessed the incident aghast with incredulity.
Naturally, the news of their son's narrowly averted departure sat poorly with Suffy and Shortboy, occasioning sanctions swift and severe.
"The tent came down and I mean pronto," said Shortboy, referring to the nylon pop-up camping shelter which Daniel had once again erected in the middle of his bedroom and in which he'd been spending every night for nearly a week. "And I pulled the plug on his Sega system, too, and gave him one heckuva scowl."
Susan nods affirmatively. "You were brutal."
"You gotta be tough or it ain't 'tough love,'" her husband soberly suggests.
# # #
He'd had it up to here!
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Daniel Beemer packed his sack and headed for the door and when Remy caught up with him on that cold, moonless night he was almost to Gardenia Avenue.
Having misbehaved and been banished to his room while his parents were out looking at computers, he'd taken stock of his home life and decided enough was enough. So, into his Power Rangers backpack went two stuffed toys, a jacket, his jammies, and his blanket, and on went his parka, his mittens, and his rubber boots, and out the back door went Daniel Lee Beemer, 6 years old.
"I had to pick him up and carry him back home," noted Remy, 16, who'd been left in charge of her siblings. "And he was kicking and screaming like crazy."
"He said he hated everybody and everybody hated him and he was running away," added sister Kelly, 11, who witnessed the incident aghast with incredulity.
Naturally, the news of their son's narrowly averted departure sat poorly with Suffy and Shortboy, occasioning sanctions swift and severe.
"The tent came down and I mean pronto," said Shortboy, referring to the nylon pop-up camping shelter which Daniel had once again erected in the middle of his bedroom and in which he'd been spending every night for nearly a week. "And I pulled the plug on his Sega system, too, and gave him one heckuva scowl."
Susan nods affirmatively. "You were brutal."
"You gotta be tough or it ain't 'tough love,'" her husband soberly suggests.
# # #
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 5
"We're having fun, aren't we, Dad!"
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
He is telling a fish story and it contains what he calls a golden moment—one of the transitory, transcendent experiences that can make the afflictions of parenthood seem worthwhile after all. They occur, these golden moments, about as routinely as the flash of ultimate insight known as Zen satori, and it is this spiritual brilliance that makes his eyes go wide and his face register the soul-plumbing awe of a pilgrim beholding the Holy Land.
"It was a couple of years ago," he begins, "maybe three, and Danny came upon some rods and reels in a Sears catalog, and he says, 'When me and you go fishing, Dad, we need to get poles like this.' And it was all his idea, see, because taking him fishing had never crossed my mind—but, of course, it became a solemn promise from that point forward."
The subject of promises apparently strikes a nerve, and "Shortboy" Beemer wrenches his corpulent corporeal self from the sofa and begins pacing the room like a hog on amphetamines.
"You think kids don't remember promises? I got news for you: kids never forget them. I trace my cynicism to that night when I was twelve and a friend of my parents named Larry McCann stopped at the doorway of my room on his way to the crapper and said, 'Have you seen Revell's model Corvette with an electric motor and upholstery for the seats? Hey, I'll get you one.' That's what he said. 'I'll get you one.' Well guess who's been waiting 34 years for his model Corvette, Jack. And Larry's been dead for 20 of 'em. Oh, the horror. The horror!"
Which brings us to the promise kept to take Daniel fishing.
"I hadn't wormed a hook since my teens," explains the Short One, "but it all came back pretty quickly. Fortunately, my former future son-in-law knew of a lake out in Oxford where the fish had been biting like crazy, so I took the lad there. Man, were the fish ever biting! Danny and I caught 17 in the space of two hours."
Okay, so the biggest of the bunch was perhaps three inches long, but size mattered not to Daniel.
"I'm threading up a worm, and my boy says to me, 'We're having fun, aren't we, Dad,' and I said, 'We sure are, buddy, we sure are.' And it struck me right then that I was standing in the middle of—"
A golden moment?
"Exactly."
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
He is telling a fish story and it contains what he calls a golden moment—one of the transitory, transcendent experiences that can make the afflictions of parenthood seem worthwhile after all. They occur, these golden moments, about as routinely as the flash of ultimate insight known as Zen satori, and it is this spiritual brilliance that makes his eyes go wide and his face register the soul-plumbing awe of a pilgrim beholding the Holy Land.
"It was a couple of years ago," he begins, "maybe three, and Danny came upon some rods and reels in a Sears catalog, and he says, 'When me and you go fishing, Dad, we need to get poles like this.' And it was all his idea, see, because taking him fishing had never crossed my mind—but, of course, it became a solemn promise from that point forward."
The subject of promises apparently strikes a nerve, and "Shortboy" Beemer wrenches his corpulent corporeal self from the sofa and begins pacing the room like a hog on amphetamines.
"You think kids don't remember promises? I got news for you: kids never forget them. I trace my cynicism to that night when I was twelve and a friend of my parents named Larry McCann stopped at the doorway of my room on his way to the crapper and said, 'Have you seen Revell's model Corvette with an electric motor and upholstery for the seats? Hey, I'll get you one.' That's what he said. 'I'll get you one.' Well guess who's been waiting 34 years for his model Corvette, Jack. And Larry's been dead for 20 of 'em. Oh, the horror. The horror!"
Which brings us to the promise kept to take Daniel fishing.
"I hadn't wormed a hook since my teens," explains the Short One, "but it all came back pretty quickly. Fortunately, my former future son-in-law knew of a lake out in Oxford where the fish had been biting like crazy, so I took the lad there. Man, were the fish ever biting! Danny and I caught 17 in the space of two hours."
Okay, so the biggest of the bunch was perhaps three inches long, but size mattered not to Daniel.
"I'm threading up a worm, and my boy says to me, 'We're having fun, aren't we, Dad,' and I said, 'We sure are, buddy, we sure are.' And it struck me right then that I was standing in the middle of—"
A golden moment?
"Exactly."
# # #
Monday, June 8, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 4
Got a staring problem?
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The ranks of the myopic have swollen by one at the little beige house on North Connecticut affectionately known as "904." Kelly Beemer has slipped-on the spectacles, making Remy and Daniel the last two Mohicans in the tribe of the normally sighted.
With both of their parents and now four of their siblings the slaves of supplementary refraction, what are the odds that Remy and Daniel will never take a number at the optician's?
Pretty dang good according to Gloria Beemer, their paternal grandmother and one-time darling of the radio airwaves. As geeked as ever to cop herself a mention in The Babbler, she speculates that Remy and Danny won't sport specs before middle age.
"It's in their DNA," she asserts. "They're both left-handed and I'm left-handed and I didn't need glasses until I hit the double nickel."
She grabs a section of Remy's cheek and pinches it with vigor. "We're just a couple of lefties, aren't we, Thea."
Batting her grandmother's hand away with a crisply applied karate chop, Remy rolls her eyes toward the ceiling and stomps out of the room while Kelly looks on, aghast.
"Wow! I saw all of that really clearly!" she exclaims. "That was cool!"
But, generally speaking, how cool does she find wearing glasses?
"Well, everybody thinks I look great in them—which I do, of course—so image isn't a problem. And I really love seeing all the details I used to miss, like Remy's eyeballs rolling up into her head. But there is one big drawback, and I'm not sure if I should mention it, 'cause it has to do with my dad—"
She pauses a moment as though expecting a proffer of cash for the intelligence.
"Well, I hope he doesn't get mad when he reads this, but Dad's always saying he's fat and ugly, and now I've either gotta keep my mouth shut or figure out something else to say besides, 'No you're not.'"
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The ranks of the myopic have swollen by one at the little beige house on North Connecticut affectionately known as "904." Kelly Beemer has slipped-on the spectacles, making Remy and Daniel the last two Mohicans in the tribe of the normally sighted.
With both of their parents and now four of their siblings the slaves of supplementary refraction, what are the odds that Remy and Daniel will never take a number at the optician's?
Pretty dang good according to Gloria Beemer, their paternal grandmother and one-time darling of the radio airwaves. As geeked as ever to cop herself a mention in The Babbler, she speculates that Remy and Danny won't sport specs before middle age.
"It's in their DNA," she asserts. "They're both left-handed and I'm left-handed and I didn't need glasses until I hit the double nickel."
She grabs a section of Remy's cheek and pinches it with vigor. "We're just a couple of lefties, aren't we, Thea."
Batting her grandmother's hand away with a crisply applied karate chop, Remy rolls her eyes toward the ceiling and stomps out of the room while Kelly looks on, aghast.
"Wow! I saw all of that really clearly!" she exclaims. "That was cool!"
But, generally speaking, how cool does she find wearing glasses?
"Well, everybody thinks I look great in them—which I do, of course—so image isn't a problem. And I really love seeing all the details I used to miss, like Remy's eyeballs rolling up into her head. But there is one big drawback, and I'm not sure if I should mention it, 'cause it has to do with my dad—"
She pauses a moment as though expecting a proffer of cash for the intelligence.
"Well, I hope he doesn't get mad when he reads this, but Dad's always saying he's fat and ugly, and now I've either gotta keep my mouth shut or figure out something else to say besides, 'No you're not.'"
# # #
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 3
Thea: Remy gets everything
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The flesh of her neck still bearing scarlet testimony to Erin's displeasure [see Babbler Excerpt No. 2], Thea Beemer directed a salvo of bitter resentment toward a new and perhaps more dangerous target. Contending that her sister Remy is really the one who gets everything, she cited 1995 all-district varsity softball honors, a recently acquired State of Michigan driver's license, and a steady supply of male admirers as support for this hypothesis.
When presented with her own long inventory of recent and forthcoming acquirements—to wit, her elevation (in only her sophomore year) to the role of starting forward for the Dondero varsity soccer team, her selection for Royal Oak's premier U-19 soccer squad (with a personal apology from the coach for passing her over last time), her attendance and spectacular performance at Oakland U's five-day soccer camp for advanced players (her fourth such program), and the new varsity jacket her dad's going to buy her this fall—she responded angrily, "We're not talking about Thea, we're talking about Remy!"
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
The flesh of her neck still bearing scarlet testimony to Erin's displeasure [see Babbler Excerpt No. 2], Thea Beemer directed a salvo of bitter resentment toward a new and perhaps more dangerous target. Contending that her sister Remy is really the one who gets everything, she cited 1995 all-district varsity softball honors, a recently acquired State of Michigan driver's license, and a steady supply of male admirers as support for this hypothesis.
When presented with her own long inventory of recent and forthcoming acquirements—to wit, her elevation (in only her sophomore year) to the role of starting forward for the Dondero varsity soccer team, her selection for Royal Oak's premier U-19 soccer squad (with a personal apology from the coach for passing her over last time), her attendance and spectacular performance at Oakland U's five-day soccer camp for advanced players (her fourth such program), and the new varsity jacket her dad's going to buy her this fall—she responded angrily, "We're not talking about Thea, we're talking about Remy!"
# # #
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 2
Who needs Ex-Lax®?
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Had it not been for the fact that she was already on the "john" when she opened the envelope from Oakland University, Erin Beemer, 18, undoubtedly would have "pooped" her pants.
"They'd sent me a bunch of stuff previously, so I just thought it was a reminder about orientation, or something just as mundane," remarks the eldest issue of the conjugal union of Susan and Earl Beemer. "But—like, omigod!—it was a two-thousand dollar scholarship I hadn't even applied for!"
"They must have discovered that Erin was one of the top ten students in her high-school graduating class," her mother offers from across the room, where she's buffing her exquisite fingernails while sucking cheap wine from a 12-ounce plastic tumbler. And although not asked for the information, she points out nevertheless that her wine comes in a box.
"Suf's right," Shortboy declares. "It's a feather in OU's cap to land a crack student like Car Driver Girl. They wouldn't want to lose her to the Specs Howard School of Broadcast Arts, for instance."
Thea Beemer, 15, strides brusquely into the room and flops onto the recliner, scowling. "Erin tinks she's SO bu-luh-ee great," she rails, superbly mimicking a working-class Dublin accent. "She awl-wise gets every-ting. Ih maykes me wan-uh pyook!"
Erin counters in a staccato Valley Girl delivery: "Oh—my—gawd!" she exclaims. "I do not either!"
Someone outside expresses disagreement through the open living-room window. "You do too get everything!" shouts sister Remy, 17, who until then had been discussing various aspects of Jeff Hagen's former girlfriend with Jeff Hagen on the front porch. "What about your job teaching ballet for fifteen bucks an hour?"
"I haven't even started that stinkin' job yet, you imbeciles!"
Springing from the couch, she leaps on Thea and begins strangling the astonished adolescent with fingers chewed to hideous bluntness by more than a decade of nail biting. Dropping the faux brogue, Thea implores her enraged sister to choke Remy or Kelly instead, but Erin isn't having any.
"Sure, I'm getting two grand from Oakland and fifteen bucks an hour from the Rochester School of Dance. But I do not get everything—and I can prove it!"
She lets Thea slip to the floor and produces yet another letter from the hip pocket of her mauve Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. "Aren't you all forgetting this?"
It's the notice from the Dayton-Hudson Corporation advising that she's no longer eligible for her mother's employee discount now that she's over eighteen.
"So there, buttheads! Read it and weep!"
Ex-Lax is a registered trademark of Novartis AG.
# # #
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Had it not been for the fact that she was already on the "john" when she opened the envelope from Oakland University, Erin Beemer, 18, undoubtedly would have "pooped" her pants.
"They'd sent me a bunch of stuff previously, so I just thought it was a reminder about orientation, or something just as mundane," remarks the eldest issue of the conjugal union of Susan and Earl Beemer. "But—like, omigod!—it was a two-thousand dollar scholarship I hadn't even applied for!"
"They must have discovered that Erin was one of the top ten students in her high-school graduating class," her mother offers from across the room, where she's buffing her exquisite fingernails while sucking cheap wine from a 12-ounce plastic tumbler. And although not asked for the information, she points out nevertheless that her wine comes in a box.
"Suf's right," Shortboy declares. "It's a feather in OU's cap to land a crack student like Car Driver Girl. They wouldn't want to lose her to the Specs Howard School of Broadcast Arts, for instance."
Thea Beemer, 15, strides brusquely into the room and flops onto the recliner, scowling. "Erin tinks she's SO bu-luh-ee great," she rails, superbly mimicking a working-class Dublin accent. "She awl-wise gets every-ting. Ih maykes me wan-uh pyook!"
Erin counters in a staccato Valley Girl delivery: "Oh—my—gawd!" she exclaims. "I do not either!"
Someone outside expresses disagreement through the open living-room window. "You do too get everything!" shouts sister Remy, 17, who until then had been discussing various aspects of Jeff Hagen's former girlfriend with Jeff Hagen on the front porch. "What about your job teaching ballet for fifteen bucks an hour?"
"I haven't even started that stinkin' job yet, you imbeciles!"
Springing from the couch, she leaps on Thea and begins strangling the astonished adolescent with fingers chewed to hideous bluntness by more than a decade of nail biting. Dropping the faux brogue, Thea implores her enraged sister to choke Remy or Kelly instead, but Erin isn't having any.
"Sure, I'm getting two grand from Oakland and fifteen bucks an hour from the Rochester School of Dance. But I do not get everything—and I can prove it!"
She lets Thea slip to the floor and produces yet another letter from the hip pocket of her mauve Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. "Aren't you all forgetting this?"
It's the notice from the Dayton-Hudson Corporation advising that she's no longer eligible for her mother's employee discount now that she's over eighteen.
"So there, buttheads! Read it and weep!"
Ex-Lax is a registered trademark of Novartis AG.
# # #
Monday, June 1, 2009
Babbler Excerpt No. 1
Oregon man sues own sister for $1.25 million
"She turned my babies into aliens!" he contends
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Diligently, vigilantly, Robert Burr had strived to protect his young daughters—Ema, 6, and Megan, 5—from the corruptions of modern life. He'd removed them to the verdant depths of the Oregon wilderness some 300 miles from the nearest urban cesspool. Had taught them the lore of compost heaps and horse poo. Had nourished them with hand-pumped water, home-baked pumpernickel, and fresh-picked produce from his wife's organic garden.
Then poor Robert Burr miscalculated big-time. He took the girls to visit "Aunt Susan" while he was attending a convention in Detroit.
"I hadn't seen my sister in 17 years, mind you," Rob groans, and there is that in his voice which pleads for absolution. "So just how in the [unprintable] was I supposed to know she would ruin my babies?"
Grabbing the closest object at hand—an antique cheese vat—he hurls it in evident frustration toward the bucolic tapestry adorning the distant wall of a room which, in another time and place, would have served rather nicely as a mead hall. The vat lands short of its mark and smashes to bits on the anvil Rob uses when forging up homemade shoes for the mares.
Rushing from the kiln room, caked to her elbows in wet terracotta, Jan Burr notes the wreckage and looks at her husband quizzically. "Who broke my colby chessel, Rob?" she casually inquires in the soft and musical voice so befitting the unalloyed sweetness that made Midwest in-laws adore her.
Rob blames the incident on Megan, waves Jan back to the pottery wheel (where she's cranking out a dinner-service for 12), and expands his diatribe.
"Can you even remotely comprehend the electrochemical mayhem a bowl of marshmallows can cause?" he demands, poking a slender finger into the breastbone of his visitor, as if to impale him with the question. "And it didn't end there, man. She fed my babies Froot Loops too—and gummy candies resembling teddy bears."
He drops like a shop rag to the hand-hewn oaken floor and, rending in twain his Guns N' Roses T-shirt, shrieks, "Oh, the horror! The horror!"
Meanwhile, in Michigan, Susan Elizabeth (Burr) Beemer, the nefarious sister in question, produces the lengthy legal document cataloging her brother's copious complaints and expectations for redress to the tune of $1.25 million.
"Rob must think I make quite a bit more than five-fifty an hour working the bra bar at Hudson's," she says with an air of amusement. "And I love the part where he claims the girls came down with attention deficit disorder from watching our Back to the Future video and playing Sega with their cousin Daniel. It was Aladdin, for godsake! Had I known Rob was going to sue me I'd have loaded up Mortal Kombat."
She lets the summons slip to the carpet and slumps in her corduroy armchair and shields her moistening eyes with her hand. "I did what I had to do," she sobs. "I mean, my nieces were serving us play food, and when Ema called the toy Twinkie 'butter,' I knew what I had to do. ..."
# # #
"She turned my babies into aliens!" he contends
Reprinted courtesy of The Beemer Babbler
Diligently, vigilantly, Robert Burr had strived to protect his young daughters—Ema, 6, and Megan, 5—from the corruptions of modern life. He'd removed them to the verdant depths of the Oregon wilderness some 300 miles from the nearest urban cesspool. Had taught them the lore of compost heaps and horse poo. Had nourished them with hand-pumped water, home-baked pumpernickel, and fresh-picked produce from his wife's organic garden.
Then poor Robert Burr miscalculated big-time. He took the girls to visit "Aunt Susan" while he was attending a convention in Detroit.
"I hadn't seen my sister in 17 years, mind you," Rob groans, and there is that in his voice which pleads for absolution. "So just how in the [unprintable] was I supposed to know she would ruin my babies?"
Grabbing the closest object at hand—an antique cheese vat—he hurls it in evident frustration toward the bucolic tapestry adorning the distant wall of a room which, in another time and place, would have served rather nicely as a mead hall. The vat lands short of its mark and smashes to bits on the anvil Rob uses when forging up homemade shoes for the mares.
Rushing from the kiln room, caked to her elbows in wet terracotta, Jan Burr notes the wreckage and looks at her husband quizzically. "Who broke my colby chessel, Rob?" she casually inquires in the soft and musical voice so befitting the unalloyed sweetness that made Midwest in-laws adore her.
Rob blames the incident on Megan, waves Jan back to the pottery wheel (where she's cranking out a dinner-service for 12), and expands his diatribe.
"Can you even remotely comprehend the electrochemical mayhem a bowl of marshmallows can cause?" he demands, poking a slender finger into the breastbone of his visitor, as if to impale him with the question. "And it didn't end there, man. She fed my babies Froot Loops too—and gummy candies resembling teddy bears."
He drops like a shop rag to the hand-hewn oaken floor and, rending in twain his Guns N' Roses T-shirt, shrieks, "Oh, the horror! The horror!"
Meanwhile, in Michigan, Susan Elizabeth (Burr) Beemer, the nefarious sister in question, produces the lengthy legal document cataloging her brother's copious complaints and expectations for redress to the tune of $1.25 million.
"Rob must think I make quite a bit more than five-fifty an hour working the bra bar at Hudson's," she says with an air of amusement. "And I love the part where he claims the girls came down with attention deficit disorder from watching our Back to the Future video and playing Sega with their cousin Daniel. It was Aladdin, for godsake! Had I known Rob was going to sue me I'd have loaded up Mortal Kombat."
She lets the summons slip to the carpet and slumps in her corduroy armchair and shields her moistening eyes with her hand. "I did what I had to do," she sobs. "I mean, my nieces were serving us play food, and when Ema called the toy Twinkie 'butter,' I knew what I had to do. ..."
# # #
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)