"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.'"
# # #
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