Beyond The Pale

I have long felt that my parents made some big mistakes raising me.  I have a temper.  I am disloyal.  My hair is falling out.  Wormy, purple veins have begun to surface as if they are trying to pop out of me and run away.  I am too tall. 

Food is a common thread for many of my defects. Take, for example, my atrocious table manners.  I chew like a cow, churning my food in a clockwise tumble, hypnotizing the people unlucky enough to dine with me as clothes in a large dryer do to the poor souls stuck at a laundromat.  And it is worse than that even.   

As a child I ate only white foods.  My diet consisted primarily of potatoes, reconstituted from dry flakes, hard-boiled eggs, which permitted a fuss-free segregation of the yolk, and cheese, provided it had been bleached of all known elements except for Tin (Sn) and Bismuth (Bi).  Ever had a mayonnaise sandwich?  Did you know you don’t even need bread?  It’s called a spoon.  

I have this recurring thought that my mother and father needed money and that some strange men wearing white lab coats and carrying little white bunnies appeared one day and offered a hefty sum to borrow their blonde baby boy.  This was my parents’ “financial plan” and they thought it better than getting “jobs.”  This would explain the winks they exchange, and the odd craving I get for marshmallow fluff, when they mention the year we lived in “New Jersey.”  But I’m fine with all that. Really.

Now I have two children of my own.  My son, Cloud, is a creative one. “Daddy I want to draw something,” he says to me. “Where are my crayons and paper?”

“Check the drawer over there,” I say, helpfully pointing the way without getting up from the couch. 

“But these aren’t cray—”

“They’re fine.  Just what you need.”

“These are just tiny bottles that say liquid paper.  And all the paper is white.”

“Exactly.  It’s called minimalism.”     

My little Picasso has quite an imagination, such as a dream he keeps telling me about.  “I am in this place,” he said.  “It's weird.  There are lots of bunnies and men wearing white coats like doctors.” 

And my baby girl, Blanche, is the sweetest thing you could ever wish for.  Her skin is as soft as cream cheese.  Never mind that it is cream cheese.  Well, it’s better than lotion.  It’s 120 SPF, doesn’t biodegrade, and it’s convenient.  When I get my plain, white bagel each morning, I just dab it on my girl’s cheese-brow.  

I’ve got it all under control.  The pantry is stocked, a well-rounded assortment of starches, flours, condiments, etc.  And the college fund is already maxed out thanks to — Oh, never mind all that.  I’m not going to make the same mistakes my parents made. No sir, it’s all under control.