Fun at McDonald's

Since I missed my usual Monday offering - I was out of town - I thought I would share a bit of fun from the humor column I used to write. It, too, was called It's Not All Gravy, and I wrote that column for seven years for a Dallas suburban newspaper. Enjoy....

When the kids were young and only the three older ones were in school, very often the high point of my week was taking the twins to McDonald's Funland for lunch. It was one of the few places I could safely take them and still relax. Plus it offered a nice break from our usual fare of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It also provided an opportunity to be in a social setting, while not fully entering into it.
 
I could sit at my table with my cheeseburger and fries and observe the variety of folks who frequented this outdoor eating/play area.

There was the Super-Mom. You know the one I’m talking about. The mother who takes exceptionally good care of her own kids and anyone else's that happens to be nearby. I could always count on her to console Danielle when she fell off the slide and would just smile when she would shoot me a withering look for ignoring my poor child.
 
There was the Super-Athlete, who flexed muscles I'd never even heard of as she pushed her child on the merry-go-round. And I still wish I knew how these women could be so active and not sweat.
 
There was the Super-Sophisticate, who handled any situation that arose calmly and with finesse, from her kid's scraped knee to squashed French fries on the seat of her pants. She was the one who intervened in squabbles over whose turn it was to go down the slide next as if she were addressing the UN Security Council. I was more inclined to let the kids settle it themselves.
 
There was the Super-Protector who hovered around her child at all times, keeping him out of potentially dangerous situations. She would rush him off to the hospital to have his stomach pumped if he ate something off the ground. She could shoot the most disdaining looks if your child’s grubby hand touched her Bradley’s bag of Animal Crackers.
 
Then there was the Super-Intellect who dazzled anyone within earshot with her command of world affairs, while the rest of us discussed daytime television and the price of Pampers.
 
Our trip to McDonald's could also be a very good opportunity for the twins to pick up some of the fine points of social behavior. They learned quickly that the best way to win friends and influence people was definitely not by pushing some kid off the merry-go-round and smugly watching him cry. Nor was it by smashing French fries in another kid's hair, or by beating someone else with the blunt end of a hamburger. And it most certainly was not by stealing some kid's box of McDonald's cookies and hiding under the table with them. 

So, for a mere $6.35 *I got lunch for three (including dessert) with a hint of Emily Post, a chance to be in touch with the outside world and a unique atmosphere rivaling only the monkey cage at the zoo.
 
* For a price check, keep in mind this was a long, long, long time ago.

All About Cats

We have company this week. Our son and his wife have come for a few days, and we are all cat lovers. Rebecca and I had a picture-taking spree last night and took pictures of all our cats.

First up is Misty, known also as Mama Cat, as she was the mother of some of the cats we had until last fall. She was napping on the table next to Rebecca, then went into the kitchen to see if she could get Rebecca to give her a snack.

Next is Daisy. I call her Daisy Mae, and my husband wonders why. Has he forgotten the Lil' Abner comic strip? Our Daisy has a bit of the attitude that Daisy Mae had in the strip.

Rounding out our feline foursome is Harry and Hermoine. They are brother and sister and play more with each other than with the other two cats. One can hardly blame them, though. Mama does not like them at all, and Daisy only wants to interact with them when she can maybe steal some of their food. Although to be fair and honest about this, she does sometimes play with Harry. They will chase each other through the house, an invariably one of them ends up sliding across the floor in the kitchen and banging into the wall.

But again, the playing is only on Daisy's terms. If she does not want to play, she lets Harry know.

Hermoine

The two young cats enjoy playing in the section of the Christmas tree that I gave them in January. They loved the tree to the point that it was briefly decorated for one day - December 25th - then the decorations were taken down for safe-keeping. The tree is very old and we decided that it was time to get a new one next year, so why not let the cats play with some of it. This is one of their favorite toys and quite a conversation piece when folks come to visit and wonder why we still have a Christmas tree in our living room.

Hermoine

Harry

The Day After Christmas - What a Mess

The day after Christmas was usually one of the best and one of the worst days of the year for our family.

If that doesn't make sense to you, don't worry, I'm not sure it does to me either. But let me try to explain.

It was the best because:
There were now 364 more shopping days until Christmas.

It was the one day of the year when perhaps the kids were just as tired as we were, and they’d sleep off and on all day.

All the build up for the Big Day was finally over, and the noise level in the house had dropped about 20 decibels.

I didn’t have to cook since we had all those leftovers from Christmas dinner. (If we didn't have a big Christmas dinner, I was in trouble on that score.)

The kids would decide they liked each other after all, and we could go the whole day without a fight – maybe.

The kids would invite me to color with them, or play a game, and we could share some really good times together - as long as they let me win now and then.

But every coin has its flip side, and the other side of this day was:
After the glitter and tinsel of Christmas, after the giving and receiving, the celebrating, singing and eating, we could all sit back, unbutton the waistband of our pants and try to decide who would clean up the mess.

Who would get to spend the next four days sorting through the thousand-and-one little pieces of games, toys, and puzzles that in less than one day managed to get tossed together from one end of the house to another?

On Christmas day, nobody seemed to care, but the day after nobody was being nice anymore, and the house was filled with moaning and wailing and the sounds of blood-letting and bones breaking ...

"Find that Stratego piece or I'll break your arm off and beat you over the head with it!"

"I never touched your Stratego game! Mommeee!!"

I guess four days out of my life wasn't too much to ask.

Who would dig through the.22 bags of trash to find the instructions for assembling the model airplane, because, for once in his life, a kid cleaned up after himself and threw them away with the wrapping paper? (Since that same kid would think nothing of digging through the neighbors' trash to see if they threw away anything he could put to good use, maybe I could pawn that job off on him. )

Who would accept the challenge of figuring out what to do with all the unidentifiable things we received as gifts, such as the strange looking thing from Aunt Mildred that could either be a doily or a dishrag.

The gadget from Uncle Willie that favors a Chinese puzzle, but could actually be his eccentric approach to the can opener.

The game that takes an IQ of at least 300 just to open the box. 

The funny little knitted things from Aunt Lucy that are either thumb-less mittens or toe warmers.

I could have called them all personally to thank them for the gifts, and hope that somewhere in the conversation they will mention what they are. But that would have taken some of the fun out of lazy summer afternoons when we’d drag this stuff out again and play a new game called “What on Earth is It?”