Bet Your Bottom Dollar

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The mysteries of life are endless. Some are ours to discover, others not ours to know. It’s mysteries like these that keep us guessing, frustrated and laughing:

Like, how is it possible for my entire family to eat Chinese take-out on paper plates and disposable chopsticks and still load an entire dishwasher afterwards?

Or, why can’t I keep a straight face when teaching my son about frugal grocery shopping (a cub scout requirement.) We were scanning the newspaper ads, as per the instructions, comparing deals, when I told him about all the different cuts of meat and how they varied greatly in price. That’s when we both read it: “Butt Roast.” He’s nine. He’s a boy. There it was, an otherwise taboo word in our house, in print as part of a scout requirement. He couldn’t stop howling with laughter, streams of tears cleaning his playground dusted cheeks.
“Butt Roast!! Butt Roast?!” He could barely gasp the words out…”Who on earth eats a Butt Roast!! Ha-ha!”
“We do. More commonly known as ‘Sunday Roast,” I confessed.
“What?!”
After that, we were both laughing so hard, the only other thing we could price compare was 2 liter bottles of soda.

Or when I ask my ferocious, T-Rex morphing four year old if he likes to be all alone, because with a deafening roar like that, that’s what he’ll be. His response was resolute.
“Yes! But only with Dean!”
I guess “all alone” is tolerable if one has his lil’ buddy with him.

Or why, why, why does my husband insist that the circa 1977 cartoons of his childhood don’t give our children nightmares? In just this last month he has shown them the cartoon versions of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and Watership Down. If you’ve yet to experience animated blood spilling out onto the frame, it’s not for the faint of heart.

And let’s not forget David Bowie’s eerie, inspiring performance in The Labyrinth (was he ever that hard up for work?), or Jim Henson’s darkest thoughts in The Dark Crystal. When I asked the kids at the breakfast table which was scarier, the Gollum character in the cartoon from last night, or the Gollum from the “real” version (the Peter Jackson one) the verdict was unanimous.
“The cartoon one!!” they all shouted in unison, practically shuddering from the mere memory.
But Paul just shakes his head. “Honey, it’s a classic. I grew up watching these, and I turned out fine.”

And how can I argue with that? Any dad who takes the time to show his children “the classics” from his own childhood is a good dad indeed. I’m sure they will turn out just fine.

I’d bet my bottom dollar.

 

 

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