I swear to you, when I was pregnant with my children, I did not watch a single episode of Let’s Make a Deal. So it’s a huge shock that the episodes that I watched during my teenage years imprinted themselves on my fallopian tubes in such a manner that my son is now Monty Hall.
Like this weekend I’m making dinner and whistling a happy tune and suddenly I notice that the bag of recyclables (you know, empty wine and gin bottles) is overflowing. Young Ladrinka is couchside, watching 20 Greatest Games on the MLB Network.
“Hey,” I sing out to him, “can you take the recycling out, please?”
“URGH. NOW? I’m watching THE GAME,” he advises me.
He’s going to make some woman really happy one day, but nevertheless, I point out to him that he’s watching a game from the 1980s (or the 9os, I’m not a baseballogist) and that he could pause it for the three minutes that it will take him to take out the recycling.
And he says, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll take out the recycling…IF!” and he pauses dramatically, “you take me to play basketball.”
And I don’t say anything because I’m busy to counting to ten very slowly and then taking the kind of yoga breaths that should propel me directly to the Himalayas.
But finally, I say “no.”
And when I say “no,” Young Ladrinka says, “Either take my deal, or we go our separate ways.”
What separate ways?
What is he talking about?
Is he in the Mafia?
So I say, “We’ll have to go our separate ways. You’re going to the recycling area and I’m going to stand right here.”
And it worked.
Maybe next time he’ll think long and hard before trying to make a deal with me. And maybe will throw some candy in to sweeten it.
One year ago ...
- As I Lay Dying - 2014