>> Wednesday, April 28, 2010
One of the people I asked to guest blog last week for Tantrum week was the infamous Blair. I really shouldn't have to introduce. She pretty much rocks. You can check out Blair and Nate's adventures with baby Harrison over at the Heir to Blair here. I promise you will be addicted once you start reading.
But there was one tiny problem? Harrison is way to young for tantrums. Although I think girlfriend suffered enough with reflux fits so she deserves the break. But to top it off... Blair was the perfect child. As if? Did she really just throw that in my face?? Now?! But honestly I could see it. She probably wasn't perfect just smart enough to get her brothers blamed for it. Resourceful? I think so.
So I gave Blair free regien. A little scary I know, needless to say I was not disappointed. Now I want you to all think about your favorite/most annoying infomerical celeb. This is the fun we could have been having with them.... Tony Little? Billy Mays? Richard Simmons? Mr. Cash?
A few weeks ago, Stephaine emailed me asking if I would participate in her guest blogging party regarding tantrums. OF COURSE. Duh. I was so excited to share stories of my being a wild hellion with mismatched hair-ribbons & combat boots, but then my mother lowered the boom over the telephone:
"Honey, I don't remember you ever having a tantrum. EVER. You were a very well-behaved, chill child."
My mother said chill. More astoundingly, my mother said that I was chill. (what the heck happened? because 25 years later, i'm a type-a control freak.)
So with a heavy heart, I emailed Stephanie & broke the news that I could not participate. Because I WAS PERFECT. & then she did that "mom thing," you know where they grab you by the back of the neck & say "NOT SO FAST, MISSY." So here I am, guest blogging. Not about tantrums. But about how my brothers & I tortured Mr. Cash as young folks.
Sometimes, my parents were foolish enough to leave my two older brothers & I alone for a few hours under the impression of "date night." I found out later that sometimes, they just wandered around Kmart simply happy to get away from us. Regardless, The Momma would spray on some perfume, they'd plop a few boxes of Dominos pizza on the table, & literally run out the door with brief kisses & promises of being back within two hours.
At the tender age of seven, two hours seemed like an eternity.
AN ETERNITY OF OPPORTUNITY.
We ate pizza on the living room floor. We watched fuzzy MTV. We wrestled, set off firecrackers in the back yard, yelled, ran screaming through the house, & dared the Oldest to crawl out on the roof. Pretty much everything we were not allowed to do. But by far, our favorite activity was calling Mr. Cash.
Remember him? The slimy dude in the commercial that would solve all your cash woes if only you would dial 1-800-Call-CASH or something like that? (oh em gee, if that really is the number & I remembered it, I just lost all remaining cool points). Yeah. We'd call him. As in, dial the number, wait for the marketer to pick up, & promptly scream into the phone.
No, nothing intelligent. Just your basic "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" ear-splitting scream. & then we'd hang up, doubling over into giggles. All three of us would lie laughing on the kitchen floor for what seemed like ages until someone had the breath enough to stand up & make the call again. Rinse & repeat for two hours.
Look, we weren't brilliant. But we were HILARIOUS in our own minds.
My parents never condoned crank calling. But to this day, they are thankful for the distraction Mr. Cash gave us. Because otherwise, we might have burned down the house for entertainment.