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Cleanup crew wipes out stimulus package
(by Christine Thome - February 25, 2009)
Cleanup crew wipes out stimulus package
"I think we need a stimulus package," my husband, John, said as he helped me dry the dinner dishes. The evening news was on in the background, and the pundits were arguing the benefits and pitfalls of the president's economic-stimulus bill.
"Ssshh! The kids are in the next room!" I said, hitting him with the dishtowel.
With a 14-year-old boy in the house, any mention of a word that could have the slightest sexual connotation is enough to send the boy into hysterics and his younger sisters asking, "What's so funny?" Even in their proper contexts, we can no longer use the words nuts or balls, unless we want to suffer through pre-pubescent fits of hysterical laughter.
The problem is, in effort to keep my son's fits of laughter to a minimum, I have started to look at the "other meaning" of just about every word. The phrase "stimulus package" is enough to cause a kid, and most grown men, to actually die of laughter.
"I like the way you're thinking," my husband whispered in my ear, "but I meant that we need something to get our family out of the doldrums. Look at us! We're a bunch of robots. We eat the same meals every week, we watch the same television shows every night, and we go to bed and wake up at the same time every single day. We need to do something different."
"It's February," I said. "There is nothing to do but eat, watch TV and sleep in February."
But he was right. We needed to think of something we could do as a family to break out of the winter rut we were in.
"I know!" John said. "The Cavs are playing tomorrow night. Let's ..."
"That's going to cost several hundred dollars by the end of the night. We can't afford that!" I interrupted him.
"Let me finish," he said. "We can watch the game at home and pretend we're at the Q."
His idea sounded a little corny, and the kids said they would only participate if we promised not to tell their friends, but we all agreed to try it.
I love LeBron James, but, personally, the best part about going to any professional sports game is the food. So for dinner, I made hot dogs and nachos. There was not a vegetable in sight. I popped some popcorn and bought shelled peanuts and cotton candy. The kids drank pop, instead of milk, and we all ate in front of the TV and cheered on the Cavs.
"Where's the beer man?" John yelled. "I need another beer from the beer man!" The kids took turns being the beer man for Dad and tried, unsuccessfully, to pry $7 out of him for each can.
At the end of the night, the Cavs won, we were all fat and happy, and the ride home consisted of a five-second run up the stairs and straight into a warm bed instead of a long, cold night dodging highway traffic.
I was in the back of the house when John announced bedtime. So when I returned to the family room, I found it looking no cleaner than the aftermath of a sold-out Cavaliers game. There were peanut shells all over. Paper plates, plastic cups and beer cans littered the tables and couches, and gooey cotton candy was stuck to the carpet. And there was not another warm body in sight.
My anger was mounting, and I know I should have yelled for everyone to come back down and help clean up the mess, but I decided to be a martyr, let my anger build and then take it out on my husband.
Entering our bedroom a good half hour later, I found John already in bed.
"Where have you been?" He asked coyly. "I thought maybe we could work out that stimulus package you were thinking about earlier."
Without a word or a glance in his direction, I gathered my pillow, blanket and a book and headed back downstairs.
"Where are you going?" he yelled after me.
"You can forget about your stimulus package," I yelled back. "I've just organized my own bailout program!"
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