Date: 1/4/2003 1:50 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: TaleTeIler
Please. She never thought she'd get tired of hearing the word. Her mother's mother had taught her mother to say it. Her mother had taught her to say it. And she'd taught her own children to say it. Especially when asking for something. It was the polite thing to do, after all. But even pleasant things lose their luster when experienced over and over again. And over. And over. Again. And again. And again.
If she had to guess, Mrs. Macabre (married, with two children), known to her friends as Annie, to her husband as Annette, and to her children as Mommy (sometimes, Mom) would guesstimate that oh, about three weeks, give or take a millennia or two, had passed. In reality, the seconds hand on the clock had gone all the way 'round about 20 times. And, about every three-quarter seconds (with pauses for breath, a drink of milk, and one not-so-nice face made at his sister), the word "please" rang out, courtesy of Justin, her twelve-year old boy. Now, both Justin and Mommy knew that such behavior was expected out of 5 year olds, not twelve year olds. But Justin knew that it was annoying (he only had to listen to his own ears to figure that part out) and Mommy knew that Justin, like all little boys, was both really desperate to get his way while at the same time seeing how much punishment his mother would actually take. Ears, after all, are rather sensitive.
But Mommy was smart. After all, she had about twenty-five years' more experience than did her little boy and, painful as it was on the eardrums, she not-so-blissfully ignored her firstborn child's rantings. She had to, after all, set an example for Emily, Justin's 10 year old sister. The vast and firm walls of parental willpower had survived toddler tantrums, teething, fussing for the sake of fussing, and her children fighting for the sole reason that that's what siblings do. A little word like please, she resolved, would not be the straw that broke this camel's back. No sir. Not this time. Or this time. Or this one, or this one. Or this one.
Then, two things happened at once. First, the umpteen-thousand "pleases" (though they might echo forever in her mind) stopped while the TV volume rose extremely high. The second thing, which she couldn't hear due to the newly invigorated television, was the "ding" from the kitchen signaling that now, right now, would be the best time to please remove the chicken from the oven so as to find it perfectly delightful for eating.
"See, Mommy, see!" Yes, she could see (she might soon go deaf, but she could see). "There! On the TV! That's it! Plea…," Justin all but drooled.
"JUSTIN! TURN THAT DOWN!"
Seeing that he'd pushed his mother a tad too far, Justin leapt for the remote and obeyed. But, as most children don't, he refused to give in altogether.
"Did you see? Did you see? That was it! All the other kids ha…"
"I don't care about all the other kids. Or what their mommies and daddies buy them."
"But see, there's this cool thing that it does…"
"And it will continue to do that thing in all the other houses, but not in this one!" Annette was snappier than she intended. "Now Justin, pl…," she paused, unable to bring herself to say the word of the day. "Go wash up for dinner. And stop pestering me about that game!"
A Tale of You: Intro - Word of the Day
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Date: 1/4/2003 1:52 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: TaleTeIler
Dinner, that night, consisted of freshly baked pizza from the local market. The smoldering remains of Italian-seasoned chicken breasts lay in the trash, while the stove's "EZ-Done" notification light happily blinked on and off, satisfied of a job well done (their model stove, obviously, hadn't come with the EZ-Done repeating buzzer). The Macabre family, in spite of the ignorance displayed by their appliance, still required food and pizza, as almost always, sufficed.
When the dishes were washed and the children wrestled with the ever difficult problems of dividing 354 by 23 (long division for the sixth-grader, mind you. None of that shortcut stuff) and how to spell "chrysanthemum" for the night's homework (really, chrysanthemum? That's asking a bit much of a 10 year old girl, isn't it?), Mr. Macabre, known to his friends as Bob, to his wife as Robert (with an occasional "Bob" in the throes of passion), and to the little ones as Daddy, pulled and tugged on his wife until they were in the bathroom. Locking the door, he looked at his wife with a gleam in his eye.
"Here? Now? The kids are still up!," she blurted.
Robert took a moment to process and digest that before responding, "No, not that! I want to show you something."
"In here?"
"Yes, so the kids don't see. See?"
And there, thrust in front of her face, might as well have been the word "Please" in giant letters. What it really was, though, was a box. A factory-sealed-shrink-wrapped-never-before-been-opened-brand-spanking-new box that she could only guess was a surprise gift for Justin.
"Oh, Robert!"
It really was too much. Leaving her confused husband behind and refusing to look twice at the Fist Fighters video game package in his hands, she (in one fluid motion mind you) turned, unlocked the door, and with as much grace and dignity as the haggard housewife can muster, stormed off to the bedroom where she promptly fell across the bed and into a much needed nap.
From: TaleTeIler
Dinner, that night, consisted of freshly baked pizza from the local market. The smoldering remains of Italian-seasoned chicken breasts lay in the trash, while the stove's "EZ-Done" notification light happily blinked on and off, satisfied of a job well done (their model stove, obviously, hadn't come with the EZ-Done repeating buzzer). The Macabre family, in spite of the ignorance displayed by their appliance, still required food and pizza, as almost always, sufficed.
When the dishes were washed and the children wrestled with the ever difficult problems of dividing 354 by 23 (long division for the sixth-grader, mind you. None of that shortcut stuff) and how to spell "chrysanthemum" for the night's homework (really, chrysanthemum? That's asking a bit much of a 10 year old girl, isn't it?), Mr. Macabre, known to his friends as Bob, to his wife as Robert (with an occasional "Bob" in the throes of passion), and to the little ones as Daddy, pulled and tugged on his wife until they were in the bathroom. Locking the door, he looked at his wife with a gleam in his eye.
"Here? Now? The kids are still up!," she blurted.
Robert took a moment to process and digest that before responding, "No, not that! I want to show you something."
"In here?"
"Yes, so the kids don't see. See?"
And there, thrust in front of her face, might as well have been the word "Please" in giant letters. What it really was, though, was a box. A factory-sealed-shrink-wrapped-never-before-been-opened-brand-spanking-new box that she could only guess was a surprise gift for Justin.
"Oh, Robert!"
It really was too much. Leaving her confused husband behind and refusing to look twice at the Fist Fighters video game package in his hands, she (in one fluid motion mind you) turned, unlocked the door, and with as much grace and dignity as the haggard housewife can muster, stormed off to the bedroom where she promptly fell across the bed and into a much needed nap.