A Rolls Royce, the Baby and Diets

   Written by on July 20, 2017 at 9:54 am
The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

A friend of mine known as the Godfather just bought a car called a Rolls Royce.  I don’t know who Royce is but I have owned several Rolls.  I had a couple of Barely Rolls, a Sometimes Rolls and at least a few Never Rolls.  I have to say Royce builds a fine car; sort of a luxury efficiency apartment with wheels.  The only thing they are missing is a pickup bed.

Speaking of rolling, our grand-brat just rolled over for the first time.  It won’t be long before he is looking for something with wheels so he can roll better.   The daughter has been bringing him by several times a week.  My bride Management has decided she was born to be a Grandmother.  As I mentioned, before the brat was born we were having some difficulty is choosing a name for him to call her. I had objections to Granny, Grandma, Baba, Nanny and all of the traditional grandmotherly names. We finally decided on Grand-Ma’am, which goes well with Faux Pa.

The only problem is the bratlet makes a lot of noise; I wonder where he got that from?  In spite of the noise he is quite satisfactory.  Another issue is both my bride and brat keep calling him “the baby.”  Although I agree he is superior to many other babies, “the baby” implies he is the only one on earth.  I am certain there are others.

The only valid use of “the baby” is when you have so many children you can’t keep all of the names straight. In spite of the fact that babies are the by-products of a hobby, you should stop having them when you can no longer keep them sorted out by name.

I will never call my grandchild “the baby.”  I call him by his name, I call him troll baby, elf child, short stuff, Smee, Grinch and several dozen other names but I will never call him “the baby” anymore than I will call Management “the wife.”

I had an uncle once who was called by everyone who knew him “The Uncle.”  In that case he was a one of a kind and the name was appropriate.  He was the kindest, sweetest, most generous man in the world or at least he told us he was. He also had a joke a day and kept track of which jokes he had told to whom.  He also had a remarkable resemblance to Santa Claus, which includes round and happy.  He was also happy about being round.  He always said he was not overweight – he was just large.    

Shortly after Management and I were married we both started gaining weight. In her case it was pregnancy.  In my case it was marriage. Prior to marriage I always said, “It takes a lean hound for a long chase and a long chase keeps a hound lean.” I always did a reverse hibernation thing.  I started each winter at 165 pounds, gained ten by spring and lost it during the summer, which is prime chasing weather.

Weight is like a lot of things; it just creeps up on you.  The next thing I knew I was over 200 pounds.  The only positive about that was it gave me some good alliteration such as Fat, Frivolous and Forty or Fifty, Fattish and Flatulent.   As everyone already knows, with the exception of those annoying naturally thin people, once those few pounds creep up they intend to camp there forever.

In any case, after I found out I could either lose a few pounds or quit breathing, I decided maybe breathing was more fun than eating. I lost enough so I could breathe, and was happy with just being a little chubby.  Recently Management, who is perfect in every way, decided she was going to lose those last ten pounds she gained twenty-three years ago when we had the children (or should that be “our Children?”)

If you have ever lived with a spouse who is on a diet, you already know diets are a team effort. No spouse diets alone.  This is particularly true when the spouse on the diet is the one who does the grocery shopping. I have a theory that spouses of dieters lose more weight than the ones on the diet. Then if they are smart they lie about it or, like me, refuse to get on the scales. Let’s face it, those last ten pounds hang on like a snapping turtle.  They like where they are and they aren’t going to leave without a fight.

For weeks now there hasn’t been any real food in the house. I’d like to get on the scales but I am afraid I may have lost some weight.  Management as always looks great.

Now that Management is in her forties, her doctor scheduled her for a Mammy gram. She was less than enthusiastic about it. I couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t want to get a telegram from her mother.  Then I looked up what they are.  Oh my!

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