The Game’s Afoot ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, freeze tag, food tag, games, humor, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)

The game of internet tag is going around and I’m delighted to say that my husband, Russ, has declared that I’m “it." Back when I was a kid—in the age of the Velociraptor and the Tyrannosaurus Rex—tag was one of my favorite pastimes. I remember a number of variations including “food tag”. In that version, if the person who was “it” reached out to touch you, you’d squat down, name a food and you were safe.

It was such an easy game back then, but I sure couldn’t do it now. No, it’s not the food that’s the problem—my memory for food is even better than when I was younger. Face it; once you’re over fifty, you’re too old to do anything but eat. I am sure I could hold a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Snickers in the other, and still name some kind of food.

It’s the other aspects of “food tag” that have me stalled. Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that I could manage to run a few steps, the squatting would kill me. Once down, they’d have to bring in a crane to haul me back up. I think my kneecaps have gained weight from all that food I’ve been eating since I turned fifty.

Fortunately, the internet version doesn’t involve squatting. However, it does entail writing a list of things that other people don’t know about you and sending it to them. I’m not sure why—presumably to blackmail you later.

In keeping with the spirit of the game, I thought I’d write such a list—about someone other than myself—and post it as a blog.

•When my husband, Russ, was a youngster, he was always falling and bumping his head. That explains a lot right there.

•As an impressionable, young lad, he planned to become a Catholic priest—until he looked up the word, “celibate” in the dictionary.

•He attended 12 years of Catholic education without having a single religious experience. I’m thinking it wasn’t the nuns’ fault—it’s probably because his favorite classes were lunch and recess.

•After graduating from high school, he worked for the Good Humor Ice Cream Company—driving an ice cream truck, ringing a little bell. He loved ice cream. By the time he quit the job—a mere month later—he owed more for eating the ice cream than he took in selling the stuff.

•Until he was in his twenties, Russ had a full head of wavy, black hair. This, from the man whose dome now resembles a dinosaur egg.

•While still sporting that wavy black hair, he joined the Navy—because he liked their bell-bottom pants and the white, sailor’s hat.

•Russ’s current philosophy in his old age is that the tube of toothpaste should be squeezed from the bottom. My philosophy is mash it from wherever you can grab it. He has his own tube—that he refuses to share with me … or our dog, Corky Porky Pie. Sounds obsessive-compulsive to me.


As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this blackmail list, it can’t go on forever. Not that there aren’t more quirks I could write about, but because life calls. It’s time to shower, brush my teeth and … oh drat, I’m out of toothpaste. I wonder if Russ would notice if I used his. Of course, I’d have to smooth it out so he wouldn’t know I smashed it in the middle, and then follow that up with wiping it clean and turning it label side up.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just use a squirt of Corky Porky Pie’s.

What's playing in my head: Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie (by Jay and the Techniques)



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