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I flopped down on my comfy, mauve recliner, my foot-long Butterfinger candy bar in my
greedy hand. I successfully buried my conscience and started tearing at the
wrapper--hurriedly, so I wouldn’t notice the fat, carbohydrate, and calorie counts. My
mouth watered, drool attempted to spill.
Knock Knock
“Who is it?” I sweetly asked.
“Open up, Ma’am. It’s the Candy Police.”
“Whatever do you want?”
“You know what we want. Open the door, or we’ll bust it down.”
I poked my Butterfinger down between the seat and arm of the chair, donned my
innocent face and went to the door. As I opened the door a crack, two burly uniformed
men came hurtling through.
“Where is it, Ma’am?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I backed up toward my chair.
“We smell the chocolate, Ma’am.” And to his partner, “Look everywhere, she’s sneaky.”
Their noses led them right past me and to my precious candy. Picking it out of the chair
and heading for the door, one said, “You’ll thank us later, Ma’am. Have a good day.”
“Have a good day? You took the good part!” I slammed the door. Aggravated and
frustrated, I decided a leisurely bubble bath was called for.
Mellowed by my time in the bubbles, I felt too lazy to fully dress so I grabbed my old
sloppy sweats out of the dirty clothes hamper and slipped into the comfy things. I
trotted barefoot to my chair, became one with it, and picked up the tv remote.
Knock Knock
I ignored it.
KNOCK KNOCK
“Who are you and what do you want?” I hollered.
“Fashion Police, Ma’am. We know what you’re wearing. Open the door!”
I unlocked the door. They looked at me in disgust. I looked down at myself. “What’s
wrong with this?”
“Sloppy, Ma’am. Sloppy and dirty.”
“So what? I’m in my own house!”
“You never know when someone might drop by, Ma’am. You’d best go change.”
I opened by mouth, retort ready to fly, when the phone rang.
“Hello, Mom? Would you watch the kids tonight while Derrick and I go out for dinner?”
I snarled at the Fashion Police. “Okay, you win... this time.” They left, I removed my
beloved sweats and dressed for company.
The grandkids and I worked up quite an appetite playing Twister and ‘Chase Grammy.’
“How about hot dogs, fries, and ice cream cones for dessert, kids?
“Yeah, Grammy, and sprinkles?”
“Sure. That sounds great!” I got the fries out of the freezer, hot dogs out of the fridge
and...
Knock Knock
“Don’t answer that!” I begged the kids, holding the hot dogs to my heart.
“Why not, Grammy?” and off they scampered to see who it was.
The uniformed policemen paraded in.
“What is it this time? I’m dressed, I’m not eating candy. I’m not doing anything wrong.
Go away!”
“Can’t do that, Ma’am. We’re here on official business. Serious business. You’re
about to feed garbage to these children.”
“So what’s wrong with hot dogs and ice cream?”
“Nutrition, Ma’am--or lack thereof. We’re the Nutrition Police and we’ve come to put a
stop to this unhealthy meal.”
“Give me a break!”
“We are, Ma’am, we’re not taking you in. Just offering suggestions. Now fix them a
nice grilled chicken or tuna salad sandwich with carrot and celery sticks. Fresh fruit for
dessert.”
Tired of arguing with them, I did as they said.
After the children went home, I settled once again in my chair. I was tired, out of sorts.
Why do these police keep hassling me? Why do they think I need help making my own
decisions? How dare they! I ought to bash them over the head with my frying pan.
Yes, FRYING pan, Mr. Nutrition Policeman! And I’d rather wear my stinky sweats
anyday, Mr. Stuffy Uniform! And you stole my Butterfinger, Mr. Candy Snatcher! I’m
going to file a complaint. I’m going to make you pay! You’ll see, you Wackos!
Knock Knock
“Open up, Ma’am, it’s the Rage Police.”
I suddenly awoke, melted chocolate and crunchy bits of candy were sprinkled all over
the front of my cozy, well worn sweats. The tv was playing. Had I slept all night in my
recliner? I must have, the sun was pouring through the windows. “What a crazy
dream!” I got up, stretched. “Mmm, I’m still tired. I think I’ll skip walking on the
treadmill this morning. Might as well skip cooking too and have Pop Tarts for breakfast.
Heh, heh. Who will know?”
Knock Knock
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