The Summer of Uno

I love my kid.  I love hanging out with her.  We play outside, we hit the beach, and we go to ball games.  We bake, we cook, and we paint rocks.  But she has one pastime that makes me cringe: board games.  With few exceptions, I classify these games (I include card games like Skip-Bo and even video games, too) as "bored games".   I understand I'm in the minority.  Board games are enjoying a resurgence among adults.  Game nights can be fun social gatherings.  Most games simply don't catch my attention.

I admit part of the problem is my lack of patience.  In this instant, drive-thru, Amazon drone dropping world we live in, I want faster results.  (It's a wonder I love baseball.) Risk? What were there no thousand piece puzzles available? Sorry? More like, "Sorry, I only have time for a Gone With the Wind/Titanic double feature.  Monopoly? You must be joking.  Do I look like I have a week of my life of devote to this endeavor?  Another piece of the problem is that Grace tends to get obsessed with a particular game and runs it into the ground.  Yahtzee is not terrible, but rattling dice in a cup over and over and over again robs what little joy it brings.   Grace's current obsession, spreading like a plague from the family game basket, is Uno.

Uno, a colorful kaleidoscope of revenge, treachery, and underhanded strategy.  Uno, called such because it may take you that many hours to complete one hand.  Uno, the first card game from which I needed a vacation.  I vaguely remember enjoying playing Uno as a kid.  Of course, as a kid I was also skinny, wore sleeveless shirts, and thought  Garfield was cool.  Things change, people.  We played so much Uno this summer I saw DRAW TWO cards in my sleep.  DRAW TWO cards that Grace played with great glee.  When you only have two players, Uno games can be interminable.  Every move is magnified.  Every SKIP or REVERSE skips YOU.  Every DRAW TWO or DRAW FOUR means YOU are picking up cards.  As patience fades, resentment builds.  Early on, I made the mistake of, when Grace got a little frustrated, reminding her that it was part of the game.  Now every time I mutter while going from holding one card to holding fifteen, she is sure to remind me, "That's just how the game goes!"  Fortunately, I could now hide my grimace and under-my-breath retort behind the array of cards fanned in front of my face. I'm not usually one to intentionally let my kid beat me at anything, but when a hand of Uno is working on its third time through the deck, and I've grown so weary of playing that I'd rather be a Peeping Tom as Ted Cruz checks his Twitter feed than continue playing, I will totally play a card that will help Grace.  Simply surviving becomes more important than winning.

Clearly, most people feel differently about Uno.  After all, it is one of the 2017 nominees to be inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame.  To me, this is a bit like Spam being inducted into the food hall of fame, or me be inducted into the basketball hall of fame, but whatever.  Maybe if the Rainbow Menace is inducted, we can add the Toy Hall of Fame to our Cooperstown and Toronto hall of fame pilgrimage. (Actually, that's not a crazy idea.)  Until then, I'll be over here drawing four cards.

Crap!

This past Saturday, Amanda, Grace, and I hit Ocean City for a fun night on the beach and boardwalk.  An impromptu farewell to summer.  Of course, I posted photos online for all the world to see.  However, beneath that perfect Facebook Facade, trouble lurked.  A moment occurred Saturday that I have been dreading for a long time.  Grace asked THE question.  A question I've been putting off facing.  No, she didn't ask where babies come from. That explanation would have taken less time.  No, she looked me straight in the eye and asked if she could redeem the arcade tickets she has been stockpiling all summer.

This might not be a big deal in your household, but my daughter is a slow motion shopper. Possessing a fistful of tickets, she paces the prize counter perusing the wildly overpriced junk treasures with the care reserved for selecting a new car. I've seen people be less discerning when picking a grad school.   I hate the endless selection process so much I tried to convince Grace, each time we went to the arcade over the summer, to save her tickets for a bigger prize down the road.  Being a master procrastinator, I was able move her in that direction more often than not.   Unfortunately, the master procrastinator also knows the bill always comes due.  Well, Saturday night was time to pay up.  Thanks to good karma, the generosity of strangers, and LOTS of quarters my kid had accumulated almost 1500 tickets.  That buys a mess of trinkets.  Fearing that I'm going to spend an hour watching her purchase a bucketload of vampire teeth, superballs, and gooey wacky wall walkers, I tried steering Grace towards one big purchase.  Surely, there was a big stuffed animal or something she could plunk down her 1500 tickets for so we could get back to the boardwalk.

Unimpressed by my suggestion to splurge on a set of, uh, some sort of ceramic bowls for 1400 tickets, Grace rolled her eyes and began her slow, perusing stroll up and down the counter.  I could see the "Beautiful Mind" mathematical calculations processing in her head as she sought maximize the junk to ticket ratio.  What an array of garbage there is to choose from!  Plush, plastic, and, no doubt, lead-covered straight out of China.  She broke the ice with a plush cube decorated with emojis. (What is it with kids and the emoji worship these days?  I swear if there was an Emojesus
 Grace would ask to transfer to that church.)  Next, she reached for a cheap plastic, Barbie-sized mermaid.  I stopped her, reminding her she has plenty of dolls.

Shut up, you idiot! That plastic fish lady costs 300 tix, or one-fifth of her budget.  Do you want to get out of here or not?

Good point, Voice In My Head!  Who cares if I'll be tripping over it later tonight?  The mermaid was in, as were some dolphin earrings, and a beach scene "sand globe."  Suddenly, we were actually shopping at a decent pace.  Then I heard an excited squeal of delight.  I had to double-check it wasn't me happy at the prospect of almost being finished.  No, it was a shriek that could only be elicited by the discovery of a poop emoji.  In this case, a plush poop emoji keychain.  I'm pretty laid back, but I can't stand the poop emoji.  I think it is dumb, gross, and likely portends the end of civilized society as we know it.  Maybe it was the clamor of the arcade machines and all the flashing casino lights, maybe it was the idea that the only thing that stood between me and escaping the prize counter until next summer was a 200 ticket key ring.  Whatever the reason, I gave the thumbs up and we got the heck out of there.  I'm not sure whose smile was wider-mine, Grace's, or the grinning swirl of poo in her prize bag.

 And if trading a giant stack of tickets for a pile of shit isn't symbolic of our trip to the arcade, I don't know what is.