Slap Happy

Do you remember playing typewriter when you were a kid? One person would stack their arms, one atop the other, while the other person would pretend to type, the keyboard being those stacked arms. You would type away on those arms, and when you reached the end, you would slap the person’s face as if it were the paper carriage. You pretty much could only play this game once before the other person caught on to the face slapping and would not allow a repeat performance, so the two of you would have to find fresh victims until eventually everyone had been slapped across the face and thus the game was over, until summer camp or a new kid came to school.

Kids today, dagnabit, can’t play typewriter, because they don’t know what a typewriter is, except for obsolete, which it is. It has gone the way of record albums and tape recorders and VHF channels and FM radio, because video killed the radio star,and consequently, they have had to come up with new games to torture one another.

My older daughter, E, got in the car the other afternoon, a little on the giddy side. She has taken to sitting in the front passenger seat, which irritates the living crap out of me. For the past ten years, that passenger seat has been my storage bin,inbox, snack shelf, and coat rack. There is, quite frankly, no room for another human there next to me. I want to banish her to the back of the bus, but she insists on going all Rosa Park on my ass.

But back to the story.

E sat next to me and began her afternoon routine of sharing the day’s news.

“Did you have a good day?” I asked her.

“Not the best. The boys who sit next to me were driving me crazy,” she complained.

She sits next to two boys, at least one of which is a little sweet on her. They like to bug her because A. it is how they shower her with attention, and 2. it is great fun to bug her. She always responds. I am on their side.

“What were they doing?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t stop talking about their balls.”

I wasn’t expecting that answer from my fifth grade child.

“And what were they saying about their balls?” I bravely asked.

“One of them kept complaining about his balls hanging out. Balls, balls, balls. Gross. I finally had to get all teenage complainy and whiny. You know, how I do at home? I never do that at school but I did today because they needed to know how much it bothered me.”

I couldn’t believe she admitted to knowing about her annoying as crap teenage complaining and whining. I also couldn’t believe how comfortable she seemed saying the word balls.

“Did you tell your teacher? Or did they stop?”

“No, they stopped when I acted like I was going to cry. I told my friend on the school bus, though, and she said she understood about bad days because someone gave her a five star this afternoon.”

Now things were getting interesting.Well, as interesting as balls.

“What,” I asked, “is a five star?”

“A five star is when someone slaps you hard with an open palm on your bare skin. It leaves a mark like a big red star.”

I looked at her white thigh on the passenger seat next to me, her too short for school shorts riding up so maximum flesh was exposed.

“You mean like this?” I said, slapping her left thigh hard enough to make a satisfying smack noise.

“Owww!” She shrieked and doubled over her legs.

I laughed. I laughed hard. Her thigh turned bright red, and sure enough, it looked a little like a star.

“Both hands on the steering wheel, Crazytrain!” She yelled at me, rubbing her thigh.

While I don’t like having my 11 year old child in the front seat with me, the opportunity to talk about balls and give her a five star more than makes up for the inconvenience of where to put my purse. And that nice smack sound was pretty good too. And she called me Crazytrain, which was also a treat.

Plus, it makes me think of that Rick James and Charlie Murphy skit from the Dave Chappelle show. And thinking of Dave Chappelle is always a good thing.