Boppy and I play slug-bug.  If you have been living under a rock for the last century, slug-bug consists of smacking the person next to you when you see a Volkswagen Beetle.  There are a few rules…these are mostly made up by me, but nonetheless there are rules.  Recently the Volkswagen company released a series of commercials that would lead one to believe that it is okay to shout out the color and smack someone if you spot any of their vehicles.  This is just not true.  To play slug-bug you must see either a VW Beetle or an old hippie VW van.  These are the only two vehicles that are sluggable.  You can’t slug for the same vehicle twice in one trip.  You can’t call “bug” until a bug is sighted.  I don’t care that the multi-colored one that is parked in the lot of the pediatric dentistry office is there from 9-5 Monday through Friday.  If you are going to slug me for it you had damned well better make sure that it is parked there.  That also goes for the Cricket VW that is parked in Fiesta Square.  You’d better see it before you call it.  If there is a tie, it goes to me.  No questions asked…my game…my rules.  If you call “bug” in error, you get smacked.  If you call “green” and it’s yellow, you get smacked.  These are the rules.  No arguing.

Well, every time we go anywhere we play slug-bug.  Annually I am way ahead of Boppy.  He has his good days though.  Yesterday we went to Wal-Mart and he beat me 6-4.  (You know the old adage about the sunshine and a dog’s butt).  We don’t hit hard.  Well, Boppy doesn’t hit hard.  We just have good natured fun.  We play the game alot and we are not always the only ones in the car as we play.  I never thought about how other people would view our little game until my mother told me a story.  It seems she and my sister were out driving one day and mother spotted a VW Beetle.  She reached over and whacked my sister and shouted, “Blue one.”  My sister nearly jumped out of her skin!  “What”, she replied as my mother laughed out loud.  “It’s a Volkswagen.  I’m just playing what Emmy and Boppy play.”  This story cracks me up.  I can just see my 79 year old mother swatting my sister because she saw a Beetle.  I can also imagine the look on my sister’s face as she got swatted just for driving down the street. 

If I had to moralize this story…I guess the moral would be, be careful of what you do because your actions can imprint others.  See, that just seems ways too gooey for one of my blogs.  I just don’t do sweet and sappy.  The moral of this story is, watch out for Volksawagens.  Because when it comes to Beetles it’s much better to be the whacker than the whackee.  Yup…that sounds like me!

The Precious has needed a haircut for quite some time.  Knowing how he behaves when his hair is cut, we have avoided this process.  At least once a week we ask, “do you want to get your haircut?”  The answer is usually said in a scream as he runs as far away as he can get….”No, I don’t want a hairtut.”  Well, last night his mother threw down the gauntlet.  “You are getting your haircut tonight.  Now, do you want it cut inside or do you want to go out on the basketball court?”  After many tears, and much denial he admitted that he would rather have his hair cut on the basketball court. 

As I was setting up all of the equipment, he grabbed the clippers.  I knew he wasn’t going to hurt himself with them.  They have a built-in safety guard.  He felt them.  He made his mommy feel them.  He was laughing about the vibration of the clipper and how much it tickled.  I asked for them back, and in return put his “superman” cape on him.  He willfully and without force climbed onto the bar stool for his hairtut.   I was foolishly thinking that this could be easy.  I was thinking he had finally gotten old enough to have his haircut without it being a totally traumatic event.  Wrong.  It was just as this sense of peace came over me that the screaming began.  “Stop it, Emmy…don’t…I don’t want my hairtut!”  At this point I have clippered half of the upper part of the right side of his head.   I am not stopping now.  He’s mommy is right in front of him shouting bribes.   “If you’re good, you can go with me to pick up some food, and then we will go to Starbucks!”  The kid loves Starbucks.  Isn’t that the Yuppy of the yuppiest thing you’ve ever heard?  For just a moment he slows down…not calms down…just slows down.  I am chasing the kid’s head with barber’s clippers.  Not an easy task.  I asked him if he wanted his mom to hold him.  “No, I don’t want my mommy.  I want down.  I don’t wanna’ hairtut!”  Now, I have decided not only to cut his hair, but to cut it shorter because I don’t want to have to do this again any time soon.  “Do you want to sit in mommy’s lap?”  “No! I don’t want to sit in mommy’s lap.  I want down!  I don’t want a hairtut!  I want to sit in mommy’s lap!”  “Quick, he wants to sit in your lap.  Now, hold him down!”  We used moves previously only seen on professional wrestling.  We used the head clamp.  We used the neck twist.  We used the ear flip.  We moved like Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage.  He had no chance.  We were a two in one tag team and he was that wimpy kid who was trying to stay in the ring with us for three minutes.  I was running the clippers over his sweat drenched head so quickly, it’s a wonder the kid still has ears.  She would point out a spot I had missed, turn his head in that direction, and I would buzz that section and move on to the next.  From beginning to end it probably took 15 minutes.  The fifteen longest minutes of my life!  When I thought I was done I threw my hands up in the air like a prize winning goat roper.  Done!!!  His mother put him down so fast I’m surprised he could run as quickly as he did.  The child ran in a couple of circles.  Then he dropped to the ground, “itchy…itchy…I’m itchy.”  His mommy is trying to take his shirt off, but he is convinced that she is going to put him back in the choke hold.  “NO!!!  I don’t want to!!”  “Hey, why don’t you jump in the pool and wash all the itchy off?”  “No, I don’t want to.”  “Why don’t we go inside and take a bath?”  “NO!!!!  I don’t want to.”   “Why don’t you shut up before I punch you in the face?”…okay, I didn’t actually say that last part.  Well, in my head I sorta did.  He is sitting on the ground and heaving with sobs.  Not really crying any more just trying to calm down and heaving.  His final battle cry is a weak, “Nose” in one breath, followed by “snot” in the second…the word under his breath is itchy, and he says it a lot.

So the Precious at least looks like a little boy.  His imperfectly cut hair is much cooler, if not stylish.   And when he took his bath, (Oh yes, dear ones.  She got him in the tub) his hair was much easier to wash.  Although, he threw a minor fit over the hair washing…it was nothing compared to the WWIII that the cutting caused.  When they left, I felt like I needed one of two things.  Tequila or pancakes.  So we went to IHOP and I had pancakes…with lots of butter, and syrup, and bacon.  I felt better…not healthier…but better.  Now, I’m not saying I will never cut his hair again.  For two reasons: 1) I truly believe at some point he will realize haircuts aren’t life threatening, and 2) He won’t always be three.  If he’s still acting like this about haircuts when he’s 13, I’m going to suggest therapy.  If not for him, for his parents….and perhaps me and Boppy.  But….here’s the trump card, when Boppy came in from golf and came into the family room to see The Precious, he looked up at him and said, “hey Boppy, do you like my hairtut?’