To Dance, Perchance, to Dream

Oh. My. God. What a Wednesday. Yeah, I know today is Thursday. It's just the lack of sleep that makes me.....what was I saying? Yesterday I went out on the weekly treasure hunt, to scour the garage sales and thrift stores for those incredible finds that could be turned into profits at online sale venues. Children were nestled all snug in their beds, as visions of vid-yo-games danced in their heads. (Sorry, it was the only way to make the syntax work - LOL). Middle Son, who toils at McDonalds, was off for the day, and joy-in-a-box was winging his way. (No you dirty-minded geezers, not THAT). He had ordered a dance pad. Curious readers around the globe ask, "What's that?" He is SERIOUSLY into arcade games like, "Dance, Dance Revolution" , which the webpage says you can make part of your "lifestyle" {OMG I don't HAVE a lifestyle, but I digress, sleep deprivation does that to me, but I haven't told you about that yet because of these damned digressions, sorry} It is like watching Riverdance (Michael Flatley - Lord {which you have to pronounce as "lard"} of the Dance - remember him? (Mother of freaking gawd, I am trying to find his link and his page takes forever to load - oh there's part of it - he has his OWN I.E. toolbar, isn't that a sign of the Apocalypse? Geez, instead of his own toolbar why doesn't he get a webmaster who can build a page that doesn't take the rest of my life to load, oh dear, I am digressing again) Ah, at last the link. Un-digressing now. Middle Son spends hours at arcades, wearing out shoe leather on this thing. Yet there are those who are better, whose names have been placed in the hallowed ranks of "high scorers" {casts evil eye at snickering geezers} which pops up on the screen before and after the mayhem begins. Being a clever and calculating boy/man, he figured the cost of tokens to achieve the greatness level needed to join the hallowed ranks, and decided to purchase a home version, where he could spend hour upon happy hour rattling the rafters. Yesterday, (cue trumpets playing exalted entrance music) it arrived. The Fed-Ex guy probably hates us. It weighs about 50 lbs. It comes in a box that is larger than my first apartment. I returned from sale-ing, to notice the ground shaking as I got out of the car. This is not earthquake country. Entering my home was like going into the funhouse at a carnival (not my beloved-but-cancelled-by-those-wretches-at-HBO TV-program Carnivale', oh gawd I'm doing it again....focus, Marti, focus) The floor seemed to tip and roll, and strange lights and noises were emanating from his quarters. I approached to see him sweating like he was being chased by wolves. On the floor was (cue trumpeters again...I don't care...wake them up, I didn't get any sleep, they can't either)... THE PAD. click to enlarge (Trumpets blare, slightly off-key) To protect the privacy of Middle Son, and the aesthetic sensibilities of viewers, mommy has used her photo program to black out the background of dirty clothes, Krispy Kreme Donut boxes, and Monster Energy Drink cans. click to enlarge He danced. He smiled. He sweat. All into the wee hours of the morn. I attempted several times (vainly, but with increasing degrees of intensity) to request he cease and desist. Each time was met with a charming smile, a sincere-sounding apology, and what he thought was an appropriate period of silence. Then it began again. click to enlarge So that's the tale. I shall plot my revenge when I am more alert, and can fully open both eyes. Beware, my child - The Wrath of Mom approaches. The needs-a-nap-and-a-good-scheme Marti