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How many of you can claim to be “spam” in the daily life of your parent? I would bet you would lose the argument if you proposed that the ultimate desire of a child of a parent is to earn the designation of “spam”.
Let’s go back for a bit. The word “spam” to me conjures up a less-than-wholesome-existence. As I know it, spam is a pretend meal. It is what we ate as children – well, at least I did -- all the while pretending it was real enough that we would qualify as children-who-are-living-in-the-world-of the Canada Food Guide. It didn’t fool me then and it doesn’t fool me now. Go ahead, Google it and you will learn of its barely disguised deception as real food. But it sure fills the stomach when you are hungry, as I was in a just-above-and-approaching-realm-of-poverty.
Let’s go forward a bit. In living my dreams, I have been graced with a life companion, the father of my children, who believes his offspring are greater than the best sirloin. He has delivered me Lynn, Corey, and Kelly. He has blessed me and I am satiated with their love for their Dad and for me. And our love for them. We are sirloin in my past history of spam.
There is lots of history about my dad spamming me I can’t relate here, but perhaps I might someday. Suffice to say that, in a recent venture to contact my father, I had to face the inexplicable reality that my own father has characterized me as “spam” in his life. The e-mail I had sent was returned – confirming without doubt that I am spam. In the acerbic aol language, I was advised that I was no longer welcome. Not only that!! His own grandson, the small person who delighted his days, has also been relegated to spam. That hurts.
I can’t imagine my spamming my children, and I would not countenance Jim doing it even if he ever would. You make a commitment to the beings you bring into this world, else your efforts to live gracefully and peaceably on this earth are for nought.
A postscript: as I wrote this on Thursday night, I got angry that my child was spammed – and by extension his child. I phoned my Dad and “had it out with him” over it. He claimed not to know about the spamming technology (I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and lay it at the feet of the wicked stepmom). He immediately called Corey, so at least my call had some effect.
Let’s go back for a bit. The word “spam” to me conjures up a less-than-wholesome-existence. As I know it, spam is a pretend meal. It is what we ate as children – well, at least I did -- all the while pretending it was real enough that we would qualify as children-who-are-living-in-the-world-of the Canada Food Guide. It didn’t fool me then and it doesn’t fool me now. Go ahead, Google it and you will learn of its barely disguised deception as real food. But it sure fills the stomach when you are hungry, as I was in a just-above-and-approaching-realm-of-poverty.
Let’s go forward a bit. In living my dreams, I have been graced with a life companion, the father of my children, who believes his offspring are greater than the best sirloin. He has delivered me Lynn, Corey, and Kelly. He has blessed me and I am satiated with their love for their Dad and for me. And our love for them. We are sirloin in my past history of spam.
There is lots of history about my dad spamming me I can’t relate here, but perhaps I might someday. Suffice to say that, in a recent venture to contact my father, I had to face the inexplicable reality that my own father has characterized me as “spam” in his life. The e-mail I had sent was returned – confirming without doubt that I am spam. In the acerbic aol language, I was advised that I was no longer welcome. Not only that!! His own grandson, the small person who delighted his days, has also been relegated to spam. That hurts.
I can’t imagine my spamming my children, and I would not countenance Jim doing it even if he ever would. You make a commitment to the beings you bring into this world, else your efforts to live gracefully and peaceably on this earth are for nought.
A postscript: as I wrote this on Thursday night, I got angry that my child was spammed – and by extension his child. I phoned my Dad and “had it out with him” over it. He claimed not to know about the spamming technology (I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and lay it at the feet of the wicked stepmom). He immediately called Corey, so at least my call had some effect.
Though there is no lingering doubt that I am still spam. The wicked stepmother left me a message on my answering machine on Friday that my calls were not welcome and that I was harassing her. Rising to the occasion, I hit the “delete” key right away.
Spam. Delete. Tie Game. Sigh.
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