Turn-about is fair play. I guess.

  When I was working at the newspaper and writing Inkspots every week back in the ’80s, I was never short of topics to write about. Mainly because Bing and I had five lively, accident-prone children. Did I mention lively? And accident-prone? Then, when all else failed, I could always count on Bing to do something Inkspots-worthy, like backing the car out of the garage whilst the garage door was still down. Or rushing off to one of the children’s softball games with his T-shirt on inside out.

After those and similar episodes, he would always mumble, “I suppose you’re going to write about this.” Of course I was going to write about it. As I’ve mentioned before though, he was always a good sport.

The children also took their unasked-for publicity with good humor. However, I now seem to be reaping some of my own medicine. Does one reap medicine? Probably not. Oh well.

Daughter # 3, Meg, has for some time written a personal column which she inserts in the business publication she sends out weekly to her music clients. Her business is representing record labels, artists, radio stations and the like. Okay, translation: I haven’t the foggiest idea what she does. All I know is I seem to show up with some regularity in her column. She thinks it’s funny that I pay no attention to expiration dates on food, medicines or anything else that crosses my path. My struggles with cyberspace also are fodder for her column.

Last week I flew to Nashville to visit her and her spouse on her birthday. We had a lovely time filled with lots of laughs, reminiscing, watching old home movies and eating wonderful meals prepared by her better half, who is a gourmet cook, among other accomplishments. The parts of the visit that made it into Meg’s column the next week went something like this:

“Before leaving for the airport to fly back to Iowa, I suggested Mom grab a sandwich at the airport since in-flight meals have yet to be reinstated.

Mom: I’ll just make a peanut butter and Miracle Whip sandwich here and have it before I go.
Me: We don’t have any Miracle Whip. (Inkspots note – Meg thinks Miracle Whip isn’t real food, just a bunch of chemicals. Go figure.)
Mom (with glee): Oh, yes you do! I found some yesterday and already had a sandwich with it.
Me: Are you sure it wasn’t just regular mayo? We haven’t bought any Miracle Whip since. . . well, ever. We’ve never bought Miracle Whip.
Mom: I’m sure, here look.
Me: Where did you find this?
Mom: (starting to make her sandwich): In the way back.
Me: Mom! This expired in October 2017.
Mom: It’s perfectly fine.
Me: It’s yellow.
Mom: That’s just the eggs.
Me: If you get food poisoning, you’ll be 30,000 feet in the air.
Mom (logically and with a full mouth): If I was going to get food poisoning, I would’ve gotten it yesterday.”

I have to admit, Meg’s recollection of our conversation is pretty accurate. Except for one thing:

I never talk with my mouth full.