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October 29, 2002 Velma With the tilt of her head and the candle bisecting her face, my daughter stared at me across the dinner table with a faceted, cubist look.  A Picasso, perhaps, though much prettier.  Putting down her knife and fork, she wiped a smear of grease from her lips, and said, "Here's the problem.  Nobody wants to be Velma." She was right, of course.  Velma is pudgy and bespectacled and wears knee socks with a short skirt.  Nobody wants to be Velma if she can help it and both girls on this Halloween caper could help it. A couple of months ago, I decided to visit a nearby cemetery the night before Halloween.  I thought it would be fun to walk around the graveyard armed with nothing but flashlights.  Then it occurred to me that this was something the Scooby Doo gang might do.  So I quickly staked out the part of Fred because, frankly, I rarely have occasion to wear an ascot.  My daughter claimed the role of the lovely Daphne.  This left for Kate, my daughter's oldest friend, the only other female part, the part of Velma. "Kate told me if she has to be Velma, she won't set foot in The Mystery Machine for the drive to the cemetery."  My daughter sawed lamb chop as she spoke. "I don't think Velma's so bad," I lied.  "She's real smart." "And I'm sure she has a winning personality too, Dad.  Forget it.  If you think Velma's so great, you be Velma."  She had cut me off at the knee socks. "All right, all right.  Here's what we do:  You're Daphne, I'm Fred, and Kate can be Scooby.  Who knows if Scooby's a boy dog or a girl dog.  Right?" "I suppose," she muttered with a suppressed belch.  "I'll check with Kate tomorrow and let you know.  By the way, I cooked.  You're washing dishes." And I did.  I could hear my daughter humming and flossing lamb in the bathroom.  I stood at the sink, my arms in hot, soapy water.  I stared at my reflection in the darkened kitchen window and pictured myself wearing an ascot.

©  2002 by the beastmaster