The Master's Touch

Every January, my husband's employer partners with a large national charity. No one is forced to donate a portion of their monthly paycheck of course, but employees in departments with 100% participation are given gold stars and entered into an end of the month raffle. Employees who ignore the posters and 3,000 reminder emails are put on probation and forced to pass out juice and cookies at February's blood drive.

The raffle is a big deal and always involves balloons, chips and salsa and at least one big wig from the corporate office to draw the names out of a hat. Last year, my husband's boss won a 60" flat screen television set. Tim won a $5 gift card to Dunkin' Donuts. This year, one my husband's college interns won two tickets to the Superbowl. My husband won a Webkinz cat.

The sight of the object caused all three of its potential owners to pant and drool.

"Can I have it?" everyone asked at once.

After a brief huddle, it was decided that the only fair solution was to award the treasure to the child who responded to his/her father's requests with the phrase "Yes, my Master" for the longest interval of time.

"Pick up your shoes please," I told Kellen, pointing to the piles of sneakers scattered across the kitchen floor.

I watched carefully for any movement. My husband confirmed that there wasn't any.

"Put your shoes away like your mom asked," Tim commanded a few seconds later.

Senses miraculously restored, my son hopped to his feet and scurried around the floor, collecting his belongings.

There is no justice in this world. Only overpriced stuffed animals.

"You need the Master's touch," my husband explained.