"Go To Jail, Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go,

Do Not Collect $200!"


Back in the day there were no sweeter words in the world. Your Monopoly opponent drew the dreaded Jail Card and had to sit out a turn while you gloated and scurried to advance your own agenda.







Sorry, kids, no longer will you experience that particular thrill of schadenfreude, at least while playing the updated Monopoly Empire, Own the World's Top Brands. According to Hasbro's website Mo-Emp's neatsy-keen features are:

Buy and trade the world's top brands and be first to the top!

Cool brand tokens

Fast, fun gameplay

Watch the Monopoly Empire towers rise and fall

Yes, kids, you can spend your increasingly rare free time striving for world domination through consumer products. How patriotic! And how much fun will you have watching those towers rise and fall? Lots, I'll bet, since you are probably too young to equate towers falling with the fruits of jihad. No worries, though, since we are talking fast, fun gameplay there will be no jail.  

That's right, a no-holds-barred quest for power with no pesky time-outs for bad behavior or bad luck. A dream come true.

Much as I would like remain on the soapbox about the ethical subtext of eliminating the Jail Card, I won't.  I have some sympathy for those traditional game makers who have to concern themselves with "snackability." New games, or versions of old favorites, have to be quick enough to play in the ten-minutes of downtime a child might have between etiquette lessons and vocabulary boot camp. (You can read more about this in the recent Wall St. Journal article Toys for Tight Schedules.)

Unless you owned the Monopoly set, you
 were never ever in a million billion years
going to get to use the Scottie dog or the
racing car. 

I have no nostalgia for those cute little Monopoly tokens of yesteryear, (oh, okay, maybe the iron), and even back in the day the plutocratic Monopoly Man was a bit dated.  The battle against product placement everywhere has everywhere been lost. Time-stressed multi-tasking is a way of life even for toddlers. We all live in Snack World.






But it seems a little sad that a lot of today's kids just don't have the time, even if they had the inclination, to loll about on an old blanket in someone's backyard and play Monopoly for hours. Yes, kids, there was a time when the phrase "drink the Kool-Aid" meant sugar-soaked fun, when sun tan lotion was meant to attract rays not repel them, and when "Go directly to jail," didn't sound like the tagline for yet another TV show.

Dancing in the Dirt

I've only myself to blame.  In a family of political junkies, sports fans, free-thinking economists and generally all-around well-informed types, the only thing I am up on is the squoodgy lifestyle news.  Some of it is easy enough to ignore. The comparison reports on Easter hams don't bother me, since someone else will be cooking one this year, and one salt lick is pretty much like any other anyway.  

But ever since overpopulating my neighborhood with cucumbers last summer,  I pay attention to gardening news, even the distressing news that competitive dressing--and I don't mean side-dressing, aka fertilizer--has sashayed through the garden gate.  

According to the Wall Street Joutnal's  Off Duty section:  Many people who garden enter a creative fantasy mind-set, even while pulling weeds and digging flower beds, and they want to dress the part. 

Dressing the Part, Wellfleet Style

I don't have time to speculate on the creative fantasy mindsets (delusional fugue states) of these gals, but dressing the part, it seems, involves bespoke jodphurs, high-end Barbour jackets, and $500 gardening boots.  In other words, add a shotgun and you'll be all set for a shooting party at Downton Abbey.  Or a gallop on the moors. Don't forget the Hermes scarf (and if you need to ask the price, you don't deserve one).

Well, I'm in trouble, since my seasonal gardening costume is less garden party and more garden gnome. 

And I fear my scuffed and faded 30 year old Wellies are just not up to the mark, old chap.  

Future Compost

Maybe my creative fantasy mindset needs a jump start, but I don't see how a pricy equestrian get up is needed to deal with my annual spring clean-up. The only creative fantasy I indulge in is figuring out what would happen if I tried to burn the leaves in situ.  Since what I imagine is a forest fire tearing through the neighborhood, I veto that scenario, and grab the rake.







The WSJ article goes on to quote the manager of the $500 boot company:   "Everybody's secret wish is to transport themselves to a more romantic era and have Mr. Darcy call them while they're picking the flowers."

Romantic era, my ass.  Romantic error, more like.  When I think about the past I don't see myself swanning about like Lady Muck, I see myself grubbing about in the muck.  I'd be the one milking the cows, picking the peas, or feeding the pigs.  If I behaved myself, I might get promoted and be allowed to haul coal scuttles up and down the back stairs. 

Let Them Eat Mulch!

If I were wearing couture overalls, though, I'd probably find it better to engage in creative fantasy mindsets and secret time travel wishes.  Better an imaginary quadrille with Mr. D than a reality check. Better a nosegay from a beau, than a nose full of allergens. News flash to the overdressed:  gardening is dirty, sweaty work.  Think about it.  Culivating, weeding, planting, weeding, harvesting, weeding. Are you familiar with the term "stoop labor." Your hands get dirty, your face gets dirty, your clothes get dirty.  Your manicure (gasp!) will chip. You will find yourself whipping that Hermes scarf off your neck to wipe the sweat out of your eyes.  You will encounter mosquitoes, ticks, cabbage moths, tomato worms, powdery white mildew, slime mold, aphids . . . you get the picture.  Those shiny leather booties ain't gonna stay shiny long, little lady, if you are trundling compost in the back 40. Remember Marie Antoinette, and her famous fantasy mindset at Petit Trianon?  Remember what happened to her?

You'd be better off doing what we do in my neck of the woods: garden in the worn, faded clothes we wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in, and save the jodphurs for another fantasy lifestyle.  Hmm-mm-mm, where did I leave my riding crop?