The U.S. Bank of Kimberly is closed.

It only seems like eight million dollars ago that I admired my son as he rode his cheap little Hot Wheel down the walk. He was so small back then, so innocent, so easy to please, and so gosh darned inexpensive.

Well, pass the time and check the bank statements, Honey, cuz those days are gone. Nowadays it costs us a small fortune every time the kid walks in the door and it costs even more money to have him leave. Everything he does in between coming and going pertains to money, relates to expenses or is down right costly.

Rather than view his parents as the people who sustain him with our life-giving forces, he sees us as an institution that allows him to walk in and make cash withdrawals at any time of any given day. I’m not even sure that he has an account with us. Yet, I know that he sees me as his own personal ATM because I think he tried to enter a pin number on my forehead last night.

To think we thought that we had put the big expenses behind us once he was out of diapers and formula.

What was once a delightful child that would wave at me from the bus is now a 6’ tall money pit who costs more to maintain than a ‘57 Chevy with a rusted out chassis. Instead of happy comments and witty replies, our child has taken to responding to every inquiry with, "I need some money." And with maybe a few grunts and ever suffering sighs interjected of course.

"What, no greeting?" I asked as he came in the other night and ambled over to the fridge.

"Oh, yeah," he responded, indicating that he was grateful for the reminder. Naturally, I assumed he’d remembered that he’d not extended an obligatory hello. But rather than address me with a happy greeting he simply said, "I need some money."

No matter the day, no matter the hour, any time I ask him, "Are you hungry," "How’s your hair?" or the ever-loving, "How was your day honey?" he’ll say, "Oh, that reminds me, I need some money."

It’s gotten so that we can’t afford to ask him how his day went.

Any fool with a fraction of a brain would suggest that the kid get a job. And although my husband and I may not be known for our brilliance, we do have a clue. We’ve requested that he remain employed and requested that he finance his own extravagances. But demanding that he spend his own money on his own expenses only caused him to get more creative.

"Well," he explained to us the other night with visual aids including pie graphs and flow charts, "The dog was sick and cost $250. Since my health is stellar, don’t you feel I deserve adequate compensation? And let’s just take a minute to look over the statistics that I’ve compiled, shall we? The data clearly shows that I’ve not only saved you people money with my good health and great hygiene but that I’ve saved you time and travel expenses by not making you drive me to the emergency room. While we’re on the subject of expensives in our family – what, pray tell, did it cost to get Harpo fixed?"

I’ve become so conditioned to handing him money that I pass out $5 bills even when he doesn’t ask. In fact, the other night when he asked me to help him find his shoes, I asked him what size bills he preferred. And instead of inquiring as to what he would like for supper, I’ve taken to asking him how he would like his change.

As if that weren’t bad enough, he came in the other night and requested several dollars to take a friend to a movie. Being a woman of sound mind and financial ruins, I flatly refused.

"Come on Mom," he said, "you can’t just cut me out of your life like this. "

"I’m not cutting you out of my life, I’m just telling you that you’ve got to learn the value of a dollar."

"Can’t you see how important this is to me? Surely there is something you could do to help? "

"Well, you could do what I do when I’m low on funds and the cash cow has been milked of its last quart. "

"What’s that?"

"I dump the vacuum bag and rummage the lint trap."

"How about if you rummage it for me?"

"How about not?"

"Come on Mom, take one for the team."

"But I don’t wanna play."

Before I knew it, we were emptying my wallet and I was trying to fish a quarter out of the lining of my purse. He walked away with my last penny and a smile.

Which reminds me, I need some money.

Ahoy! Bring out the Harpoon!

I saw a commercial on TV one night that had me writhing in my chair. I’m here to tell you that there’s nothing worse than watching a skinny woman describe, in detail, how she reached her weight loss goal.

As I sat there in my fat cells, wearing a one-size-fits-all sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that the dryer had obviously shrunk two sizes, this woman bragged about how she lost pounds without so much as breaking into a sweat.

"I went from a size 10 to a size 4 in just two months," she said as she held up two of her bony fingers. She was smiling so happily, so joyfully, and I would have sent her a card expressing heart felt congratulations if it weren’t for one distinct point—I wanted to slap the crap out of her.

I think I speak for all of womankind when I ask, "Who wants to hear that a gal considered herself to be fat at a size 10?"

It’s enough to make a person consider taking the laundry off of the treadmill.

I may look like a before picture for a Weight Watchers commercial, but I’ll tell you this, it’s not for lack of trying. I exercise, I sacrifice and if it weren’t for food, I’d be toothpick thin by now.

Being overweight used to really bring me down. But I’ve learned to handle it with a new game that I like to call, "Beat the Scale." It’s so compelling that I’m thinking of writing the networks to see if they’d be interested in making it a reality series.

Before "Beat the Scale" was born, I used to actually eliminate as much clothing as possible before checking my weight in the mornings. I’d remove my eyeglasses, corn pads and nail polish. I’d eliminate all accessories, including wedding rings and gold fillings.

Then I’d close my eyes and hold on to the wall in an attempt to transfer some of the weight. I’d cock my head to the left, shift my hip forward and hope that with the right contortions, I’d come in at a quarter pound loss. I would stand there for what seemed like an eternity while I tried to drum up the courage to look down and actually read what the scale had come up with.

Despite my attempts and creativity, despite the fact that I’d removed everything possible and considered having any and all-unnecessary organs removed, the scale would show me numbers that were unimaginable. I’d throw an all out fit. I’d stomp up and down, kick the scale back into the closet for another 24 hours of isolation, put my jammies back on, replace my corn pads and head to the kitchen to comfort myself with a pot of coffee and a celery stalk.

Trust me when I say, it’s no way to live. That’s the reason that "Beat the Scale" was born. I decided, "What the hey! Why not keep the wedding rings in place and the corn pads intact? Better yet, why not keep the pajamas on and blame the extra pounds on the nightware?"

I’ve been happier every since. Why just last week the scale showed me numbers that I didn’t like, and rather than falling to my knees and flogging the scale with a makeup brush, I said, "Dang, remind me never to wear these satin pajamas to the weigh station again. Look at the extra five pounds that those bad boys added on!" Instead of throwing the scale, instead of banging it repeatedly with the linen closet door, I carefully slid the little appliance back into its little spot and walked away with a smile.

I think I’m a better person for it too. My mornings are brighter, my demeanor is much better and my bathroom scale no longer looks as if it just came out of a boxing match.

I can face the day with a smile. Walk the streets with confidence, knowing that although my scale showed me a weigh-in number that would rival that of Shamu, it’s not me. It’s my jammies. And if I ever see that woman on the street who transformed her figure from a size 10 to a size 4 overnight, I will walk up to her with confidence and grace, sporting a calm and happy face and take a minute of my time to actually slap the crap out of her.

If it's not one thing it's another!

Instructions for adding additional lighting to your home:

1. Decide that the dark space in your attic (or basement, or garage) could be better utilized with additional lighting.

2. Go to local discount store and, buy an easy-to-install -just-plug-it-in, florescent workshop light and two florescent light tubes.

3. Find pliers and put together the easy-to-assemble hanging apparatus for light fixture.

4. Put band-aid on finger that didn't know assembly was supposed to be easy.

5. Install the two light tubes and twist 90 degrees according to package instructions.

6. Plug in fixture. One light works and one doesn't. Curses!

7. Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, and turning light off and on.

8. Decide fixture is defective - cheap, inferior merchandise. Disassemble fixture and return to original carton.

9. Return fixture to store, get a refund, and purchase a deluxe, more expensive, less- likely-to-be-junk, model.

10. Take it home, and remove fixture from box. Do not assemble hanging apparatus until you are certain that it works this time.

11. Re-install light tubes and find that one works and one doesn't -- again. Curses! -- again. Find the wrapper in the trash and re wrap best you can, freely utilizing transparent tape.

12. Make a third trip to the stupid store to return the stupid lights. Who ever heard of a light bulb not working?

13. Purchase a replacement set of lights and return home. This is beginning to get old. Install the second set of stupid lights in the stupid, deluxe fixture.

14. One light works and one doesn't. That figures! Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging the light. There must be a surplus of defective light bulbs on the market this week.

15. Re wrap the lights in the wrapper that you cleverly saved this time. Return it to the store. Ignore appalled look of Customer Service clerk and ask for a refund.

16. Purchase a third set of stupid, inferior, no-good, lights. Why can't these stupid things be packaged separately instead of in stupid twin packs? That probably makes too much sense.

17. Return home and install third set of new lights in the new deluxe fixture. Three is a charm, isn't it?

18. Yes, an unlucky charm. This time neither light works. Spend only 15 minutes wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging light fixture - not that it does any good.

19. Briefly obsess about how good it would feel to smash the stupid, idiotic, worthless, good-for-nothing, mess into smithereens. Unfortunately, the store will not return money on damaged merchandise.

20. Re wrap third set of demon-possessed lights and put the cursed-by-hell light fixture in the box.

21. Return to store for fifth time and drag the junk to the Customer Service counter. "Still doesn't work, huh?" says clerk. Lucky for her that you want your money back or you'd smack her over the head with a defective light tube.

22. Get money back and flee from the den of light-fixtures -made-in-hell before the store revises their return policy and refuses to return your money. Enough is enough.

23. Go home and find a handy-dandy, heavy-duty, 10-year-old extension cord that you had outside that's been sitting in the elements.

24. Throw the extension cord over nail on wall and screw in a plain, old-fashioned light bulb.

Voile! Let there be light! God is good!