Conversation Quickies: Dinner?

“What do want to do for dinner?” I ask.

“I don’t care. So tired of thinking about what to have.” She frowns. “Nothing interests me, seems like the same things over and over.”

“We’re still talking about food, right?” I ask with my best pouty face.

“Bored of that too”, she replies. “Talk about your same-old, same-old. Although, I have to admit, I think it’s admirable you’ve remained loyal to all your ‘moves’ from the 1980’s”

I slowly place my hand across my chest to represent the hurt she’s caused my heart. “I’ll have you know that many of my moves came from the 90’s. I spent hours watching Demi Moore in ‘Striptease’ to perfect that leg spin maneuver.”

“As I recall”, she says scrunching her face up and tapping her fingers on the kitchen island, “you were always too tired after those research sessions to actually employ anything you learned,” emphasizing ‘research sessions’ with air quotes.

“What? You know I require some down time after watching Demi.” As she rolls her eyes I give her my best malevolent stare. Unfazed, she slowly crosses her eyes at me so I spit out in mock disgust “I don’t even know who you are.”

“No. I think you mean you don’t even know where it is.” Proud of herself, she scratches an imaginary point into the air in front of her as if to say “One for me!”

With my finger wagging across at her, I say “Blasphemy! You’ve had the great fortune to be the recipient of some of the finest minutes I have ever given to a lady friend. Tales of my prowess will be discussed in hushed tones around firepits for generations.”

“Reeeaaaaallly? Would that be during short story hour? Or perhaps they could be told as limericks?” she giggles to herself.

“Oh… you so funny!” I say as I squint my eyes and buck out my front teeth. “Your gonna be cracking ‘em up at the homeless shelter.”

Shaking her head, she sticks out her tongue before she turns to look into the fridge. After a few moments of examining its contents, she queries “How about meatloaf?”

“Is that some sort of crack? First, I’m quick on the trigger and now, I’m inactive?” I say raising my palms up in surrender.

“Oh, shut up and help. Or its PB&J on saltines.” She saunters over to the open pantry and looks about.

“Yum-my”, I stretch out the word as I rub my tummy. Then raising my index finger, I say “If I recall, that’s actually your mother’s best dish. How lucky am I that you’ve been able to maintain these precious recipes throughout the years.”

She gives me the ‘Watch it’ look and walks over to the phone and dials. As I listen to her walk through her pizza order, she turns and looks towards me. “Name?” she asks into the phone. “Just put it under Fuckface”. She finishes up with “yup….see you in 30 minutes”.

She smiles and gives me a slight nod as she lays the phone down. “Guess I’ll be answering the door, huh?”, I ask.

Bowling...The Sport of Kings

            After 6 days of perpetual whining about our last volleyball excursion, my wife chose to leave me home from this weekend’s trip. My assignment was to man the fort and entertain my two youngest (Sean 11, Sophie 9) with a dayful of activities and mental stimulation. What to do, what to do…Perhaps a trip to COSI for some scientific exploration? Maybe a creative jaunt to the Art Museum?  Strap in for a roadie up to the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit? …OR, get the benefits of all three; Science, Art, and Technology in one fell swoop by going Bowling! That’s right, the sport of kings! Where athleticism, timing, and fitness are actually hindrances. Excited, we threw on our best concert T-shirts, blacked-out a few teeth and leapt into the Suburban to head to our local lanes.

            It’s tough not to be overwhelmed during your first steps inside. The tumbling crash of the pins, the electronic beeps, whirs, and flashes of monster video games, the colorful graphics across legions of automatic scoring monitors, and my daughter asking “Why does it smell like a frat house basement?”

I pat her head and reply, “That, my darling, is the scent of crushed hopes and dreams. A pungent cocktail of sweat, stale beer, and cat urine that emanates from each of these large-bellied, mutton-chopped, rayon shirt-wearing non-athletes like Axe cologne from an ugly eighth grader. Remember it honey, so you can avoid it later in life.” She nods knowingly and carefully hops over a dozing toddler wearing a “Rode Hard and Put Away Wet” onesie.

We head to the counter, where a Peg Bundy look-alike is complaining to the disinterested counterman that the toy crane’s “grabby thing ain’t closed right yet”, and get our lane assignment and bowling shoes. After selecting the lane balls with the least amount of lick marks on them, we haul over to our assigned lane and drop our gear.

“Howdy, I’m Ricky. Ya doin some bowlin?” asked the oldest of the clan that was sharing our lanes.

“Nope. We’re here for the foot fungus”, my son replies as he shakes a few syrupy drops from his rental shoes.

“Hi. I’m Greg”, I smile as I shake his hand. “Whewww…” I whistle as I look down towards his feet. “Where do you even find high-top bowling shoes?”

“Oh these”, he says tilting his right foot back and forth. “These here are special. Made from gator. One-of-a-kind”

“Of course they are. You can see the quality”, I pretend to gush as I roll my eyes at my son who is snapping his hand like an alligator mouth.

            “Dad, can we start?” My daughter asks. “I’m afraid if I stay still for too long that something may grow on me.”  

            “Don’t be such a diva, Soph. Now go up there and roll a strike.” I watch as she walks up and stops short of stepping onto the lane, waiting for Ricky’s son to finish and step off.

            She turns and whispers back to me “Can Herpes jump the bowling ball return?” My son bursts out in laughter causing his sister to start, so I shush them both while Ricky’s family looks on skeptically.

            On went the afternoon as we rolled a couple of games each and enjoyed a few laughs with our new acquaintances. We even had a few earnest discussions like (1) “Are sheep God’s perfect creature?” (Ricky-“you can eatem, drinkem, wearem, and you-know-what-em”. Me – “and if they could cook, your kids would be woollier…not much tho”) and (2) “Why isn’t Mountain Dew served with kid’s lunches.” (Ricky – “it wakes dem brains right up!” Me – “your kid just got his head stuck in the ball cleaner. Educational concerns seem optimistic.”)

            Upon saying our goodbyes, Ricky asked if my blonde 9 year old “was spoken for” and there was an uncomfortable moment as I grabbed and twisted his tongue and whispered “No more words from you.” After wiping my hand on the still dozing carpet toddler, I felt instantly smarter as we stepped out the door into the sunshine. We then piled into the Suburban to head back to civilization with a plan to tell Mom that the Henry Ford Museum was wonderful.

             

Writers note: Author is currently sporting a 126 average and thinks rayon is really, really comfy.

Please...change....your....bathing suit

            Let me start by saying, everyone has the right to wear any bathing suit they wish…in the privacy of their own backyard. But when we as humanity are thrust together in large groups, there must be some decorum in wardrobing ourselves. In my last trip to Kalahari water park (a large indoor bathroom containing slides, wave pools, and hardy antibiotic-resistant strains of skin and mucus membrane infection), my wife and I were party to witnessing several types of swimsuits that now need to be outlawed. Not just socially, but by legal statute.

1. The Small-Bikini-Big-Girl paradox: This is in no way anti-big girl. This is more defending the onlooker from trying to fend off body mass being thrust upon them. When a larger gal has 3 or 4 flesh shelves between bosom and bikini line, she becomes less a swimmer and more of an organic bureau. Sure, I understand the appeal of having these body pockets to carry around locker keys, butter pats, or a small animal carrier, but why not explore throwing on a nice fitting one-piece and spring for the built-in knapsack option. Don’t get me wrong, the body is a beautiful thing, I just should not have to push chunks of it off my children as they follow you up the zip-coaster.

2. German Thong Man: How does gift-wrapping your man-berries qualify as acceptable swim and lounge wear. Where’s the mystery? Might as well just dip yourself in Easter egg dye. I feel like walking up and saying “Hey Werner. First of all, congrats on the circumcision, but would you mind throwing on a towel. My daughter has just charted you for anatomy class.” And what’s with the positioning of the pieces? Why is the shaft always pointing straight up? Looks like he is walking around with a tiny misshapen bowling pin or perhaps a kiwi bird ensnared in latex. And here’s a warning for you Thong man, no bending over in front of us in line. My kids have all been trained on a speedbag and will bippita-bippita-bappita those things up to your adam’s apple if they come within proximity.

3. Surgically-Enhanced Older Woman:  In your day, a long, long time ago, I’m sure all those pieces fit together just right and you drew admiring stares as you strutted by. But now the rest of your body is sagging south like a melting candle except for these two perfect salt water orbs clinging to your collarbones like a liferaft. With the nipples perpetually at attention, you look like a Shar Pei wearing two Viking helmets. It time to pull out the PlayDoh and let the real ones rest on your waistband, sweetums. 

4. German Natural Woman: Sure, I get it. Shaving’s not a big thing in your culture. But don’t act surprised when you turn around and my 8 year old screams because she’s suddenly eye level with what she thinks is an angry dark-haired clown. I’m not even sure a skirt would help. Sort of like putting a yarmulke over dreadlocks. For the guests comfort, I think that Kalahari staff should handle this for all visiting foreigners. “Welcome Greta, that’s a lovely suit! Now please step into the Hairporium and let us get rid of that Yorkie you’ve got peeking out”

In no way is this list comprehensive or complete. I’m sure I just saw a man scribbling furiously after eyeing me in my rolled-up cutoffs, shower shoes, and water wings…

Birthday Bumped!

This year’s birthday blowout was not to be. That rare event where my birthday falls on a Friday night was trumped by a 14 and under girl’s volleyball tournament. I think the last time the Friday night birthday stars aligned, I was 19 and couldn’t enjoy it either. I vaguely remember doing something semi-heroic, like joining the Peace Corps or whale-saving. Or it could have been the night I was secretly dating a circumferentially-challenged Ivy Leaguer and Big Glenda was more of an “inside” date.

But back to the tourney. You know the type, you travel the night before and stay in a hotel so you can comfortably make the Saturday 7am starting time (where you will then sit in a near catatonic state for 12 hours until your child kicks over your sack chair and tells you its time to leave). But hey, its sunny out, it’s my birthday, I optimistically think “Road Trip!” I grab my wife and try to carb-up for the 120 miles of rush hour driving by quaffing margaritas alongside plates of Mexican delicacies consisting of various shapes of congealed cheese. Unfortunately, we carbed too early (premature carbolation?) and were left with a few hours waiting for the children to arrive home from school. Which, I found out, is exactly how much time is needed to build a full-blown Todd Rundgren “Bang on the drums all day” headache and decrease my trip enthusiasm to pre-prostate check levels. At long last, our children returned and we piled into the Suburban and headed for Mentor Ohio.

            To ensure our children’s comfort, we checked out the amenities on-line prior to our arrival at our destination’s Comfort Inn. Finding only a few gang symbols tagged on the outside and an inside pool mostly free of waterfowl, we were confident that our lodgings would be passable. For children however, any hotel stay is a mini vacation. So even though we were booked into what is the equivalent of the Radisson’s clubfooted stepsister, we shared the kid’s excitement as we pulled in after our 2 hour journey.

            We were greeted with a fairly large lobby boasting an old-time two-tiered staircase and a sign exclaiming “Free Toast!” for those fortunate enough to gather in the lobby at 7am weekdays. Our desk attendant signed us in, offered no baggage assistance and unashamedly passed wind as he handed me the keycards. His gastric aggression aside, he was quite helpful in explaining our room location by mumbling “Up there” as he waved a hand in the direction of the massive staircase. Undaunted, the children loaded the bags on me like an alpaca and we followed a Sherpa up Mount Stairway to our temporary digs.

            Our room was a pretty standard 1960’s model, 2 double beds, swivel TV, with probably enough DNA on the walls to look like a Rorschach test if you held a black light up to them. But the kids were excited to swim, so we dumped our bags, pulled on the swimsuits, mixed a travel cocktail and headed to the pool. The journey to this indoor oasis took most of the evening, as we followed arrows through a multitude of hallways, staircases and fire doors with pausing once to pick up a toll-card as we scurried across the turnpike. Cold, exhausted, and with an extra child we picked up on the way (we called him Petey), our group fell into the warm water for the last 5 minutes it was to remain open. Afterwards, in the cab ride back to our room, we all agreed that it’s wise to purchase a second Tom-Tom for mom’s purse to avoid future complications.

            Now famished, we head back out to find a reasonable eatery and come upon a crowded parking lot surrounding a blinking sign that beckons us into an Italian restaurant. I recon the situation first by asking the rather hard-looking hostess if this is a “place for kids”. She shrugs and growls “Yeah. It’s a fucking family restaurant”. And although I’ve seldom heard the f-word used in promoting family-friendly establishments, I liked her instantly and whistled for the clan to come in. After dining on portions fit for community picnics and now 30 lbs heavier as a group, we head to our beds to collapse. But sleep does not come easily. Laying on Chicklet-sized pillows and listening to hours of a screeching woman arguing with what sounds like a large Wolfhound keeps slumberland just out of reach.

            6am comes too early. Especially since I spent a good hour at 3am regifting to Mentor what I had received hours before in Italian cuisine. With 5 family members, morning bathroom time had to be shared to stay on schedule and we were challenged with a tiny bathroom containing a shower the size of a Mike & Ike box. Whenever I turned my body, my “frontlings” smashed into the soap shelf and my backside plopped into the vanity sink. It made it pretty tough for the kids as they brushed their teeth. But we all managed to clean up and headed out into the frigid cold to the tournament venue.

            Usually these tournaments are held in large college gymnasiums or field houses. We stepped into what must have been a refitted munitions factory from WWII. Enormous does not give it justice. 30,000 sq. yards of floor space with a ceiling so high you could make out weather satellites buzzing around the distant rafters. Heating was non-existent, forcing groups of fathers to disappear deep into the building for hours and come back with fresh seal skins draped around their shoulders to keep their clans warm. Tiny villages popped up around heavy people who emanated warmth. I shivered enough to chip a tooth and lost a nipple to frostbite behind court 3. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the lackadaisical effects of hypothermia set in and allowed us to sit quietly during the dozen hours of matches.

            My daughter’s team was the last to leave, as has been the custom. We all hugged Petey, sat him in a sack chair with a blanket, some water and goldfish crackers, and taped a sign to his head stating “Found in Mentor. Housebroken. Talks little, Eats less.” We then trekked with our heads down the whole mile to our parking space, hoping the car heater had a “cremate” setting. Finally reaching the Suburban, we collectively sighed as we climbed into the spacious seats. Looking into the rearview at my three kid’s faces as we pulled away, I thought to myself, “Enjoy this time. One day that backseat will be empty except for these memories.” As I fondly lingered on the sight, I watched my son headlock his younger sister who was defending herself with sharp elbows into his stomach and listened as my oldest daughter whined loudly about “actually starving to death”. Back to reality, I kick the heat up a notch and began running through my mind the excuses I could possibly use to get out of next week’s trip. I just hope somebody finds Petey. Such a good, quiet kid…