"Quit arguing, you two," I admonish the two quarreling immatures at my dinner table and I'm not talking about my grandsons. Sonny and Big Dave are at it again trying to outdo the other on some useless topic and it's not easy sharing a meal with two alpha males. These two are so alike they rarely agree on anything and I'm stuck listening to endless masculine drivel that is really just a pissing contest in a very weak disguise.
I try to hide in my kitchen but the townhouse is small and the voices carry and I really don't want to look at all these dirty dishes. I am an unorganized chef and by meal's end almost all of my kitchenware is in various levels of greasiness. Soon you will be in the pool, I chant, soon you will be in the pool.
And now I have left the mess and the dickering relatives and I am driving to my pool with the air conditioning blasting as loudly as my crappy hometown radio station. They generally play U2 and Fleetwood Mac with a smattering of Tom Petty, I suppose things could be worse, it could be Billy Joel and John Mellancamp, gawd. My car is ten years old and it boasts a tape deck, no CDs in this old gal. I only have one old Meatloaf tape but that's not counting the Christmas music.
And it is hot, yes it is, heat indexes are at 106 and what is this, I notice outside my car window. Men, all sizes, shapes and ages are walking down the steamy street with their t shirts in their hands. Men! All of you! Put your shirts back on! You, officer driving by me, arrest these varmints, they are guilty of scenery violation. There should be a law that states no man over the age of twenty can go shirtless. We do not wish to view errant body hair trailing from your armpits and swirling up your back and claiming your neckline only to meet with that little fringe around your scalp. We live in barbaric times when this kind of thing is allowed.
And now I am paddling on my back watching a lone eagle and two pelicans follow me down the lap lane. I am not food, I remind them silently, I am not food.
I try to hide in my kitchen but the townhouse is small and the voices carry and I really don't want to look at all these dirty dishes. I am an unorganized chef and by meal's end almost all of my kitchenware is in various levels of greasiness. Soon you will be in the pool, I chant, soon you will be in the pool.
And now I have left the mess and the dickering relatives and I am driving to my pool with the air conditioning blasting as loudly as my crappy hometown radio station. They generally play U2 and Fleetwood Mac with a smattering of Tom Petty, I suppose things could be worse, it could be Billy Joel and John Mellancamp, gawd. My car is ten years old and it boasts a tape deck, no CDs in this old gal. I only have one old Meatloaf tape but that's not counting the Christmas music.
And it is hot, yes it is, heat indexes are at 106 and what is this, I notice outside my car window. Men, all sizes, shapes and ages are walking down the steamy street with their t shirts in their hands. Men! All of you! Put your shirts back on! You, officer driving by me, arrest these varmints, they are guilty of scenery violation. There should be a law that states no man over the age of twenty can go shirtless. We do not wish to view errant body hair trailing from your armpits and swirling up your back and claiming your neckline only to meet with that little fringe around your scalp. We live in barbaric times when this kind of thing is allowed.
And now I am paddling on my back watching a lone eagle and two pelicans follow me down the lap lane. I am not food, I remind them silently, I am not food.
1 comment:
Our father is always right, just ask him....
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