16 April 2011
386
R. Linda:
I want to know what happened to me carefree life when dinner consisted of candlelight, wine, some delicious concoction the wife made and an equally delectable dessert? Not long ago, the wife and I decided we had fallen into the old married person's rut of scrounging for dinner without really caring what dinner consisted of, rounding up two wild laddies, bibbing one up and getting the other to stop squirming in his chair, AND how to keep the dogs from sitting at attention between them in wait for a morsel to drop to the floor where doggy clean up would commence. Gone were the days of soft music in the background, gone were the days of polite and meaningful conversation, and in place was lots of noise, shouting, refusing to eat certain green foods, and the constant question WHY along with WHAT IS DIS and WHY DO I HAFTA EAT IT?
It took some time, but we started to realise that something was amiss. We no longer held hands, or smiled at each other across the table, there was no direct eye contact as the salt or pepper was asked for. There was more conversation directed at children and dogs than each other unless it was an order to fetch something one of us forgot to put on the table. Sad, very sad isn't it?
So we decided to have a quiet adult dinner, just the two of us. Unfortunately, we couldn't get a babysitter on short notice, so we thought we'd do the next best thing, have it once the boyos were in bed. We said nothing to them about it, they did though, notice neither of us were eating the "yucky green stuff" they were being forced to eat. They also noticed we had a gooey-looking cake on the counter and why weren't they getting any was a persistent question. Since our answers were evasive (we did not want to clue them in that we might be having something better than they were), so they rebelled, well O'Hare did anyway.
"I wanna dull pickle!" He shouted scattering the peas on his plate all over and some onto the floor where two diligent dogs vied for cleanup duty.
"Eat the peas they will grow hair on your chest," I said.
He looked at me askance.
"I DON'T WANT HAIR ON MY CHEST!" He shouted in his outside voice.
"Just eat those peas and then you can have J-ello for dessert," his mother said.
"I DON'T WANT J-ELLO, I WANT WHAT'S IN DAT BOX!" He pointed with his fork at the cake box.
"You'll get some tomorrow," his mother offered.
"NO! I WANT IT NOW!"
This got him a remonstrance from me on how impolite and ill-mannered he was being to his very own mam and that it did not sit well with me. And, if he continued he'd be in bed without the J-ello, but I would bring him a huge dish of peas.
This made him clamp his mouth shut, arms crossed over his chest, fork sticking up in one hand. This was the "Ima not eatin' no yucky peas" position.
Well . . . we caved first. I know, I know, we should have stuck to our guns, but no we were both hungry and wanted our own dinner, so he got cake, and so did the other one. Yup, they did and they enjoyed it which was obvious from the amount of whipped icing they were sporting on their faces. This too the dogs participated in. A crumb would fall and gulp, and a small hand would let the fork drop and doggy lips would be licking it clean, and the best was before we could clean the stuff off O'Hare's face he was off and running with two slurpy dogs eager to clean his face for him.
Finally, we got them both to bed and I quietly went into the kitchen and shucked some oysters, yes I be a mean mothershucker. Tonya got Tabasco and reset the table after scraping it clean from the previous two diners. She got the marinated steaks ready for the grill and the corn was set, the potatoes in the oven, and damn we were good to go.
Tonya lit the candles, and I put on very soft music so as not to wake the wee ones. I filled our wine glasses and we were ready to begin when . . . the sound of a loud voice in the darkened doorway said, "YOU FORGOT MY DULL PICKLE!" Me oyster went flying over my head for the jolt and Tonya jumped out of her chair in surprise. There he was, all 45" of him, hands on hips, demanding a dill pickle, which in his world of vocabulary is a dull pickle.
"Ock, for crying out loud," I said getting up to get the damn pickle when I slipped on the oyster and near twisted me ankle. I limped to the fridge, got the infernal pickle, gave it to him and watched him climb into Tonya's chair and peruse the table.
"What's dis?" He asked pointing with the pickle at the oyster, pickle juice dripping all over it.
"It's raw fish," I said to his look of horror. Forget the verbal response which consisted of depreciating sounds that made our appetiser suddenly unappetising. I had put the steaks and corn on the grill and I knew they were done, so with little choice I went to bring those to the table. Of course, Tonya unthinkingly set another place and there we were right back into our old ways, of cutting up small bits for O'Hare and me scraping corn off the cob onto his plate. I almost unthinkingly poured him a glass of wine, when my brain suddenly came to life and I said out loud, "What are we doing?"
By that time, the youngun was chewing on juicy steak, asking for sour cream on his "tatta" and fully ensconced in our intimate dinner for three. Finally, finally, he waddled off burping. We looked at each other like WHAT? And he turned and gave us the biggest old smile and off he went. That smile made it worth the interruption it did. But we now know if we want an intimate dinner we will have to await the babysitter because it just ain't gonna happen.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
I want to know what happened to me carefree life when dinner consisted of candlelight, wine, some delicious concoction the wife made and an equally delectable dessert? Not long ago, the wife and I decided we had fallen into the old married person's rut of scrounging for dinner without really caring what dinner consisted of, rounding up two wild laddies, bibbing one up and getting the other to stop squirming in his chair, AND how to keep the dogs from sitting at attention between them in wait for a morsel to drop to the floor where doggy clean up would commence. Gone were the days of soft music in the background, gone were the days of polite and meaningful conversation, and in place was lots of noise, shouting, refusing to eat certain green foods, and the constant question WHY along with WHAT IS DIS and WHY DO I HAFTA EAT IT?
It took some time, but we started to realise that something was amiss. We no longer held hands, or smiled at each other across the table, there was no direct eye contact as the salt or pepper was asked for. There was more conversation directed at children and dogs than each other unless it was an order to fetch something one of us forgot to put on the table. Sad, very sad isn't it?
So we decided to have a quiet adult dinner, just the two of us. Unfortunately, we couldn't get a babysitter on short notice, so we thought we'd do the next best thing, have it once the boyos were in bed. We said nothing to them about it, they did though, notice neither of us were eating the "yucky green stuff" they were being forced to eat. They also noticed we had a gooey-looking cake on the counter and why weren't they getting any was a persistent question. Since our answers were evasive (we did not want to clue them in that we might be having something better than they were), so they rebelled, well O'Hare did anyway.
"I wanna dull pickle!" He shouted scattering the peas on his plate all over and some onto the floor where two diligent dogs vied for cleanup duty.
"Eat the peas they will grow hair on your chest," I said.
He looked at me askance.
"I DON'T WANT HAIR ON MY CHEST!" He shouted in his outside voice.
"Just eat those peas and then you can have J-ello for dessert," his mother said.
"I DON'T WANT J-ELLO, I WANT WHAT'S IN DAT BOX!" He pointed with his fork at the cake box.
"You'll get some tomorrow," his mother offered.
"NO! I WANT IT NOW!"
This got him a remonstrance from me on how impolite and ill-mannered he was being to his very own mam and that it did not sit well with me. And, if he continued he'd be in bed without the J-ello, but I would bring him a huge dish of peas.
This made him clamp his mouth shut, arms crossed over his chest, fork sticking up in one hand. This was the "Ima not eatin' no yucky peas" position.
Well . . . we caved first. I know, I know, we should have stuck to our guns, but no we were both hungry and wanted our own dinner, so he got cake, and so did the other one. Yup, they did and they enjoyed it which was obvious from the amount of whipped icing they were sporting on their faces. This too the dogs participated in. A crumb would fall and gulp, and a small hand would let the fork drop and doggy lips would be licking it clean, and the best was before we could clean the stuff off O'Hare's face he was off and running with two slurpy dogs eager to clean his face for him.
Finally, we got them both to bed and I quietly went into the kitchen and shucked some oysters, yes I be a mean mothershucker. Tonya got Tabasco and reset the table after scraping it clean from the previous two diners. She got the marinated steaks ready for the grill and the corn was set, the potatoes in the oven, and damn we were good to go.
Tonya lit the candles, and I put on very soft music so as not to wake the wee ones. I filled our wine glasses and we were ready to begin when . . . the sound of a loud voice in the darkened doorway said, "YOU FORGOT MY DULL PICKLE!" Me oyster went flying over my head for the jolt and Tonya jumped out of her chair in surprise. There he was, all 45" of him, hands on hips, demanding a dill pickle, which in his world of vocabulary is a dull pickle.
"Ock, for crying out loud," I said getting up to get the damn pickle when I slipped on the oyster and near twisted me ankle. I limped to the fridge, got the infernal pickle, gave it to him and watched him climb into Tonya's chair and peruse the table.
"What's dis?" He asked pointing with the pickle at the oyster, pickle juice dripping all over it.
"It's raw fish," I said to his look of horror. Forget the verbal response which consisted of depreciating sounds that made our appetiser suddenly unappetising. I had put the steaks and corn on the grill and I knew they were done, so with little choice I went to bring those to the table. Of course, Tonya unthinkingly set another place and there we were right back into our old ways, of cutting up small bits for O'Hare and me scraping corn off the cob onto his plate. I almost unthinkingly poured him a glass of wine, when my brain suddenly came to life and I said out loud, "What are we doing?"
By that time, the youngun was chewing on juicy steak, asking for sour cream on his "tatta" and fully ensconced in our intimate dinner for three. Finally, finally, he waddled off burping. We looked at each other like WHAT? And he turned and gave us the biggest old smile and off he went. That smile made it worth the interruption it did. But we now know if we want an intimate dinner we will have to await the babysitter because it just ain't gonna happen.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
