Recently, I’ve learned something.
I’ve realized why my mom is so eager to have Petey and me visit, and why she doesn’t like it when we show up late, or leave early.
Normally my spouse and I enjoy each other’s company, and lead a relatively strife-free existence. But right now, I’m a little bit ticked off at Petey.
It’s well known that I’m no fan of the energy draining heat and humidity of our North Carolina summer. I watch for the subtlest of changes to leaf colors the way a middle school boy looks for whiskers on his upper lip.
Even though it was a dog biscuit, anything that smells that good baking has got to taste amazing, right?
Well, we’ll see.
Y’know, I should probably back up a bit here.
I’ve always felt that there are two kinds of people who frequent tea parties (not counting little kids and their guests drinking imaginary tea out of thimbles).
First, genteel ladies and gentlemen who like to get dressed up, and be around other fancy types. I don’t know a whole lot of those people; I mainly hobnob with the sweat suit set.
The sad, grubby little clipping had been stuck on the fridge forever. I’d torn the recipe from some magazine months, or even a year ago.
“But it wears out the pasta pots!”
That was the Newtonian-level reasoning behind Olive Garden’s policy of cooking pasta in unsalted water.
In high school, there was a guy named Kenny Brite. He was one of those old geezers that sit around the general store spinning yarns, only in a teenager’s body.
Take heed my readers, and you shall all know
How to have three steak dinners without too much dough
Oh jeez, I just reread this. Is it really as uber-dopey as it looks? Sorry.
Over the winter our Anatolian shepherd Riker was fighting a skin allergy. He was put on steroids.
My poor mother.
Growing up, I tormented both parents. Criminally lazy, I did my very few chores only after the threat of bodily harm. I took evil delight in pushing my brother’s buttons (most of which I’d installed). I’d try to see how many kids I could drive with in my 1971 Dodge Dart Swinger, Lancelot (the record stands at 11). My religion was “Question Authority.”
He was quiet, wore glasses and was the kind of redhead that ran a real risk of bursting into flame when exposed to the sun. He was also one of the smartest, and most talented kids in our class.
Ladies and germs — we have an authentic Christmas miracle.
I’ve mentioned before how impossible is it to get Petey to choose our evening meal. I get bupkis, neither by spontaneous utterance, nor when he’s prodded by a spouse who shall not be named.
Perhaps you’ve noticed my email handle at the end of the column every week; it’s ‘Momsequitur’.
When I write a column, it’s a careful dance.