OH MY GOODNESS.
First of all, I was planning to blog about something else BUT after this family dinner it is imperative that you hear this.
Er, read this. Please bear with me as I will try to accurately describe the dialogue.
IT IS KIND OF LONG BUT READ IT, I PROMISE YOU WILL LOL AND PEE YOUR PANTS.
Please, don’t do the latter.
That is nasty.
Scene: Hergott kitchen table.
People: 3 men (Pirate, Al- younger bro, Lou- youngest bro and baby in family). And me.
AHEM, let me begin…
SO, I walk in from work and can tell Pirate is up to something in the kitchen.
Fabulous! I am starved and my tummy is growling! I wonder what we are having…. oh…. oh my…. what is THAT-
16 LARGE steaks... is this necessary?
Steak. An abundance of steak.
Let me ask you, dear Reader, how much steak does your family buy? A few pounds? Perhaps, 5 pieces?
Answer this riddle: How much does Pirate buy?
Solution: 16.85 pounds or 16 SEPARATE steaks
I think to myself, this seems to be a bit too much. I mean, you could easily feed 16 people. Or 32 small children. Or 56 infants, yes?
Pirate immediately stabs the package open with a large fork and starts thrusting it in and out of a steak. He wields the fork like he means business.
Stabbing of the Steaks
Seriously, why is there so much? 7 cows had to die for sure.
So as he is stabbing, I think to myself, I’m going to ask about that damn ice-cube vomit in our yard. There is no excuse for it.
This is what it looked like today, by the way:
It has significantly has melted, yes? Doesn't look so... weird.
“DAD-” I have to speak loudly over the thrusting and stabbing. He is clearly in the zone.
“Yay,” he says. Stab. Stabby Stab Stabby. Cow criesssssss.
“Well,” I search for the right words because I am not sure if he noticed the ice-cubes and I don’t want him to get paranoid that someone is secretly disposing of their cubes on our lawn, “I don’t know if you noticed, but there were a whole lot of ice-cubes on our lawn.”
“I know,” he stabs some more, “I put them there.”
Whaaat? He knew about this!
“Why, did you put them there? That doesn’t make any sense!”
He starts gathering the well stabbed steaks to go out to the grill. “Because, they needed to go, L. Sometimes you just got to get rid of them and make some new ones.” He walks out with the plate of steaks, directing me to make a salad.
Um…. Reader, is this true? Do you need to purge your ice-cubes ever so often? Like a water filter or a light-bulb?
I begin to make a salad, which is a job that I love. I could eat salads all the time. Just like a rabbit, not only am I fast runner (but not a sex maniac), I could eat lettuce all the time. I begin to chop up cucumbers, celery, carrots, and throw some basil/crushed black pepper for flavor. I begin to forgot about the ice-cube issue and am looking forward to eating some greens and half a slaughtered cow.
Brothers are setting the table and wandering around the kitchen. Well (in reference to wandering), only Lou, because let me tell you- he wanders all freakin’ long day. The main floor in our house is like a loop, and he just loops and loops all day long.
When you ask him, What are you doing? Why are you walking around in a circle?
His response is- I’m wanderin’ yo!
He is not really ghetto or tough but tries to act like he is.
But come on’, look at this punk:
How adorable is this baby?
Okay, he is respectively not his current age in this picture, but you get what I am sayin’.
All of sudden, Pirate wants tomatoes in the salad.
OH NO. TOMATOES= DEATH.
“No tomatoes!” I say firmly. “I loathe tomatoes Dad, they kill me on the inside. They cause me… pain. NO.”
He looks at me, sympathetically. “You are a handful… and I’m putting a handful in. Tough.”
I grimace. Ew. I open the fridge and see a half opened-can of chicken. I quickly make a reach for it and without thinking, I literally just plop it right in the middle of the salad.
Chicken plop muhahah- revenge is mine!
Pirate whips around and peers at the salad.
“WHAT is that?” He bellows. “I carefully placed the tomatoes along the edge, decoratively I might add, so for those of us (he suggestively points at me) that don’t want tomatoes can easily pick them off. But nooo- you have to just ruin the whole salad by putting chicken right in the middle…. you… you… -“
“Bombed it,” Al says calmly from the kitchen table.
Really, super quiet brother? You haven’t said one thing all night and you are now suggesting I bombed the salad?
“EXACTLY. You bombed it. You bombed it just like DRESDEN,” Pirate says with a very accusatory tone.
I roll my eyes. It is always me vs. them. One woman vs. three men.
“Dad, you don’t even know what that means,” I snarl thinking to myself I don’t even know what he means by that.
“Oh, I know exactly what that means, young lady! You are like Ms. Shirley Temple. You are always and always have been a conniver.”
That is me, alright. A conniver. A secret ambusher of all things right and good in the world. I am, deep down, a very evil person full of plots to overthrow the world’s rhythm.
We sit down to dinner and commence eating.
Then the phone rings.
Pirate answers and says “She’s not here.” And then hangs up abruptly.
“Now, kids,” Pirate asks as he slices a piece of asparagus, “what do you think that was about?”
I think logically that it was most likely a telemarketer for my mother, who is not here. I voice my opinion since my brothers are obviously too consumed with thier food to process anything in their brain.
Pirate’s eyebrows raises and says, “Or… do you think it was some guy in Colorado? Her secret lover that has been hiding out for the past decade in the mountains?”
I drop my fork. “WHAT?” Seriously, what is he talking about? Why Colorado? Why mountains? Why?
Apparently, this is where secret lovers are available.
He doesn’t answer me but now begins to lecture us on math and how buying these steaks saved him X amount of dollars which is enough to buy A, B, and C.
Reader, my father does this all the time. If you go grocery shopping with him, he will constantly quiz you on how much this is per pound and if you buy X amount of these is that a better deal than just buying X many?
I don’t like grocery shopping with him. It is like a math test that follows you around and always involves slabs of meat and BBQ sauce. Or gravy.
“Now kids,” Pirate asks (and he says it with a very You-Better-Get-This-Right-Or-Else-I-Will-Judge-You tone), “I bought this steak at …. blah X… blah blah”
I honestly don’t know what the question was because I have a problem.
It is called selective hearing.
Perhaps you have it or have heard of it. I lose interest and focus on something else, completely tuning out the person. It can be a good thing and a bad thing, but alas, this is my cross to bear in life.
All I catch of the math problem is him saying “5 times 7?”
Lou puts down his salad fork and from his moustache of Ranch dressing comes the answer, “60.”
Al immediately puts down his steak (which he is eating like ribs, they are all over), ” No, its 41.”
I slap by hands over my eyes and snappily say, “Its 35! 35! You numbnuts!” Pirate looks just as frustrated.
“See… see L, this is what I have to deal with.”
We ate some more and now Pirate is talking about some girl he saw at the gym reminded him of me. He explained that she was running crazily on the treadmill. I ask him how fast and for how long and explain that I sometimes will do an hour set at the 8 mph pace.
“Really,” he says impressively.
Yes, I think to myself, I have impressed my father. I just need to like win something, like the Olympics, or get a really snazzy spandex outfit and then he’ll be really impressed with me. His prodigy athletic child.
I have a long way to the Olympics..... blah.
My happy bubble bursts when he turns my running into another math quiz.
“Now, kids,” (he always starts off all the questions like this- have you noticed), “How fast is L going if she runs for an hour at an 8mph?”
Lou looks up and says, “Well…. 8 mph for an hour…. is 60 mins. So, 60 mins.”
We all freeze and stare at him. WHAT? What does that even mean?
“Um, no. Are you even thinking? How fast per mile?” Pirate badgers him. “Just give me the 1st number, geeze!”
“Oh… Okay,” Lou answers, “Um… 1….4. It is 14. 14 per mile.”
We all give up and throw in the towel. Lou clearly is not a math genius and the rest of us would rather just eat than try to correct him now.
Then the conversation turns to who is driving my parents to the airport because they are going to the Bahamas. Al and I both volunteer and begin to fight a little bit over who gets to do it. I mean, I like going to the airport. I have many good memories there and it is a great people watching melting pot.
“You know what… you both should go!” Pirate says, as if it is the best idea ever. “And after you drop us off, go to Butcher’s Inn. You got to go there.”
“What is that?” I ask, thinking it sounds like… well a creepy-slaughter house.
“You can starting drinking there at like 7am, perfect! Go there! Order some Jim Beam!” Pirate responds.
Pirate loves this stuff. Ewwwww is what I think of it.
Then, quiet Al simply says as he is clearing his plate, “Jim Beam… tastes like… alcohol.”
“Sometimes Al,” I say to him, “you just say…. things without thinking.”
“I know, it just comes out.”
And because I can’t help myself, I have to say this:
“That’s what she said.”
Lordy, lordy, does anyone want to join us for dinner? Preferably, another woman?
Pray for us. Or me.