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Dinner with the Hergott men

30 Mar

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.

-L

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Ice, Ice, Baby… and Crock pot mail?

29 Mar

First, I have an announcement— HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MARMAR:

My right eye has a white spot... that looks weird. I look weird.

Okay…

Hi. Ice, Ice, Baby! I would keep reciting the ‘Ice Ice Baby’ song… but alas, that is the only line I know.

Aren’t you sad? I know, I’ll sing to you some other song… if I ever am capable of learning lyrics.

La de da dum!

It is Monday.

I have a light for a face... awesome.

This is me, all bundled up about to go to the gym. I look like this every morning.

Don’t you like my stick legs and super warm fitted coat with fur lining? I totally rock the Russian spy look with this thing on. I absolutely am in love with this jacket. It is like wearing a sleeping bag… and I may or may have not slept in it before thinking it was a sleeping bag.

(I was really tired, okay? No judging.)

So on my way to the gym, I step out the front door and find this in the front yard:

Titanic iceberg?

Oh, hey there, random ice-cubes. Look at this picture, the sun isn’t even up all the way. It is early and already…. something weird is on our yard.

Seriously, what is up with this?

We decorate with... ice?

Okay, I know most people string random knickknacks in their yard, such as wind chimes, trolls and gnomes (very creepy if you ask me… its like they know something that you don’t), and those really ridiculous ducks that change outfits 76 times throughout the year. Seriously, those stone ducks have a better wardrobe than I do.

But ice-cubes? BALLS. (as J would say).

I decided to ignore it, walk past the army of cubes freezing on the grass, and go running.

___run____running____still runninggggg________________________________okay im done.

THEN 8.5 miles later, I returned home and Pirate father said there was a letter for me.

A letter, for moi???

I love mail! Who has sent me mail? Oh, I love them for sending me mail! I shall mail them back! Hooray!


But wait…HOLD ON A SECOND…

it is like 9am… the post has not come yet (that sounded very British). I asked him where he got it from.

(Are you ready for his response, brace yourself Reader.)

“It was in the crock pot,” he said calmly.

As if, finding mail in the crock-pot was a completely normal thing, like finding the soap in the soap dispenser.

“The CROCK POT?” I question.

Crock pot that hoards mail.

He says not only did he find a letter for me but also a check of money for him. He was in a very good mood because of this while I was very puzzled.

He obviously, was not going to question the crockpot-that-produced-mail because it produces some green for him.

Me, on the other hand, the crock pot was not so nice. It produced this in the form of a letter:

REJECTION LETTER from crock pot

A job rejection letter.

Add kitchen appliances to rejecting me. Email, letter, phone calls, and now crockpot. Nice.

This particular rejection was dated on Feb. 2nd (so apparently the crockpot ate the mail almost TWO MONTHS ago) and I applied for this Nashville, IN job in November.

I don’t love them and am not going to send them mail back.

(sticks out tongue and makes a face)

ALTHOUGH, I could mail them back and explain that I just go their letter out of my crock pot and now it has found its way into my trash can.

-L

Pirate Texting

26 Mar

First, let me say, I almost was crushed at work today by a co-worker. I was in the stockroom, shoes, where there are large rolling shelves of shoes. I was between two of them, trying to grab at shoes and somewhat hidden from view (I’m tiny and can hide easily in these environments).

My back was turned and the shelves were tightening, closing in on me, and I had to give a quick yelp and jump about before being crushed between two metal shelves…. of Reeboxs and Nikes. Shudders. Rocks in fetal position.

It was very traumatic. I deserve a metal of… bravery. Or a new pair of shoes. Something.

Actually, I think I am the only one that has a serious fear of these racks of shoes and being crushed, but seriously, it could happen. And it scares me something terrible.

________________________

ANYWAYS-

Who likes to text?

If so, raise your hand. Or text me saying “I am!” (Just kidding, don’t do that, silly.)

My hand is not raised. I don’t like texting. I think it is impersonal, costs too much, and leaves too much room for misinterupptation. Sure, the little note here and there, but overall, I’m a lets-talk-on-the-phone-and-hear-each-other’s-voices kind of gal. Anyone with me? Can I get an Amen, please?

Honestly, just call me, I’d love to talk to you. Texting is for weeniessssss.

My pirate father is NOT a texter. I repeat, not a texter. In fact, he is not very talkative on the phone either, usually calling and talking for about 27 seconds and then abruptly hanging up because the hockey game is on, or his HOOTER wings have arrived and he needs to devour them in manly timing, or he is stuck at Lowe’s and just found some really great deals on carpet squares- something that is a necessary in every room- right?

Why then, my father, this morning was texting at 7am is a mystery to me. Let me explain.

This is his phone:

Razor, my pirate's cell phone

I have only seen him use it to call people occasionally, and when he does, he just flips it open and bellows the name of the person into the mouthpiece. It is voice-activated (very trendy and high-tech if you ask me), making it very foolproof for people who are not well adjusted with tech phones ::father::

No dialing needed, just have the name ready and a loud, clear voice.

So this morning, I am up early, drinking my freshly made french-pressed coffee at the table. I have one of my many girl magazines spread out in front of me and am completely engrossed in an article with a very chiseled-looking man with a rueful smile, when my father goes-

“Did you get my text? I just texted you.”

I look up. Text? It is 7am and he and I are the only ones up. Why would he text me? My phone is upstairs, next to my bed, where I always leave it.

“No,” I respond suspiciously, “Why would you text me? I am right here, next to you… we can talk.” I gesture at the kitchen table.

He gives me a goofy smile. “I texted Mom too. I want to go to breakfast. I invited you guys.”

Ding! Ding! Ding! My mother’s cell phone, which is clearly in her purse next to the kitchen table, goes off with the breakfast invite text.

My pirate father looks very pleased upon hearing the text come in on her phone. Some weird euphoric sensation?

“I just texted everyone,” he says it very nonchantantly, like you would say I just read this book or I just got the mail.

He sips some coffee. “I just clicked a bunch of boxes hahahaha, I even texted that guy from Up North!”

Now, I am puzzled. What guy from Up North? Am I suppose to know about some hermit up there? Is this some distant relative?

Or maybe, I begin to think excitedly, he is talking about some kind of secretive, attractive lumberjack character that he stealthily has been honing and priming for me… Oh my, stop it. My mind has been eroded by these darn magazines, I think, staring down at my Cosmo.

DAD,” I say sternly. “What guy from Up North? And how many people did you text?? Why didn’t you just ask me to breakfast like, in person?”

He is completely engrossed in his phone now, having gotten a response from his mass breakfast text. Dismissively, he doesn’t answer my questions but concentrates on responding to his text.

“Oh Shit, this is harder than I thought…. Danny texted me back and wants to know where Linda’s and Benny’s is at (two breakfast locations)… Hey, L, is there a send all button? Like, if I want to send something to everyone?”

He peers up and looks at me as if he has just asked the million dollar question. So, this is what you want to do, I think. This has been the scheme all along.

“No,” I answer quickly. “Not possible.”

“Well, shit… this is taking a lot out of me. Now I have two messages to read.”

More texting.

Finally, after sending his friend directions to where the breakfast locations, he gets a response. This is what his friend texted back:

“I’m in FL. What’s up?”

My pirate father smiles, acting like this is completely scintillating news. “Now, isn’t that cute,” he says in a satisfactory way as if he is communicating the elite way.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Dad! Why would he tell you he is in FL and what is up after he asked for directions to your breakfast invite?” My voice is shrill with frustration. Oh dear, I am aware that I am slightly snappy but this whole texting business has completely ruined my plan of drooling over chiseled-man article and ads for really cute sun dresses and tangerine sandals!

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he goes over to the computer and begins to check email. He is in sweats and as always (without fail) is wearing a Detroit winter hat on his head. Only, is is not on his head really, but mostly just propped there- carefully balanced snuggly.

Checking email

This is the front of the famous hat. I have always, always seen my father wear this. It probably is older than me.

This hat is like a relic in the Hergott household.

Anyways, I should really go see what this text was all about, don’t you think? I grab my coffee and Cosmo (pirate father does not need to see what kind of scandalous crap I am reading these days), and sidling out of the kitchen, upstairs, I grab my phone.

OH my. Oh my…

Why at 8:32? Why not.... 8:30? Anyone?

Obviously the right sentence of inviting others to breakfast takes a bit of honing, I think in his defense.

I still have not gotten a straight answer out of him as to why we were invited to breakfast at preciously, 8:32 AM.

Why not…. 8:30? 8:28?

Does anyone else get breakfast invites like this?

-L

Dinner conversation at Hergott house

15 Mar

I cannot even begin to explain the strangeness and obscurity that I am surrounded by living back home, in my childhood home, with my family, who are sometimes smelly (brothers- two), or just wearing their underwear because they own the house and have a right (pirate father), or always want me to rub their feet and take them on walks (mother). Or who bake weird vegan meatless dishes and force me to practice yoga with them (hippie sister).

 

I am not making any of this up. On a daily basis, I am bugged and bombarded with weird requests but sometimes- once in a blue moon– I am asked really wonderful things. For example, just last week, the pirate asked me if I wanted an hour-long massage because he had an extra one and didn’t mind giving it up. Immediately, I shrieked “yes, of course!” And began to fantasize that I was asked because I am lucky and should probably go play the lottery….. but then, after the massage we had lunch together.

And pirate tried to offer advice on dating (never a good idea), saying “You should probably date more than one guy at a time, because that seems to make sense… I mean, I don’t understand why you are only with one guy! Back in my day-”

“Dad, that is called a slut. Or a whore. Or cheating. How is that a good idea? And I don’t know if I really want to hear what you did back in your day,” I snapped back.

Then we finished our meal and that was that.

 

ANYWAYS, BACK TO DINNER CONVERSATION. (Clearly, I can stay on topic and never get sidetracked… nope, not me)

 

Here it goes:

Pirate: Father, Al: Brother 1, Lou: Brother 2, Mother: Mother, L: Me/confused offspring

Pirate: So Al, I think your butt is getting big. You got that Hergott butt. Did you work out today?

Mother: Oh, leave him alone!

Al: Ya, I did work out.

Pirate: Well, listen- I have a plan.

L: Great, a plan. Never a good idea.

Pirate: ::glares at me:: ANYWAYS, here is the plan: For the next two months, I am going to make a bet with you. Whoever loses more weight, gets $300. So if you lose more (talking to Al) then you get the money. If I lose more, then you work for me, $300 worth of work.

L: ::jaw drops open, speechless::

Mother: Ohh, I think that is a grand idea!

Lou: I want to do it!

L: WHAAAAAT? If he loses weight, he gets PAYED?? You do realize that is totally unfair considering he does not work and has no job or motivation to get one and earn money the normal, correct way. What the hell, may I try to compete for this said $300?

Mother: Oh, L, you are so thin! You can’t lose anymore weight!

Pirate: Yay, but if you gain 30 lbs. you can win!

L: How the hell am I suppose to gain 30 lbs. in two months?

::Long pause, everyone is thinking and chewing the frozen lasagna that actualy tastes quite decent::

Lou: Just get pregnant. You will gain weight really fast then.

Mother: Ohh, I love my family. I love coming home to them. L, want some more lasagna???

__________________________________

 

Just another night in the Hergott household. And apparently, I should get pregnant immediately.

-L