Last Saturday afternoon, Theresa called me from Rival Town and said, “Hey! Can you and Hubs meet us in Gymnastics Land for dinner tonight?”
Gymnastics Land is something of a half-way point between Small Town, USA and Rival Town. Since it had been scads and scads of months since we’d done this, Hubs and I happily hopped on that train and rode it all the way to the swanky steak house, where a grilled halibut was calling my name.
It turned out to be Prom Night in Gymnastics Land, so we were floating at a table in the middle of a sea of gowns and tuxedos and fancy hair that was permanently shellacked with Gorilla Glue to keep it from falling out during all the dancing that was about to happen. After seeing the limo in the parking lot and and all the satin dresses, the boy looked at me and said, “What is going on over here?” Theresa and I explained the concept of Prom to him, and then we asked, “So? Are you going to go when you’re in high school?”
The boy said, “Well, not if I have to dance with a girl, I’m not! But I wouldn’t mind wearing a tux and driving around in a limousine all night!” And then he promptly said, “I’m craving a steak, and they don’t have any on the Kids’ Menu; I’ll have the 9-ounce New York Strip, please.”
Our boy may be dreaming of a lifestyle that he cannot afford.
Because it was Saturday and the Royal Wedding HAD JUST HAPPENED, PEOPLE, it was only natural that Theresa and I would discuss The Dress. And Pippa’s dress. And Prince William’s uniform. And the church and the music and the entire processional and the glossy cars and the double-kiss on the balcony. And somewhere, in the middle of all of this wedding discussion, Theresa’s husband, Gary, looked at us, with an oyster on the half-shell in one hand and said, “Years from now, I won’t even remember what decade this royal wedding took place in. I won’t remember the name of Prince William’s bride, either; I don’t even know it now! But I’ll tell you what. I can remember exactly where I was at and what I was doing when Art Bell announced on the radio that the recently-discovered Sasquatch, which had thrilled the world of science, was a fake. I’ve never been so let down and disappointed in my entire life.”
Hubs immediately raised HIS oyster shell and said, “Here-here! Art Bell is one good man, and I felt like I’d been gut-punched when he told us that it wasn’t a real Sasquatch, but a gorilla which some morons had tried to pass off as Big Foot. It had to be the biggest let-down in the history of science.”
And then the boy leaned over his bowl of creamy vegetable soup, which he’d opted for instead of the salad, and said, “Oh, man, Gary! Did you see the episode of Monster Quest when the Sasquatch grabbed the van and shook it all over the place while the guy was still in it?!”
Theresa and I looked at one another and burst out laughing so hard, it became impossible to suck oxygen into our bodies. We laughed and laughed and laughed, until Gary finally said, “Shut up, Theresa! Why don’t you and Mama go sit at a table far away from us and discuss your boring wedding?!”
And THAT made us laugh even harder. Because really? If you can’t tell your own family to shut up, what good is the First Amendment?
The boy tried to talk louder, to be heard over all the giggles, so that he could tell Gary in vivid detail about eighteen different Monster Quest episodes that had involved sightings of Sasquatch and the Patterson Film, and Theresa and I pretty much drowned him out with our hyena noises.
And then Gary said, “Listen, Boy. Just look her in the eyes and say, ‘Shut up, Theresa,’ and tell her to quit laughing at your stories. Tell her to go sit somewhere else!”
The boy looked at me and whispered under his breath, “Shut-up is a bad word, isn’t it?”
Thankfully, that comment made me feel secure in my parenting. Hubs may have corrupted the boy with Yeti tales, but at least he knows his manners.
Eventually, the boy packed up the remains of his 9-ounce New York Strip steak and went to sit at the opposite end of the table, where he and Hubs and Gary spent the entire evening discussing WHY Big Foot is real and how come a 9-ounce steak has so much meat in it that a person can’t finish it. In between uproarious laughter, Theresa and I managed to discuss eighteen thousand other topics, like youth soccer, spring scarves, crooked teeth, good jeans, and teenagers who drive. We DID NOT discuss Sasquatch, the Abominable Snowman, giant squid, UFOs, or mega sharks.
People, it was one of the best evenings ever! I can’t even remember when I laughed that hard over the dinner table, as Theresa and I came to the full understanding that we may have married nerds. She and I didn’t date nerds in high school; no, we certainly didn’t! It came as a shock to both of us to find out AFTER MARRIAGE that our husbands may have once sat around cafeteria tables and discussed the plausibility of one Sasquatch hunt over another while they traded pens out of their pocket protectors.
As we were leaving the restaurant a full three hours later, the boy grabbed my hand, so that he could hold it while we ventured outside into the DARK NIGHT. He looked up at me and said, “Mom, I scared myself to death talking about Big Foot like that, but I’d still like to go on a hunt with Dad and Gary to find one!”
And knowing this about Hubs now — that he believes in Sasquatch, and that he regularly listens to Art Bell — it will probably come as no surprise to you that he sent me a link to a video in an email this afternoon.
Oh, it isn’t a link on a Yeti. I wouldn’t bore you with one of those “I Hid a Monkey in the Woods and Filmed It Walking” movies. It’s a link for an extreme sport, where some boys have taken fishing to a brand new level.
A level that makes girls shake their heads and ask, “Why?”
Hubs’ typed email note said, “I have found a brand new sport! I love it! I probably need to get with Brother Joel and a couple others to make us some fishing armor so we can get started! I’m going to become a Carp Hunter, honey!”
Gary more than likely fits into the “couple of others” category.
It means FOREVER, people! Even if they think Big Foot is real. And even if they think that wearing a spiked trash can lid while they water ski and hunt carp with swords is hysterical.
And when you watch the video link, don’t think that you can try it at home. Fishing like this is only for the trained professional, which, I assure you, Hubs and his brother and Gary actually are.
Happy Wednesday night, y’all.