The boy has three passions in this life: Eating, playing the piano, and golf.
They all cost me ridiculous sums of money, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that — one day in the distant future — they’ll pay off and we’ll hit the jackpot.
Like when the boy wins the Hot Dog Eating Contest at the state fair and gets to bring home a four-foot Oscar Mayer trophy that has spent some time with the can of gold spray paint. That’ll be a moment we’ll treasure forever, I’m sure, because there isn’t anything in this world which shouts out, “I can eat more than you can!” better than a four-foot, gold-painted wiener, that has been presented to you by your town’s mayor, sitting on the entertainment center at home.
One day last week, when I precariously made my way down our stairs with an overloaded basket of dirty clothes that was destined for the washing machine, I noticed the boy teeing off in the family room. My shrieks of protest, as I envisioned a shattered big screen TV that we’d have to explain to Hubs, were met with a blank stare, as the boy said, “It’s just a lightweight, plastic whiffle ball, Mom!”
Well then. That’s okay, because we do tend to hit lightweight balls inside the house, as evidenced by the fact that I had four boys in my family room one afternoon last week, hitting exactly that kind of a ball out of the boy’s pitching machine. They were using real bats, which tended to make me a bit nervous, but I simply said to the one designated as the umpire, “If anyone throws their bat when they take off for first, they can come upstairs and scrub my toilets.”
That statement worked as a buzz killer, because the boys took the battery-operated pitching machine and the real, metal bats outside and mumbled words that sounded a lot like HIGH STRUNG and NEEDS TO RELAX.
I have no idea who they were talking about.
Truly, though, if the boy is not eating, he’s playing the piano. And if he’s not playing the piano, he’s hitting golf balls. And if he’s not hitting golf balls, he’s eating. Except, I guess I’ve seen him eating Pop Tarts WHILE he’s been at the piano, so there’s an example of him combining his passions.
(And leaving brown-sugar-frosting crumbs in the keys for me to dust out later.)
On Friday, the boy had a little skills tournament at the golf course, after a full week of lessons. He and his buddies, Lane and Eli, showed off their stuff and whispered, “Could we buy hamburgers at the club house soon? We’re starving!”
He has better manners than Tiger does.
When his golf ball zipped across the green and plopped into the little cup on the very! first! swing!, I screeched enthusiastically and clapped and cheered like a genuine hillbilly at the big truck rally.
And that’s when I realized that golf spectators NEED TO BE QUIET, people! Golf spectators just smile silently when they’re excited. This realization made Tiff and I burst out laughing, because we are clearly not cut out to watch this sport from the green. We’re more in tune with watching it on TV, in the clubhouse with a glass of wine, where we can whoop and holler when our boys nail holes-in-one.
(Holes-in-one is grammatically correct. I know this, because I just Googled it, because my Type A personality sat there and stared at it and said, “How in the blazing saddles do I pluralize THAT?!” And now I know, for future references, when I’m interviewed by Katie Couric and have to say on national television, “Yes, Katie, our boy and Lane and Eli are actually tied for holes-in-one in the competition right now, and Tiff and Mary and I have been kicked out of the tournament, because we cheer and clap and snort with laughter too loudly for the US Open. Plus, we can never manage to quit talking while the players are teeing off. We are better suited as cheerleaders for a hockey game, but our boys are golfers…where spectators must be quiet, and no one gets to wave a giant, foam finger in the crowd or blow an air horn! Shh!”)
The boy even managed to make a brand new friend during his week of golf lessons, and when I introduced myself to this new boy’s mama, I realized one thing: She’s beyond sweet, so this friendship is going to turn out just golden. (Plus, she herself is a golfer, so she’s accustomed to remaining PLUM SILENT in tournaments when she’s a spectator, so she promised to coach me in this area, until I manage to nail it.)
There’s the boy’s new friend — right there in the blue-and-yellow-striped shirt.
I realize that you can’t see his face, but the snapshot that I took of the two of them together had a small focusing problem, due to photographer error, and, if I shove it into the blog, just looking at it will make you dizzy enough to recall the time you had to lean over the edge of the cruise ship and unload your lunch.
The boy and his new buddy have already concocted great plans to hit the golf course together this summer, and his mama and I have made great plans to sit on the patio of the club house and talk.
Quietly, of course.
So that was Friday.
And the Jedi Family did a lot more this weekend, too, because we tend to overload our weekends with activities that spell F-U-N.
On Friday night, we met Tyler and Heather on the deck of the local bar and grill, but that is a blog post by itself, and when I come to grips with the fact that the ’80s has now become a decade that waitresses can use as Theme Night at the Pub, then I’ll write about it.
Suffice it to say that Madonna took our order, and Heather and I erupted into fits of hysterical giggles when we both admitted that, yes! Yes, we BOTH had a pair of the fishnet, fingerless gloves that Madonna was wearing when she served our meals.
But the differences between our gloves and this twenty-three-year-old Madonna’s gloves could be summed up with one sentence: We bought ours in REAL STORES, while she bought hers at the thrift shop, after someone like us had apparently cleaned out their closets and (finally!) gotten rid of their outdated stuff.
On Saturday, after we’d fought the crowds at Wal-Mart for the Big Haul of groceries and after I’d talked Hubs down from a near-miss of him participating in Shopping Cart Rage, we went to a barbecue that our friends, Sam and Robin, threw.
I know it’ll come as a surprise to y’all, but I was so busy TALKING, I plum forgot to take pictures.
I think I managed to take five whopping snapshots all evening, which is totally unlike me, because I tend to get a little trigger-happy with the camera.
But I did get a group shot of all the kids!
Look closely at it. Do you think the girls outnumbered the boys at this barbecue?
Six of them are boys.
I think Luke and the boy felt a little overwhelmed with all the estrogen surrounding them.
And then Sunday was a bit low-key for us. We went to church. We mowed the yard. (And when I say we, I really mean that the boy mowed the yard, because that is why Hubs and I had him. We have been patiently WAITING for him to be old enough to get behind the Honda mower, and this is the summer of YES! YES! YES! HE IS FINALLY TALL ENOUGH TO MOW!) And we even ventured off to see Cars 2 at the theater with Gabe and Jodi and their three kids (because of RAIN and THUNDER and COLD and WHY NOT), and my movie review for y’all is this: YAY! YAY! We loved it! Plus, the boy got to BREAK MAMA’S CONCESSION STAND RULES, and he got an entire movie-theater-sized box of Pretzel M&Ms. It was a box of candy-coated sugar nuggets that was roughly the same size as the battery in my Suburban. And he ate them all. It was his compensation for mowing the yard and his victory trophy for snagging First Place in the putting competition.
So, you know, it was a perfectly wonderful weekend.
Happy Sunday night, everyone.