POOR MOM

  One of my favorite moments on any Friday Night takes place Saturday morning.

  With the boozing and carousing part of the evening over, we find ourselves back at Tony’s house, in the kitchen we both grew up in.  The familiarity of the kitchen cupboards and counter tops is welcoming.  A quick flick of the switch and the smell of coffee fills the room (Tony’s wife Beth handles the filling of water and grounds before we even arrive, bless her heart).

   As anyone who has ever boozed and stayed out late knows, preparing something to eat to go with the coffee is also essential.  Again, this is where Beth comes into play.  Aside from readying the coffee, Beth also hides most of the munchies before our arrival.  She will leave a couple of slices of leftover pizza and my precious jelly candies in plain sight.  Chips, lunch meat, pastries and other items deemed too irresistible are stowed away.  Only Beth and God know where.

   While the coffee brews, Tony and I repair to the family room with a slice of microwaved pizza.  I have occasionally passed on the pizza (I am not as bagged as Tony and can still realize that a wad of cheese at 2:30 am is a bad idea).  Every time I pass, it pisses Anthony off.  He has been known to cut off chunks of his pie, spear it with a sharp knife and wave it in my face.  I usually give in, my love of pizza and fear of losing a nostril ruling the moment.

   We always watch television while we eat.  Sports Center on occasion.  DVR episodes of Saturday Night Live here and there.  But what we really enjoy are HBO soft core porn movies.  Not the Real Sex series (Tonight on Real Sex, nude poetry readings, liquid latex parties and a visit with a plus size dominatrix). No, we prefer soft core porn.  Tits, ass, grunting, moaning but no erections and cum shots.  You know, classy.

   Naturally, we like checking out the broads.  But we really enjoy chirping about the movies themselves.

“I hate those big round fake jugs.”

“There is no way you could put it in so easy in that position.”

“It’s too well lit for that.”

“Why is she moaning during tit banging?”

“Look at the goofy look on his face.”

“That guy looks like Monty Hall.”

“I’d be done already.”

   Last week, Tony and I were enjoying Bikini Girls From The Lost Planet while burning the roofs of our mouths on pizza.  From the doorway behind us we heard , “When did you boys get in?”

   We both turned around to see our dear Mother standing bleary eyed fifteen feet from the simulated banging and moaning.  The shock of getting caught caused Tony to drop the remote, spilling the batteries and battery cover onto the floor.  He scrambled to get the remote back together while I kept our Mom occupied with small talk.

“Jack’s got a tennis tournament tomorrow.”

“Oh God yeah...Oh God yeah”

“He’s been playing really well this year, undefeated so far.”

“Bring that big ass here.”

   I kept one eye on Tony.  He was making zero progress.  I had no idea there were so many possible incorrect combinations for two batteries and a back cover.   Just when I thought I would have to stage a pretend heart attack to divert my Mom’s attention, the couple on the screen fake came and the silliness of a porn plot took over.

   With the crisis averted and our dear Mother back asleep, Tony concocted a flavored coffee for my short trip home to Allen Park.  I called him to let him know I was home safe, he woke my Mom briefly to tell her that I got home safe and the countdown to next Friday began.

Cheers! Jim

TOUGH TOENAILS

“I cut my toe nails every two to eight weeks.”  Jerry Seinfeld.

It must have been nine weeks since I trimmed mine.  So I decided, what better way to spend a summer evening than to sit on the patio with family (wife Andrea and son Max were with me) and trim my toenails in the backyard.  In plain view of neighbors walking dogs, riding bikes or jogging for health.

After a a great deal of grunting and straining from bending in half to reach the damn things, I sat back and admired my handiwork.

Have you ever cleaned something like the garage or junk drawer and thought, “What the hell have I been waiting for?”  And once you get past that bit of self loathing, a warm sense of satisfaction spreads through your body.  You look at your neat new buddy and feel proud, almost happy that you waited so fucking long because the payoff is so great.

Yeah, it was like that.

Andrea and Max gave me shit for:

 Cutting my toe nails in broad daylight.

 Having the toenails of the hill people of Kentucky.

 Not immediately cleaning up my droppings.

I did not care, I was loving my new pink buddies and tried to defend the indefensible.

During this spirited defense, I looked down and asked,  “What the hell kind of bug is that?”  What appeared to be a quarter inch long off white bug was making it’s way across our brick paved patio.  It was moving in an unsteady back and forth pattern away from me.

Andrea got up to inspect.  She studied the bug for a long time before straightening and crying out.

“That’s no bug.  It’s an ant making a getaway with your toenail.”

Max and I scrambled to our feet and studied the little fella.  One solitary ant was towing my grotesque nail across the peaks and valleys of our patio.  He made good time across the tops of the bricks, but stalled in the routed areas between the bricks.  But that son of a bitch never quit.  He just tried different angles and kept moving.

Soon other ants joined in until eight toenails were moving across the patio (I say eight as my baby toes are so odd that they don’t really have a nail).   

The ants dragged them until they came to their homes in between the bricks.  Then they tugged the nails into their lair.

Lot’s of theories on why.  I heard food, protection and insanity.  My brother Tony later chalked it up to decoration, theorizing that my toenails were proudly being displayed on eight different ant living room walls. 

Either way, aren’t you glad that I am a swine.

Cheers!  Jim