Bent Words

Bent Words

March 28, 2005

3-25-05

I wasn't going to tell anyone about it. I felt so ridiculous, number one, and two, it was self-inflicted stupidity so no one was going to sympathize with me no matter how much I whined...

After dancing all night Friday and Saturday, in shoes that were apparently too small, I couldn't walk. I had bruised my big toes so badly that they were black and blue and the nails had separated from the flesh.

All together now,

"EW."

Although the humiliation had gripped me above and beyond any amount of excruciating pain, I finally decided to call up my parentals on Monday and tell them the story.

"You did what?!"

"Yeah. Can I come over and be taken care of?"

"Of course you can come over but can you drive without your big toes?"

"They're not missing, Mom."

"Soooo..."

"So, I'm crippled, broke and hungry. I'll see you in an hour."

Before I had driven down the length of my driveway, I had already doffed my sneakers. I couldn't bear to keep them on! While I was in town, I shifted from first gear into third in order to minimize any overuse of the clutch and I kept her in cruise as much as possible on the highway. Every stop produced a slight howl to exit from my lips and it seemed as though I could not avoid hitting one of my toes on the damned pedals.

Driving in my socks - haven't done that since I was 12.

My parentals were wonderful, naturally, and provided me with the best of care and the highest quality of teasing banter for the next three days. We listened and laughed to a couple of Tom Lehrer CDs I burned for their anniversary and we had an amazing meal of veal chops and black beans over rice for dinner. My father and I stayed up entirely too late, reading excerpts from a Charles Dicken's novel and reminiscing over family past and present, and I slept 'till the sun shined on my bazaza' the next day. On Tuesday night, we had another wonderful meal of pea soup and corned beef sandwiches with swiss cheese and watched the 'Big Night' before going to bed somewhat early. It was truly grand to spend so much time with them but I have to say that Wednesday was the real treat.

It was their 28th Anniversary and I was invited to go with them out to dinner.

Kirsch's in Lake Geneva proved to be a fine little establishment, overlooking Lake Como, with a friendly atmosphere. As it was a Wednesday night, the bar was basically barren save for a few regulars who dominated the remote control for the television above our heads. One gentleman, named John, spotlighted each and every possible sports channel available on cable for approximately three seconds before switching to another station. This, along with two of the strongest drinks I've ever had, dulled the pain of my feet and made it possible for me to walk somewhat smoothly to our table in the corner. My father ordered an excellent bottle of champagne along with an array of appetizers including sea scallops, mushroom caps and fromage.

My mother toasted my father with tears in her eyes and before the glasses were replaced upon the white clothed table, I made my own toast.

"To my two best friends and their 28 year run. Salud!"

We are a 'toasting family,' you see, and I do so adore toasts.

Anyhow, I headed back to the bar several times to indulge in a cigarette or two since I'm not very accustomed to several courses during a dinner and since that little bowl with the ice cream scoop shaped butter is not intended for ashes. Another gentleman had joined the fanatical flipping guy and they were seemingly engrossed in their little quest of the perfect channel when I had taken a seat beside them. I wasn't really expecting any sort of conversation from these two, but after another glass of Captain Morgan, with a shot of Diet Coke, I was ready to roll.

Todd, the new guy, and John, the flipper, somehow managed to talk me into inviting them to my birthday party. I wrote my number on a napkin and included both of their names onto this relatively unofficial invitation, handed it back to John and was about to request another drink when the female bartender stopped dead in her tracks. She leaned over the bar directly in front of me, her eyes turned to slits as her eyebrows collapsed over them and I was certain she was about to let a hideous snarl escape through her nose when she stated,

"By the way, you just gave your phone number to my boyfriend."

"Oh well, what's your name again? You're invited, too. The more the merrier!"

I did not think it was a big deal. At no time during this little scene did I get down on one knee and propose to freakin' channel changer and there were no signs of love at first sight between us. She finally exhaled and told me her name, loosened her clenched fist from the white towel she was holding before and turned away to clean or break some glasses. I leaned back behind Todd and shot a questionable glance over at John. He returned the look with a mouthed 'sorry' and an innocent shrug while Todd merely smiled over the bar room drama. Our waitress informed me, with excellent timing, that my entree was served and thus I returned back to the table with my head held high in the air. I sometimes wonder if God is up there, pointing at me and laughing, as he sends in another clown to get me in trouble...

Back at the table, I assumed I was sitting in front of the Chateaubriand and that my father was located behind the pork. Somehow, during my absence, my father had become convinced that our plates were mixed up and so he switched them without whispering a word to me. I then had the pork in front of me with whipped potatoes and some wonderful veggies and yet neither my father nor myself were one bit the wiser until the morning after when we inspected our 'doggie bag' contents that, indeed, the waitress had our orders correct the first time. Debauched, we were.

After this fine meal of tenderloin or pork or lamb (or whatever the hell it was), my father insisted that my mother and I take on dessert. The both of us groaned but agreed to split a single dessert item. I also acquiesced to a cup of expresso and, before these fineries met my eyes, I was once again back at the bar involved in 'heavy' conversation with my new friend Todd, puffing away at a Marlboro Light and avoided all eye contact with the nice bartender lady. She had reverted from kindly ashtray emptier to icy glare girl, but Todd was gracious enough to buy another drink for me so that I might bypass all conflict. Soon my parentals had joined me at the bar, complete with coffee, cake and a pair of perfect smiles.

We mulled over Europe and we discussed local news and the quality of (or lack of) local newspapers and Todd even offered to find a way to get the Journal Sentinel delivered to my parent's house. Then conversation turned political and I am afraid it was entirely due to my pointed finger at Todd the Republican Rogue. Fires were pleasantly stirred into low-key arguments, yet all in all it was a congenial conversation. My proudest moment was held in my father's eyes when he regaled Todd to 'just ask my daughter - she knows where I stand.' Whatever his intent, my father made me feel as though I, alone, knew him best in that area and could therefore argue his opinion in a proper manner.

Dear old Dad was probably just tired of talking with Todd.

We said our good-byes to the Fanatical Flipper and the Republican Rogue and headed home, convivial and content. I babbled from the back seat about how nice it would be if Todd actually was able to procure a regular subscription of the Journal for my parents. They laughed, proclaiming that it was merely 'bar talk,' but I am the ever hopeful optimist who will be forever disappointed by the realization that not everyone on this earth means what they say. Even on a Wednesday. Damn Republicans...

Back at the house, I could not contain myself from blaring "Lebachevsky" by Tom Lehrer on my parentals CD player (go download it, now). I further dismissed all signs of repose by attempting to keep up with the words to The Mikado, but my mother wasn't nearly as amused and soon urged me to quit my little living room production. She bribed me with the notion that I could don my pajamas and watch Bringing Up Baby quietly in my room.

I was all snuggled in bed, enjoying the spirited visage of Kathryn Hepburn when I heard the low enumeration of my father's voice from behind closed doors. I crept toward their bedroom and listened carefully at the door. It was an excerpt of Dombey and Son by Charles Dickens. I knocked carefully on the door and dramatically entered their room with a smile as my father looked up briefly and then continued to read.

I could not resist. I hopped onto the bed between them and listened lovingly to my father recite while my mother gingerly placed an arm around my shoulders.

Happy Anniversary, to my two best friends, and may your next 28 years be just as beautiful...

Written at 8:22 p.m.