July 07, 2009
I am as good as can be expected considering my recent infection of K.I.D.S. (i.e. nieces). I cannot say that I was not warned -- any prolonged exposure to K.I.D.S. can be injurious -- but I certainly wasn't prepared for THIS. My ankles ache with each step, reminding me in a cruel way that the sport of running must be put in a box on a shelf labeled "past time," ne'er to be retrieved again lest I am being chased by a very large, very convincing bear. My neck is so stiff that I actually went into work with Icy Hot smeared about the back of my hairline (note: Chanel Allure does not cover up the scent of Icy Hot -- it merely mingles with it in a most disturbing way which practically guarantees the end of the Johnson line).At least the Stupid Boys kept an adequate distance.
My shoulder is currently encompassed in its own little world of misery (such suffering one has not experienced since the Great Boat Incident of 2007!). I literally had to open my office door with my left hand so as to save my right shoulder the anguish of exertion. It is so weak that I still have not extracted the laundry basket from my car. I merely pick out the usual clothing suspects for the next day and leave the rest to bake nicely in my back seat. Thus I have declared football to be strictly an observation sport -- most adequately enjoyed from a distance accompanied by a comfortable chair and a tall Bloody Mary (shouting optional).
The noble backyard sword fight (with bats acting as our chosen weaponry) with my nieces has rendered my right pinky finger inoperable (heathens!) but this I find to be of no great consequence considering the general disuse of my entire arm.
All in all I am hopeful for an expedient recovery...
Of course, this means complete abstinence from all K.I.D.S. For a long, long while.
In other matters relating to disorder, I was greeted with a text message from The Boy last night a few hours before the end of my day at work (close at 7pm). He inquired as to whether he might spend the night since he was to work in Waukesha the next day. I, of course, said yes. I was relaxing in front of the computer, contemplating the benefits of bedtime for an aching body, when he sent me another text at about 8pm.
"Can you walk up to the bar to pick me up? I'm on my fifth Spotted Cow... Make that sixth."
*sigh*
His van was at the bar. He wanted me to walk. With my aching ankles and stiff hip. To the Velvet Club, which is on Delafield Street. It's not far in terms of able-bodied distance but it is inconveniently located on a hill.
Ughhh.
Well I walked. Upwards. Unhappily. But I'd rather do him the favor of driving sober then let him risk his job (his CDL license cuts his blood/alcohol allowance level in half).
At the bar was an arrangement of interesting characters. The Waukesha Alderman, his wife and two of their friends were seated at one end of the bar, a group of six gays and lesbians at the other end and -- in the middle of them all -- The Boy. When I first spotted him, he was smiling. That's how I knew he was drunk. He bought me a beer, leaned in closer than necessary for the strength of his voice and gave me the low down in his usual half-sentence structure.
"City Alderman present -- can't play tunes. Group of loud and proud lesbians." He pointed across the bar. "Tall one's making eye contact with you already."
I tried not to look across the bar. But he was pointing and she was not deaf.
I finished my beer rather quickly, ready to resume role of rescuer, and asked if he wanted to get going. He looked at me with the wide eyes of a twelve-year-old.
"But I like drinking."
*sigh*
I resigned myself to the position, sat back and watched. The Boy was in fine form.
He actually clapped when the alderman and his troupe got up to leave. Before they were out the door, he shouted to the bartender "crank up the music!" The group looked back at us and I smiled apologetically. They returned understanding smiles, for the most part.
After much unnecessary discussion, I finally gave in and enjoyed a watered down Long Island (recalling my European tactics) as The Boy made friends out of a belligerent, musical opponent. They battled over the juke box, swapping songs like sword swings, arguing over who sold more records; Pantera or Green Day. The bartender had to look up the number of records sold as according to Wikipedia to resolve the stand off. We traded a set of rolling eyes as the rest of the patrons began to filter out, one by one.
Just as I was about to ask if it was time to go, for a third time, The Boy slammed his fist on the bar and, with a decided slur, declared his position regarding the inhumanity of shock collars for dogs.
"You wouldn't put a shock collar on your own KID so why would you put one on your DOG?!"
I don't even know how the topic changed from records sold to animal cruelty. But it did make me think...
Shock collars for K.I.D.S.? It may be the new prevention -- the cure, in fact -- of adult cruelty.