Before Christina left to go back home to Cincinnati, we all went to Max and Erma’s for a very expensive lunch. (Seriously, where do they get off having such high prices when their food really isn’t very outstanding?
Although I’d pay a pretty penny for their banana cream pie, just don’t tell them that.
) I won the second bet of the day when Christina and Henry postulated about the price of the brunch buffet, agreeing that it was probably $11.
“That seems like a reasonable price,” Christina paired with a nod.
“No, I bet it’s more than that. $11 seems too low.”
Henry and Christina scoffed and said that I was a stupid idiot and anything more than $11 would be ridiculous and that college sure wasn’t honing my intelligence very much.
When the waitress, a very unpersonable young broad with teeth that overtook her face and an uncanny knack for appearing every single time I was talking shit on her, informed us that it was actually $13.99, I rejoiced.
I won the other bet earlier today when Henry’s son Blake devoted a block of about three hours to blowing up his father’s cell. After he called for the fifth time at 11:20, I proposed to Christina that we place bets on the next obsessive phone call. Christina guessed 11:50, but I wanted to believe that Blake had a little more will power than that, so I placed a very calculated and thoroughly thought-out guess of 11:55. At exactly 11:55, Henry’s cell erupted in a series of obnoxious brrrriiinnngs — I made Blake’s ring tone the most boring and standard one that came on Henry’s cell because I’m very mature like that — and I celebrated by thrusting my fists in Christina’s face. “Damn, too bad we didn’t bet for money,” I whined after the fact, so Christina said she’d pretend like we bet for a CD. Now I get a CD, hooray.
Back at lunch, Chooch flirted with the women in a booth behind him. Before thet left, they crowded around him and the older one — the mouthpiece of the two — asked for our permission to touch his head.
People are so weird when it comes to babies. Me? I’m like our waitress. When Chooch offered her his straw, she very nervously, and in a voice bogged down with faux-cheer, said, “Um, yeah, that’s nice! That’s yours, you can have that.
” I have a very similar approach to children. My head is flushed with internal dialogue. “Shit, it’s talking to me. What do I do now?” The product that usually escapes from my mouth is something strained and forced, like, “Oh. Wow. How nice. Yay kids.”
I’m OK with my own kid, of course. We exchange discourse on a wide variety of topics, like shit and monsters and Satan and Hell and Jeffrey Dahmer. We whisper about Henry behind his back; things like “Daddy is a fag” and “Daddy sucks” and “That guy over there is probably a better dad than Daddy” even when it’s some bum sifting through a dumpster, wearing pink bunny slippers.
What I’m trying to say is that my son and I have some really great, adult-oriented convos.