Aunt Nette is like a busybody savant. She can tell the last time you called your mother, how you treat your children, and can rate your love life on a scale of one to ten just by listening to you order hash browns at the Waffle House.
“Scattered and smothered,” I told the waitress, slipping the menu into the metal holder behind the napkin dispenser.
Looking across the table, I’m tempted to apply the same order to Aunt Nette. She is scraping egg off the laminated menu with a polished nail on a finger laden with hand-me-down diamonds, and lecturing me on my child-raising abilities.
“You should call more often. I never hear important news until it’s too late.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
She flicked away a piece of petrified yolk. “I hear the baby is walking now.”
The baby is 20 years old. “Okay so maybe I’m slow with updates. Follow me on Twitter and you can read everything in sentences short enough to slap right on the gossip chain.”
“What those boys need is more parental involvement.” She dipped her paper napkin in her water glass and began to polish her fork.
“The last time I had parental involvement with these kids, I lost three lives."
"You should use caution in dealing with children."
"All I did was pick up a video game controller. Then I blew myself somewhere over the rainbow in a blinding blue flash."
The only reason my children aren’t listed as serial killers in police records country-wide is that there are still those officials who refuse to admit the impossibility of a zombie apocalypse.
"You do know they’ve been studying the best method for slaughtering the undead.”
“They were Boy Scouts. They want to be prepared.”
“They’re prepared for a swarm of mercenaries, an invasion by aliens, and a world-ending zombie attack. What they’re not ready for is an English test or a quiz on fundamental dinner etiquette.”
“You could probably learn some things from them. Remember when I stayed the weekend at your house? The boys and I found a new respect for each other.”
“Oh, really? And how are you a better person since that weekend?”
She sipped coffee from a stoneware cup leaving Pink Poodle lipstick on the rim, crossed her beige stockinged ankles under the table, and leaned forward with a prim smile to perform an airborne example on a pretend video game controller.
"I beast at Borderlands.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label etiquette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label etiquette. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Pole Position
That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program.
It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and we don't have many visible body parts in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I saw on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze.
Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr waving wisps of hair across my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
It was then I realized that the pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole. It toasted my marshmallows in seconds.
My thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my behind bore the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin. Now I know why firemen wear pants that Smokey the Bear couldn't claw his way through.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. On the whole, it’s not
a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the summersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on the team. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning in that old tire in circles, and grinned.
At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if the blasted thing didn’t look better in those old gym shorts than I did.
It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and we don't have many visible body parts in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I saw on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze.
Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr waving wisps of hair across my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
It was then I realized that the pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole. It toasted my marshmallows in seconds.
My thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my behind bore the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin. Now I know why firemen wear pants that Smokey the Bear couldn't claw his way through.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. On the whole, it’s not
a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the summersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on the team. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning in that old tire in circles, and grinned.
At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if the blasted thing didn’t look better in those old gym shorts than I did.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Pole Bending
That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program. It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and have little or nothing in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.
And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.
On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.
But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.
And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.
On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.
But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.
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