(clink)

(clink)

(clink clink)

(twist twist twist)

(glunk glunk glunk)

Oh, who am I kidding? Make it a double.

(glunk glunk glunk)

Hello, everyone. I hope you don’t mind if I drink while I blog today. I don’t condone drinking alone, but since you’re all gathered around for this little fire side chat, in a manner of speaking, I’ll consider that my own private loophole.

I’m beginning to be horrified by dinner. And no, it’s not because of my wife’s cooking. Quite the contrary, that’s the one part of the meal I enjoy, even when it’s Tuesday Night Dinner – a random “eff it, I’m tired so here’s dinner” concoction of meat, soup and vegetables brought to a boil in the same pan and then served. Sometimes with rice.

Dinner is supposed to be where the family gathers to set aside the stresses of their day and share pleasantries while basking in the warmth of one another’s company.

Not at my house.

No, dinner at my house is like walking through one of those haunted houses that pop up every fall (sans the double-negative spewing white trash and annoying teenage girls).  It’s like an ulcer-inducing stumble through a thickly veiled corridor of dread, perilously unaware of when some jackass is going to thrust forth from compartments unseen in the fog to distribute some genre of horrifying ”gotcha.” 

Unlike said haunted house attractions, however, instead of paying $8 to have that one girl no one likes and you don’t know why she was invited in the first place annoy the shit out of you while vigorously clutching your jacket in a white-knuckled death grip, and simultaneously climbing your back and dry-humping your ass, this journey thru Unpleasantville begins with one innocent question:

“How was your day?”

Now, I’m trying to play the role of good dad. I know that by being involved in my kids’ lives they are less apt to boot black tar heroin, run guns to Canada or be Yankee fans, but really, After School Special? Do I really have to open myself up to this ongoing tenure as the emotional gimp to Weirdo’s life-and-times Zed? That’s just effed up. Can’t I just catch her rolling a joint only to find out she learned it from watching me?

TANGENT: I don’t do drugs have never done drugs (Hi, kids!). And is it just me or does the guy in the commercial referenced above come across as the Hedgehog’s older brother the accountant?

Getting back to my no doubt enthralling yarn, in response to my query, Weirdo drops her head into one hand, rolls her eyes and laments, “Some of the boys in my class always want to wrestle with me.”

…

…

…

(gulp)

(clink clink clink)

(glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk)

…

…

…

(sip)

….

…

Well if it’s on then it’s muthaeffin’ on, G.

I know that drill! I know it all too well. I pulled similar crap back in the day too. You tease the girls you like. You say you’re afraid of their Cooties. You give them stupid nicknames like Dog-Face, Alien Baby or Beotch (ok, maybe the latter one introduces itself into your vernacular later in life). Maybe you pull their ponytail.

Maybe.

But wrestling? Is that how it’s going to be? Does that mean I can stand in the corner like some ex-urbanite (albeit more subdued in fashion) version of Jimmy “the Mouth of the South” Hart? Am I able to drill these kids with bean bags chairs (because folding ones would be a little extreme, i.e. illegal) when the Kindergarten teacher isn’t looking?

To Weirdo’s credit, she can be a bit of scrapper. In the absence of a son, I’ve got to rough house with someone. Can’t be my wife because when I wrestle with her, I end up having more kids to blog about (bow-wicka-chicka- bow-wow). If Weirdo is wrestling, she can throw down.

But as I reflect on this, is Weirdo being a good wrestling buddy the best course either? Hardly. I don’t exactly want to encourage boys to wrestle with her. I don’t think is serves my insominia well to know my daugther is the undisputed King of the Playground, and everyday a new challenger will throw down the gauntlet (or mitten, I suppose) for the right to heft the proverbial championship belt over their shoulder.

Hmmm. Right now I need to jog my memory and remember if a glancing blow to “the twins” affected me at 6 as much as it did when I was older. Might be time to introduce effective use of knees to Weirdo in our next rough housing session.