BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’d start a Twitter account for this sort of thing, but I just don’t have time. Besides which, I’d just get myself accused of trying to capitalize on the “Dad Says” dude, and his success.

So, anyway, there we were, on vacation. I should probably write a vacation blog and tell all sorts of stories about how E K made us march through the woods and over huge boulders, all in the sweltering 95+ heat, with 12,000,000% humidity, but I’ll have to get to that later… Maybe… I guess it’s a we’ll see sort of thing.

Okay, so back to the real story here. There we were, on vacation, last night of the trip, and we were staying at The Davie School Inn. When we asked about “eats” the owner directed us to The Brick House restaurant, a couple of blocks away. A little eclectic fusion sort of bistro with interesting decor and good food. We even sat at the “Twister Table”… Seriously. It was painted like a Twister mat. Kinda weird, but kinda cool at the same time. After ordering up a couple of Mothership Wits for ourselves, and a Root Beer for the O-spring, we set about perusing the menu. When all was said and done, after salivating over the many wonderful sounding selections, believe it or not we all ordered sort of the same thing – E K had steamed mussels and a house specialty salad. I had steamed mussels and a spinach salad. The O-spring had… Yes… Steamed mussels, but instead of a salad she opted for French Fries. Odd combination, yeah, but hey… She’s a 10 year old. Besides, how many 10 year olds do you know who willingly order steamed mussels and then rave about them for two hours? Yeah, that’s our kid. Go figure…

But, that’s not what this is really about. Well… It is sorta, but not exactly. You see, as we sat there enjoying a wonderful dinner, some tunes were wafting in from above. This prompted E K and I to discuss our Vinyl Collection, because it has yet to be all converted to CD. In particular, we were talking about The Police and Sting. Why? Because a song by Sting was playing, silly.

Anywho, fast forward 10 minutes or so. The kid is blowing bubbles in her root beer, shoving French Fries into one side of her mouth, and discovering the creamy goodness of the steamed mussel broth at the bottom of her bowl. Yet another song by Sting begins pouring in from overhead. Being old, and because of that a bit addled, I looked at The Evil Redhead with a puzzled expression.

“That isn’t the same song we just heard a few minutes ago, is it?” I asked.

E K, being in the middle of masticating a mussel, held up a finger to indicate I should wait a second for her answer. However, before she was able to engage peristalsis and swallow the food, the O-spring spoke up.

“No, it isn’t the same song,” she said, then by way of explanation offered her personal analysis of the brass section content. “The other one was a lot more horny.”

E K choked on the half swallowed mussel. I spewed Mothership Wit all over the wall across from me. The server applied the Heimlich Maneuver to the redhead, propelling the glob of  seafood along a bizarre trajectory that landed it in the pale blue beehive of a 97 year old patron across the room who was trying desperately to enjoy a Bruschetta, even though she had forgotten her teeth. Another server who was attempting to avoid the shellfish projectile slipped, sending a tray full of chilled soup cascading across a party of 18 several feet away, prompting the…

Okay… So it wasn’t that dramatic. But, EKay’s eyes got really big, she half choked on the piece of garlic bread in her mouth, and I almost – not quite, but almost – spewed a mouthful of Mothership Wit across the table.

The O-spring looked at us and said, “What?”

E K leaned over and whispered, “You probably should have said brassy, because horny is a slang word that means someone really wants to have sex a lot.”

The O-spring having been through the “talk” at school, besides being brilliant as well, knew what sex happened to be – in theory.  Also, being 10, while she is familiar with the non-specific theory behind it, the subject is still residing in that “EWWW, GROSS!” area of her psyche. Personally, I’d like for it to stay that way until I’m dead, but hey, I’m a dad, and that’s how dads are.

So, since that’s where the concept resides, that’s what the O-spring said. “EWWW, GROSS!”

This was somewhat heartening, to say the least…

There was a moment of quiet, then she looked across the table and said, “You’re going to write a blog about this, aren’t you, Dad?”

Obviously, she hadn’t lost her faith in me…

(Aww, come on, quit groaning… you knew I would have to make at least one Sting song lyric related pun…)

More to come…

Murv

Of course, that’s where mine usually resides, correct?

To hear some people tell it, it is. But, that’s not actually what we are here to talk about, of course…

The other day I wrote a blog about the USDA being out to get me. I still think they are. I’ve noticed way too many John Deere green trucks in the neighborhood as of late. On top of that, just the other day I found wheat chaff under one of our windows and the distinct odor of fertilizer was still hanging in the air. Of course, the fact that the FFA (Future Farmers of America) keeps calling and hanging up doesn’t help either.

But, again, not exactly what we are here to discuss… Actually, it was a comment on that particular blog that sparked this particular blog. Still with me? Good.

You see, a friend of mine – we’ll call her DeathStar, because that’s pretty much what we call her all the time anyway – pointed out that if one were to be pragmatic about it, the fact that someone from the USDA is searching me out just might be something as innocuous as an old family friend or acquaintance now working for said covert governmental organization.

Well, that’s not how my mind works. I mean, I can be pragmatic when necessary, but if it’s not, then why?

Let me give you an example. Several years ago there was a commercial for some cell phone service running on the toob. I know, I know, there are plenty of those. Unfortunately, I can’t actually remember which company this was, suffice it to say, it was in a black and white noir sort of fashion. At one point during the commercial there is this guy running across a street in slow motion as the announcer extolls the virtues of this particular service and the features it will be introducing very soon. The camera pans down and to the left, showing us a spot of color in the otherwise black and white frame – that color being a solitary, red, high-heeled pump lying in the gutter.

Upon seeing this I turned to the evil redhead, what with her being just as pragmatic as DeathStar. Besides, DeathStar wasn’t here… But, I didn’t just turn to her. I actually proceeded to ask, “What does that mean to you?”

“What?” she asked.

“That shoe in the gutter,” I explained.

Without missing a beat she replied, “Oh, that. Well, I take it to mean some woman was having a great time partying and lost one of her shoes.”

“Really?” I asked.

E K, being E K, instantly took on a stern tone. “You’re doubting me?”

“No, your worship.”

“Okay,” she pressed. “What does it mean to you?”

I shrugged. “Well, actually it raises a lot of questions for me.”

“Such as?”

“Is she still alive? Approximately when was she abducted? Were there any witnesses? Is it possible that there is any DNA evidence besides her own? Has she been reported missing yet? Are there any traffic cameras nearby? Didn’t anyone hear her scream? Was she alone? If she was with someone were they abducted too, or were they complicit? When will…”

“Okay, okay, lackey,” E K said, cutting me off.

“Well…” I grumbled. “You asked.”

“And believe me, I’m already regretting it.”

So, there you go… I guess maybe my mind really is in the gutter. Why? Because that commercial was on TV something like five years ago, and I still want to know what’s up with that shoe and why there hasn’t been an investigation launched to find out what happened to that poor woman.

More to come…

Murv