Man of the House: Football, soccer and romantic dogs
Normally, tailgate party chatter is a form of conversational euthanasia, so I just go for the good grub, then try to make an early exit. Seriously, four or five hours is as long as I can stand a typical tailgate party. Nine hours is my absolute max.
But in this case, I’m loving the tailgate chatter, because someone just mentioned the funny way in which Molly (my daughter’s friend) talks to the family dog. Apparently, she uses that helium-injected voice some people reserve for pets. This baby talk is embarrassing in public, they say. Oh, baaaaaabeeeeeee, ooooooo, come gib mommy a great big kissssssss, smooch-smooch-smooch.
I can’t help smiling in recognition, because that’s exactly the way my wife, Posh, used to talk to me, making clucking sounds and pursing her lips — she’d get right in my face with it.
Thank goodness she outgrew that phase. My wife now talks to me the way you would someone who just ran over your foot with a forklift, starting every sentence with, “UM, EXCUSE ME....
All marriages evolve, for better or for worse. Fortunately for me, I got the better.
Here’s the other thing that occurred to me during this tailgate party: What’s with all these young women wearing high heels everywhere? Someone explained it’s because guys really love ‘em, but guys have always really loved ‘em. It took women 75 years to realize this?
I don’t know whether it’s a sign of female empowerment or desperation, but this high-heel phenomenon leaves me at a loss for words, which must come as a relief to everybody.
So, the trip back to the Middle West was a total success, full of mischief and discovery. I rented a dirty car from Avis at a not very good rate, so I was happy about that.
Then the hotel bill came and there was a resort fee, an occupancy tax and a hospitality tax. What really got to me was something they now call the “just because” tax. That’s a fee hotels charge just because. A lot of the better places are doing it now.
The suitcases still sit in the garage, waiting to be stored away, because the second we got back, it was rush-rush-rush, school, work, soccer, email.
On Saturday, the soccer team had photos, the standard stuff — “tuck in your shirt” and “can someone fix his hair?,” at which point a mom jumps in and combs the kid’s hair with her fingers. “How’s that?” “Good enough.” Click. It’s an American tradition.
The game started well. We surrendered a goal in the first 15 seconds, then another 15 seconds later. I’m not sure I’m cut out for coaching, in that I actually ate my clipboard in the first quarter. The kids eat orange slices, I eat clipboards.
Fortunately, Gary and Rhonda had us to dinner that night, where I could gripe about my poor performance to men who had seen me perform poorly in the past. It was a relief to reminisce.
Susan and Bruce were there too, Bruce bellowing something about France, but he brought this amazing tuna that he rolls in Cajun spices and then sears in a cast-iron skillet, so no one really seemed to mind a bit.
It was a veritable lullaby of food at Gary and Rhonda’s. I’m pretty convinced I’m going to go in one of two ways: I’m either going to eat myself to death during football season or get run over by a neighbor’s car. It’s about 50-50 I’ll make it to Christmas. I didn’t mention this at the dinner party, because it’s the sort of thing I bring up, everybody laughs, then Posh gets mad at me on the way home.
Meanwhile, under the dinner table, Gary and Rhonda’s dog was at work. They have this special breed, a dinner-napkin schnauzer. It’s got that same Wilford Brimley face you’d associate with a regular schnauzer. The defining characteristic is that this breed snatches the dinner napkin right off your lap and then shreds it joyfully on the lawn.
It’s worth noting, I think, that if people did the things dogs do, there’d be such a stigma, but dogs get away with all manner of social mayhem. This dinner-napkin schnauzer also romanced my leg under the table. Gary, the host, was apologetic, yet I found this love-making kind of flattering. Of all the legs under that table, he chose mine. Plus, the love-making was over so quickly — five minutes at the most.
What else are you going to do on a Saturday night in the suburbs? Later, the dog and I exchanged emails.
Let me just say that not once did I talk to this dog like a little baby. I treated him like the mature adult he obviously is.
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