Another July birthday bash bites the big one.
10:46 a.m.
Saturday we picked up mein Sohn from the ESL camp where he had been bullying francophone kids into speaking only English for three weeks, and headed down the old highway into the sunset (literally into the sunset, it makes driving in the early evening very difficult as the westering sun shines directly into your eyes, too low for the visor on the car to do any good), arriving at my in-laws’ about 11:30 p.m. That would be 800 km (or 500 miles for you crazy cats not yet into the metric system) with one stop for gas and to change drivers, and another stop for food and to change drivers. Because neither of my two children, whose praises I normally sing to the heavens, have bothered to go to the bother of getting their driver’s permits, all the driving is left to my husband and me, and he tends to do the lion’s share because he’s greedy that way (not that I’m complaining; I hate driving long distances: I get numb bum).
The trip down (going west) was a good one. We played good jazz on the sound system, had very good weather, the AC works well (for 10 years we drove a car on those long trips that doesn’t have AC; I don’t know how we did it), and the kids were fantastic. At one point my husband commented that this was so much better from when they were little and screaming and fighting in the back seat. At our second stop, for supper, which consisted of Tim Horton’s soup and sandwiches (not my idea of supper, but what can you do?), as we entered the commissary, we were directed to the last cashier, whereupon was situated a very beautiful boy, perhaps 16, with long curly hair, blue eyes and pouty lips who had the most bored expression on his face imaginable. I approached him by saying, “Would you like to serve me?” He nodded, not really looking at me, gazing somewhere off into the middle distance, and I wouldn’t let go on this and continued, “So, it would give you the greatest pleasure imaginable to serve me?” whereupon I think I started freaking him out. Eventually though, he actually woke up, and by the time we left the restaurant he was laughing and joking with his fellow employees. My son said it was all my doing, that I was totally unlike any customer who usually patronises these emporia of fast food. True dat.
We stayed at my in-laws’ house for two nights. The first night the kids camped out in the living room on the couches, but the next night they slept together in one of the tents we had brought. My husband and I decided to stay in the guest room, it was just easier. My daughter brought her laptop with her, so they were able to listen to music and watch movies if they wanted to. I am so glad they get along.
The big party was Sunday afternoon at my brother-in-law’s. There were lots of people there, members of his wife’s family and his. I had long chats with his sisters-in-law, and his very inebriated Irish father-in-law was giving my daughter advice just as we were leaving on the things that parents don’t tell their kids because “parents are stupid”. I don’t think Harry knows me all that well. But it was a laugh. My daughter had a chuckle. I confess I drank more than I’m strictly speaking used to, but Hubby has been on antibiotics (he had a wisdom tooth extracted and developed dry socket) for the past bit, so for once I wasn’t the designated driver. I ended up collapsing on the loveseat in the front room from fatigue (no, I didn’t pass out) and catching a bit of shut eye. It was also my way of escaping. I’m not particularly good with crowds.
Here’s my niece (on the left) and her roommate, both 26, both beautiful and single (my niece has been particularly unlucky in love, dating really “nice” guys who then started running around on her; what gives?). At one point they were both running around in very brief bikini bathing suits, much to the delight of my 18-year-old son.
Here’s Harry, my brother-in-law’s inebriated Irish father-in-law:
This is me with the three birthday boys and my niece (in her skimpy swimsuit):
Last, but definitely not least, my two lovely bambini. My son’s T-shirt reads: Support the fine arts: shoot a rapper.
The next day we drove to my mom’s (an hour eastward) and had lunch with her. Well, normally it takes an hour to drive there, but on this occasion it took closer to two, as we stopped on our way out of town to clean the LCBO out of Henry of Pelham chez ma mère in time for lunch.
My mother is 88 years old, almost blind from macular degeneration, and still living alone in her own house. She’s not totally alone, as she has a “boarder” (I use the term loosely, since Frank pays no rent) whom she sees in the evenings after he gets home from work and who does odd jobs around the house for her, but he’s not there most of the time. So she still prepares her own food and does for herself. She had made vegetarian lasagne for us (two out of four of us are vegetarians) and overcooked it. That is actually a misnomer. The bottoms were totally black and inedible. They would have made good shoe soles. We salvaged what we could, which was actually quite tasty, and had salad and dessert (canned fruit with vanilla ice cream). While we were there I read over the instructions for her new breadmaker (which I ordered for her last week) and instructed her in its use, and my husband and I planted the mountain ash sapling that was growing in one of our flower beds and which I potted and brought to her because she’s always wanted one. I hope she gets to enjoy it.
Then we hopped in the car and drove the 700 km (that’s c.440 miles; when are you guys going to get with the metric system, eh?) back to our home, and there you have it.
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