Regular Life

“It’s about 44 degrees now, but we were in the early ‘60’s yesterday,” said a co-worker in Kansas City.

Apparently our Kansas City office has a time machine. Transfer me to that location — two years ago.

*dream sequence*
I go back in time and invest in Wal-Mart and our company during their respective nascencies. My riches keep me from having to work, which means I never interview for a position with this company, and never have access to that time machine. Auuggghhh! Time travel fiction makes my brain hurt.
*dream sequence*

Watch Out for the Shards

First, to give regular readers a little context, my mother did not come down here on Friday.

My wife took a much-deserved “Mom’s Night Out,” while I watched Ben. On a whim, I decided Ben and I would take part in a neighborly cookout across the street. On yet another, I invited a friend who was watching his five month-old son while his wife was at the same event as mine.

I scrubbed our grill, unused since at least spring 2005, when it made a nice home for a snake, while Ben played in the backyard and my buddy’s baby boy cooed at us from his carrier. The plan was for all of us to take our grills to one lady’s driveway. Actually, two ladies. Okay, okay, two lesbian ladies. Lay off me already.

My friend and I walked the grill and the boys over to the party spot. I introduced folks, fired up my grill, and then ran home to thaw out the only meat that was not freezer burned — boneless, skinless chicken breast. I also found some leftover green beans and some Lesueur young, early peas. If they’re not Lesuer, and they are not young and early, then they’re worthless.

Ten minutes later, I grabbed the chicken — white around the edges thanks to microwave thawing, and headed back. I also carried the Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning, because, frankly, it’s freakin’ good.

With hopes my friend did not feel deserted, I arrived and slapped the chicken on the hot grill. I managed to relax for a minute or two, and then Ben tried to drink some bubble-blowing soap. Kids are cute until they do something stupid or dangerous. I think they get it from adults (who were, incidentally, Ben’s source for the soap).

I took a quick trip back to the house and nuked the leftover veggies. I wanted a cold drink to take with me. A Samuel Adams Spring Ale was the only option in our refrigerator besides Coke. I grabbed it and the two leftover dishes and roll-stepped my way back to the party to keep from making a mess. I made it without incident.

My friend and I devoured our cajun-grilled chicken and green beans. For something thrown together last-minute, this was smooth sailing.

“Hey, Mark, you want me to put those peas on here?” ask a neighbor as he checked the hot wings he had put on my grill.

The peas, in an oven-safe, microwaveable Corningware dish with a glass lid, sat atop the hostess’ garbage can lid. I forgot the peas.

“Sure,” I said.

“Every three or four years, I try beer again, thinking maybe this time I’ll like it,” I said to a few guys sitting nearby. Mysteriously, all the ladies had retreated into the house. “But, I still don’t.”

“What beer are you drinking?” my friend said.

“That Sam Adams Spring Ale you left in our fridge.”

“Well, if you don’t like that, then you still don’t like beer,” he said. “But on St. Patrick’s Day, you gotta have a Guiness.” My wife and I are hosting that party. I have my doubts that a stout, even if it is Irish, will convert me.

A few minutes later, I opened my grill to check the peas. I knew the Corningware’s handles would be hot, so I grabbed a few napkins to use as oven mitts. I set the dish on one of the grill’s built-in shelves.

Then I lost my presence of mind.

I reached out with bare fingers and grabbed the glass lid. “Ouch!” I dropped the lid back down, but it landed crooked, slid off the dish, and crashed onto the cement. It shattered into innumerable pieces, littering a trail 10 feet down the driveway and a few feet into the grass.

Our hostess graciously came to my aid with broom and dustpan, while another neighbor grabbed his flashlight. Two or three others helped. I could not believe the number of fragments.

“How many lids did you break?” a guy asked.

“Hey, Mark, I always break the other part of my Corningware, so you can just come by my place and grab a lid,” said another.

My friend and I combed the area again and again. Children without shoes were afoot. (I’m leaving that, so just simmer down.) Satisfied that we had removed the danger, we quit.

Shortly after, we returned to my house. The boys down for the night, we watched the first DVD of the “Firefly” boxed set. When your lady is not around, there are few better ways to finish an evening.

Danger in the Donut Shop

While his mommy slept in Saturday morning, I took Ben to the nearby donut shop. The nice thing about eating at a donut shop with a long line of people watching you? You don’t feel guilty at all, because everybody’s there for the same thing.

The bad thing about eating at a donut shop? Evidently the chairs tend to buck toddlers without warning. As I reached to grab a Wet One from Ben’s diaper bag, I saw the front legs of his chair come off the ground. Before I could get to my feet, he and the chair were on the floor. A kind patron stepped out of line as Ben cried. I reached Ben before he did and gave him the look that says, “Thanks. I got it now.”

Ben cheered up fast and kept asking for a cake doughnut. He had overheard somebody order one, and figured those two words together must mean unfathomable bliss.

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