I don’t want to seem like a sexual predator, but a few nights ago I went to our local ice cream store where working behind the counter I saw this…
Yes he is a person, not a “this,” some object for my cheap gratification, yet even though he is only twenty years old, he was working his green eyes at me like they were mint chocolate chip and I was a cone. Dear Jewish Jesus I must be secreting some serious Christmas cheer, because if it wasn’t the holiday season, could I really pull someone that young? Where does he get off looking at a married woman with two kids that way? I thought I might be charged with statutory rape when I reached for my sugar-free coconut carbo-lite.
On another note, we had a little camp out in the Malibu neighb tonight, except that out of thirty people and kids, we were the only ones who were actually prepared to camp out. Everyone else made the mistake of listening to the notoriously stupid weather forecast that promised a seventy per cent chance of rain, and didn’t bring tents. I was entrusted with delivering the children to the campground and keeping them alive as they hurtled around in the dark, tripping over knotted vines with nothing but green glow sticks lighting their way. At some point allegedly accompanied by some adults, the children ran off giggling to cross the Pacific Coast Highway (the most dangerous highway in the country) and go over to the beach.
“Goodbye,” I called out to my children, hoping I would see them again, “It’s been mostly fun.”
When they returned safely I asked the seven year old, “How are you? Any psychological damage?” He shook his head no. I know I’m setting the bar fairly low, but the fact that he came back at all would have been good enough for me.
At the camp out was a beautiful log fire in a tin drum, such as those favored by homeless people in the subways of New York City. If you think about it the entire camping experience is designed to mirror the homeless experience, especially in the cold weather. Why would anyone set out to sleep on the ground with nothing but a flimsy nylon sheet protecting them from the elements? At least there are no coyotes in the Subway. Needless to say, as soon as daddy got there, mommy was going home to sleep in a traditional bed favored by those of us lucky enough to have homes.
I had cut up a (Kosher) chicken and marinated it in unusual homemaking frenzy and brought it along to share. One of my friends had one of those metal thingy’s that cooks things over open fires, so I jammed that chicken in there and put it on the grate pretending I knew what I was doing. The chicken turned out delicious, and I was more shocked than anyone as I managed to feed not only my own children, but some other assorted ones from the neighborhood who were over the whole (Kosher) hotdogs and s’mores thing. You would have thought it was a bunch of religious Jews with all that kosher food, except that when the guitar came out, we women were actually allowed to sing. (Jewish men can’t hear a woman sing lest they immediately have impure thoughts and lose control of them.) Also I believe marshmallow gelatin comes from pigs.
As daddy’s return got later and later the kids began seriously hassling me about putting up the tent, which I flatly refused to do, not only because I didn’t know how to operate this particular one, but because as I have stated before, certain activities should simple remain “a dad thing.” The eight year old began his usual routine, escalating cries of “please please please please mommy,” then impinging on my personal space by following me around less than two feet away, a technique that I believe the United Nations has outlawed, along with the tortures at Abu Graib. He capped it off with bitter tears of abandon, until finally I swore loudly and stormed off, demonstrating to my child how a tantrum should really be done.
At this point one of my other friends intervened and reminded me that I had to do this for him and that she would help.
“I got this,” she said, I could barely make out her staring deeply into my eyes in the dark. Of course that depth may have been because she had recently finished smoking weed in her car.
All my women friends came through beautifully, while the husbands sat around the campfire, lighting pig-mallows on sticks and looking on dumbly without lifting a finger. Daddy finally arrived for his shift, once all things had been safely schlepped, pitched and organized. Sometimes I fucking hate feminism.