Fun with Grandma and Buffer Boy

Kids are wonderful and can serve many functions.  When you are down and need a hug, your kid will probably oblige.  As long as they are under the age of 7 and no one is watching and you give them a cookie.   When they are little, they can reach things that roll under the furniture like a cocktail glass or a baby brother.  When they are older, they can reach things on the high-up shelves like the spare bottle of Stoli, or a baby brother’s piggy bank.   I bet you’re all thinking I was also going to list tax deduction as a useful purpose, but the amount the government deems an appropriate deduction and the amount it cost me to feed my boys are many, many zeroes apart.

Yessirree, kids are very functional and can serve many purposes.  Hang in there, I’ll bring this around in a second.   

Recently I had dinner with my sister and my mother.  I don’t remember what my sister and I ordered, but I clearly recall what my mother had.  She ordered a house salad and fried oysters.  Her order triggered another one of those memories that my friends think are far more amusing than I do. It also reminded me of another purpose a child can serve.   That would be buffer between parent and grandparent. (See?  That didn’t take long, did it?)

You see, my mother and I love each other dearly, but we don’t always see eye to eye, and occasionally the conversation, which usually starts with just one seemingly innocent comment, rapidly spirals (or escalates, depending on whether you are a participant or an onlooker)  into a screaming, plate throwing, crying fiasco the likes of which Springer wishes he could book.  Anyhoo, several years ago my mother had done her homework, knew the answers to the three questions and the little troll who lives under the bridge allowed her access to the island for several days.  During her visit, she wanted to go to my favorite little watering hole, the Thirsty Whale, for some of their scrumptious fried clams.  Since the Whale tends to frown on customers screaming, plate throwing and crying during the lunch rush, I thought it might be smart to bring my firstborn son to diffuse tension betwixt his mother and mine.  I figured if he was there, we would be well-behaved and I would not be embarrassed in front of the staff who so cherishes me they  bestowed a Native American name upon me -- ‘Woman who helps make our payroll’. 

We instantly had a situation when the server informed us that fried clams were temporarily off the menu.  She did suggest a very popular alternative – fried oysters.  This development triggered a negotiation process that would make Joe Bornstein cry Uncle (get it? – the spokesman is that guy from that 60’s show…oh never mind, if I have to explain it, it’s not so clever) It went something like this:

Mom: I’ve never had them fried, what if I don’t like them? 

Me:  Well, Christopher likes them, he’ll eat them and we’ll order you something else.

Mom: But then you’ll be eating and I’ll just be watching.  That’s not fun for me.

Me: Why don’t you get the fried haddock sandwich, that is always good. 

Mom: No, I want fried clams.  I had my heart set on them.   

Me:  Oh for pete’s sake, just ride the ragged edge and try the oysters.   

Mom: (Heavy Sigh) I just don’t know. 

And just when I thought she couldn’t annoy any more beejeezus out of me, she paused, looked over the menu RIGHT AT her grandson and said (please note this is 100% true.  I could not and would not be able to make this up)

Mom:  Oh, I dunno if I should. Oysters make your grandmother horny.

  

The room started to spin.  I rose from the table, mumbled something about having to go to the ladies room, and wobbled toward the end of the bar, where the bartender was waiting and biting her lip.  I pointed to the bottle of good tequlia and asked her to pour a shot.  She quickly obliged, sensing my urgency.  What she didn’t understand was that the shot would be held on reserve for Darrell when he came in for his afternoon nip (even in the face of pending doom, I can be thoughtful of others).  I fully intended to down the rest of the bottle.  I then heard, through the pounding in my ears, my son’s voice announcing loudly  ‘That is the grossest thing I have ever heard.’  So much for not making a scene. 
I summoned my maternal instinct, realized I had abandoned buffer boy in his darkest hour and wobbled back to the table. After our server composed herself a little, I ordered lunch for my son, who, after that one outburst had been rendered speechless, myself and my mother -- because I did not want her to speak ever, ever again.

The rest of lunch was uneventful, unless you count the waves of laughter that would roll down the bar every time another local would come in and hear the story. 

I was actually surprised that for the rest of Mother’s visit, Christopher did join us, and would politely hold any and all doors open for most of our group.  Notice I did not say ‘all of our group’.  After a couple days Mom said ‘I must be losing weight.  I don’t think Christopher sees me right behind him.  He keeps closing the door right in my face.’  Oh, he knew, Mom, he knew.

YOU CAN PUT A PRICE ON LOVE

Oh dear gawd.  The unopened Christmas credit card bills have barely hit the shredder and here comes Valentine’s Day.  I know, many people anxiously anticipate this frilliest of holidays.  Some because they have stock in Hallmark.  Many, many others are starry-eyed romantic dreamer types with their heads up their, uh, clouds.  Yeah, we’ll go with clouds.  If you haven’t picked up the vibe yet,  I am not in either category.

In an effort to figure out why I have such a nasty attitude about this day of love and Cupid (Rhymes with ‘Stupid’…’nuff said), let’s travel back to grammar school.   Back in my day, Valentine’s Day was one big pink and red lace-trimmed festival.  We spent all morning decorating our little Valentine’s mailboxes – the base could be a shoebox, tissue box or a cereal box  rescued from the trash at home.  In desperation, a certain feminine hygiene product box served just fine, and was not nearly as embarrassing as one would think.  Since grammar school boys don’t mature until—well—ever, it was easy to convince them the products pictured were big thick Odor Eaters.  Armed with a wide array of art supplies, we all set to work decorating our mailboxes.  The boys were done in under a minute.  Doesn’t take long to tape three baseball cards to a shoebox.  We girls took much longer.  Every year, my artistic vision far exceeded both my artistic ability and the array of art supplies.  I pictured a sparkling lace and glitter confection of a treasure chest that would be positively bursting with Valentines, including a breathtaking handcrafted creation from Dougie or Billy or the new kid – whoever I was head over Keds for that week.  I further imagined that after the exchanging of handcrafted proclamations of undying affection, my one true love du jour and I would share chocolate cupcakes decorated with fluffy white frosting and cinnamon hearts.  Then as the sun set in the west, we would walk, hand in hand to Bus #9.   I’ll give you a moment to wipe the tears away.  Now here’s how it usually played out. 

We’ll start with the wide array of art supplies.  The glue, having been left uncapped since the Christmas projects was a cementy clot, the little scissors jammed up at the sight of construction paper, the paper lace doilies, being all fused together, came apart in little shards and the glitter stuck to my face and hands but not any paper surface.  The finished product would have made Picasso proud, but was not appreciated by my classmates, Picasso’s talent not being a big topic of discussion at Connors-Emerson in Bar Harbor in the early ‘60’s. Was the mailbox positively bursting with cards?  A generous estimate would be half full of the generic store bought variety, with no handmade creation from my one true love.  Just another generic store bought card signed by his mother.  As for sharing party fare?  Never, unless you count the year an unknown perpetrator (I knew in my little fourth grade heart it was Dougie or Billy or the new kid flirting with me) stuck a fluffy-frosted cinnamon heart bedecked cupcake on my chair as I sat down.  It goes without saying (which won’t stop me from saying it) that the handholding to the bus was a non-event.

Although Valentine’s Day, for me, is not as portrayed on the Hallmark Channel, I thought I might be able to help make it better for others.  To that end, I offer these shopping suggestions to help the menfolk reading this make their sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day special.  You know who you are.  You are the ones reading this at gunpoint.

1. Kitchen and/or household appliances.  No.  Never.
2. Flowers.  Now we’re talking.  I should caution you that, although it may be a real timesaver to purchase a single rose or a bouquet at the same place you buy your beer, lottery tickets and breakfast pizza, there are businesses right in the area that specialize in flowers and floral arrangements.  They have phone numbers and they deliver.  We like delivered flowers.  Oh sure, we seem to appreciate you handing us flowers at home, but we all secretly prefer to have a large flashy arrangement delivered to our place of work by a team of winged cherubs.  Makes it easier to flaunt in the face of flowerless co-workers.
3. Candy.  Candy is good, if it is GOOD CANDY.  A few basic rules to follow – if the box is decorated for Christmas and has a 75% off sticker, pass it by.  If it is covered with cartoon and/or sports figures, move on.  Look for a simple, elegant box with maybe some gold lettering.  Most importantly, please note that it is bad form to eat the candy yourself while telling your sweety you are doing her a favor because she is looking a little ‘hippy’.
4. Lingerie is risky, but with proper consideration,  can be rewarding for both giver and recipient.  As with flowers, there are shops devoted just to lingerie.  While Wal-Mart carries items that are structurally similar, make the trip to Victoria’s Secret.  When purchasing the gift, please be aware of the recipient’s age, size, shape, agility, ability and mood.  And please also be aware that on the recipient, the black lace babydoll may not appear exactly as pictured.  But you should also be aware George Clooney probably looks better in Carhartt’s than you do. 
5. Jewelry.  Shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes is always welcome.  Go to a store that deals exclusively in shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes.  Make sure the item description does not end with ‘ish’, ‘like’ or ‘tone’.  Most jewelers offer some form of installment plan or indentured servant program to help you afford the bauble she truly deserves.  I will caution you, some of us regard jewelry as an admission of guilt.  Oh, we will wear the 4 carat diamond tennis bracelet, but there will be questions, many questions. 

A couple of final shopping notes, in the event anyone has the urge to buy me a Valentine’s (or any day) gift.  The only thing that Victoria’s Secret sells that consistently fits me is the perfume.  Also, I will happily accept shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes, no questions, asked.

OK, gentlemen, you only have a few shopping days left.  So arm yourselves with several major credit cards and the title to your pickup truck and seek out those specialty stores.  If you’re still in a quandary about how to demonstrate your love, be sincere.  And maybe stick a fluffy frosted cinnamon heart bedecked cupcake in her chair.