Into the wild

Chatting with my Dad (SD) one Saturday, we laughed about the first summer I spent in Alaska with he and my Mom, and the night he took me to one of the rowdiest bars in America to see Jimmy Buffett play. My mantra after that night: ALASKA! Into the wild! This will be crazy summer o' fun.

As mentioned before, the island in Alaska was long on ruggedness and short on college woman. After being there a few weeks, I was no longer perplexed at their renewed sense of protectiveness. The protectiveness that would be driven to extremes during my three month stint. Why, you ask? For reasons such as this:

One afternoon, while sitting in the car near the post office with my Mom, a woolly bully man with a large beard and overalls approached my Mom's SUV to say hello. She introduced us and within seconds, he leaned around her and asked me to dinner. 

Did you request a date in front of my Mom? You have a beard!!! I don't turn 19 for weeks. I stammer out a y-y-yes, I guess so. My Mom was caught between laughing at my discomfort and cringing at her own. I had been in Alaska for less than two weeks. My parents preferred a 50 foot electrical fence around me at all times that nary a man on the island could cross. Why? Not because they were not wonderful men I am sure. But because put a baby chicken in a panther den and watch what happens.

However, my Mom knew this man and considered him nice. Hence the implied permission I could go. Did I need permission? Yes. Why? Because a few other men who asked received this response from my Dad Not a chance in hell or NEVER. Later, my Mom seemed to find the earlier scenario quite delightful as she relayed it to my Dad. Turns out, my dinner date was only 25. All that rugged air and beard just made him look a touch older (by touch I mean 20 years.) My Dad knew him as well and agreed  he was a nice young man.

My Date: He picked me up at my parents house. In his jeep and toting a very large and adorable dog. Once inside the jeep, he asks if I don't have some Carhartts I could wear. I say no because at that juncture, I am unfamiliar with Carhartts. He laughs and points to his goldeny-brown one piece jumpsuit made of teflon. These are Carhartts! Ahhhh. No, I don't have those.

Then, this yellow lab, Boomer, climbs up front and begins licking his face. Boomer clambers into the small space between him and me. Doggie face pointed towards owner. Rest of doggie pointed towards me. Precious doggie then farts. Basically right in my face. Dinner date laughs and laughs and laughs. Guess why he is named Boomer?!?!?!?! Now you know.

Is this a good time to remind or refresh that I am not in the "fart joke = hahaha" club. Several people in my family are on the Board of Directors of such club. I am the one picketing outside. I subscribe more to the theory of "if it originated in an orifice, it might not be that funny." So as I am now squeamishly uncomfortable in this small fart-laden space with a gassy pet and a cackling dog owner. I take little comfort knowing my Mom will laugh hysterically at this anecdote.

At dinner, we struggle with conversation. I believe I can chatter with anyone. Not tonight. He asks of my post-college plans. I indicate law school is my focus. He then tells me I would like his brother, who is going to Princeton. Way to sell yourself! But his brother wants to be an attorney too. His brother does not own Carhartts either. This conversation flows like mud through a straw. On the drive home, I am treated to an additional blast by Boomer.

He was very nice but there was really no need for goodnight kisses.  

I change my previous mantra to: ALASKA! Not the wild I had in mind! This will be crazy summer o' fun except when on a date and a man's dog farted. In your face. When is summer over????

Upon relaying the story to my parents, the portion involving Boomer being their favorite, my Dad exclaims enthusiastically, "Good! And I will suggest NO more dates! But, perhaps you should get his brother's phone number."

A trail of condom crumbs

During the first semester of college. I thought it wise and bright to invite my boyfriend to come home with me for a little weekend visit with my parents. The boyfriend of the infamous beer bong.  Nice. During that weekend, the following mishap took place.

One night after dinner, we sat around chatting with my parents and a good friend of my Dad’s named Jeff.  Jeff lived near us and was taking a night off while his wife was home with their five children.  As we wrap up our night, he hits the lav before departing. I take BeerBongMaker (BBM) out into our family room to watch a movie and minutes later we hear my mom erupt.

She is calling my Dad in what I would classify as an alarmed panic to come down the main hall toward their room. He, perplexed, makes haste in getting there. I tell BBM to wait there and I rush off to the plight.

They stand in the hall which leads to their room, my room, and the main bathroom. My Mom is pointing to an item on the carpet. My Dad looks at it a moment before he picks it up. It is a fully packaged unused condom. She knows it does not belong to my Dad.

Mom: That has to be Jeff’s. He just came from the master bathroom.

Dad: Well….

Mom: Why in the world would Jeff have a condom? His wife had a hysterectomy.

Pause

She: Oh no…do you think Jeff is cheating on his wife?!?

My Dad is tres uncomfortable as this unfolds. It is HIGHLY unlikely that Jeff is using condoms as he already has five children (and clearly doesn’t know how to use one) and his wife can no longer get pregnant.

Me: Silence is golden. Because my Dad now has an impression that is highly inaccurate.

It does not occur to my Mom for a nanosecond of time there are other potential and highly viable candidates for Owner of the Condom. One of those candidates sitting in our family room as this melee unravels.

Mom: You have to talk to him about this. I can’t imagine why he would have this with him?

Dad: Ok. LONG PAUSE during which he avoids eye contact with both of us. No one needs Colombo to figure out this mystery. 

I slink back to movie watching and biting my tongue before turning to BBM and whispering “You brought condoms to my parents house?!?!?! AND dropped one outside my bedroom?!?!?!! Excellent work, Hansel."

A multitude of  other comments were also shared at that time too including things like "you presumptive jackass" and "this is your idea of a great location?". All under my breath and all carrying the promise there would be no condom equipped activity in my parents house. Or perhaps ever.

His response, "How was I supposed to know?"
COMMON __________ SENSE?

We were NOT doing something that required condoms. And we were certainly NOT going to do something that did require them at my PARENTS house. But before I, all comfy in my glass palace, throw stones; I didn't hesitate to accept his beer bong gift now did I. Nor did I refrain from using it to consume dozens of ounces of Killians or PBR. Way to set the bar high for yourself, SassyAss.

Later, my Mom is actually quite disturbed by the previous scenario. Shall I walk the road of justice and tell her that there is a slight and ever so tiny chance that it was NOT Jeff’s? Or do I merely retreat like an 18 year old scaredy-cat because my parents are already on edge about the beer bong and this kid? Do I need to lay additional foundation for his homicide? Or can I hope for the best that it is all forgotten about in a day or two when I am back at the University safely tucked among my biology textbook and cozy dorm room.  And potentially no longer with a boyfriend. 

As you can imagine, Scaredy Cat conquered. My Dad knew all along but we have never discussed it because I was not about to tell him the condoms were in vain and were not even remotely part of my program. Not a conversation I wanted to have with Dad at 18. or 28. Or 38 for that matter. (He won't read this.) But I did eventually tell my Mom. Or at least I think I did. Or I wrote a blog post about it and look, the truth has been set free. And since she just flew in town last night for MiniMac's upcoming birthday, I can apologize in person if in fact, I had not shared this tidbit until now.

Is it too late to apologize to Jeff?


Update at 10 am: My Mom minutes ago admitted she laughed her arse off reading this...and then told me she did in fact NOT know and now it is she who should apologize to Jeff.

Double sorry Jeff!

Rewind: This must be your first worst date

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