Our Tribe
We brunched today at Kermit and Cuvée’s house. Later, hungry, Mama Dog said to me, “I didn’t really have lunch today.” I said, “Yes you did. It was the ‘unch’ part of the brunch.” And really, we had breakfast first thing in the morning, so we’d already had the “br” part as well. Mama Dog’s of the opinion, though, brunch is not a conflation of breakfast and lunch but an extra meal that can be conveniently tucked between the other two. This is a very special time of life for Mama Dog; the natural weight loss program that is breastfeeding allows her to take in calories with giddy abandon and not gain. I, on the other hand, grow ever more porcine. I’ve tracked my weight since losing forty pounds on Weight Watchers a couple years ago. I’d gained about 25 of them back when the computer died and I lost my weight tracking spreadsheet. Without a place to enter data, I suddenly noticed that I didn’t give a shit, stopped weighing myself, and started helping myself to the leftover Halloween candy. I may now be back over the dreaded 200 lb. mark for all I know. I’m thinking maybe I’ll sign back up for Weight Watchers. But if I’m doing that I might as well finish the big baked lard cookies I impulse-bought the other night when getting tea.
All of which is really a long rambling digression.
What I meant to talk about was the crowd at Kermit and Cuvée’s house, which included two other couples; the stepinlaws and some friends of K&C who had with them their two-year-old boy. We had Baby Dog with us, and both Cuvée and the stepsisinlaw are expecting in March. Everybody there was either a parent or soon to be one, which still seems like a strange context for me to be in. This time last year, our friends were all childless late-thirtysomethings like ourselves. Now all of a sudden we’re a passel of late-thirtysomething first-time parents. We’re all going to be miserable cranky old wretches by the time we pass our young off to college or the mill (as fate allows).
I remember seven years back or so, Kermit and I would sometimes go to Club Mallard to drink and not meet women. Actually, the way it worked out was that I’d drink and we’d both fail to meet women. Kermit was always the designated driver because I’d never learned how. He’d nurse a beer all night while I lined up the cocktails and we’d commiserate about our various lifestyle shortfalls. I was pretty firmly convinced it was all over for me. Kermit would say, “No, you gotta keep getting back on that horse.” Then he’d pick some tunes and I’d drink some more and think that if the objective was to find a woman, then sitting at the bar drinking and talking only to the guy friend I came with might not be the most efficient way to go about it.
Fast forward a bit. Don’t ask me how, but I found my way out of that rut and was married to Mama Dog. Through an unlikely chain of events involving the fact that Bernardo doesn’t ever wake up on time, that his roommate had a copy of Us Magazine lying around, and that a book company was too cheap to arrange a real reading tour for a writer, I was the unlikely facilitator to first place Kermit and Cuvée in a room together. It looked like maybe Kermit was out of his rut, too, but he had an uncertain road to travel. When things were looking a little iffy for him in those early days, he sought my advice and, remembering his ready use of the horse cliché, I put on my best George I voice and said, “Stay the course.” He did, and so here we all are. Our tribe, ever growing.
All of which is really a long rambling digression.
What I meant to talk about was the crowd at Kermit and Cuvée’s house, which included two other couples; the stepinlaws and some friends of K&C who had with them their two-year-old boy. We had Baby Dog with us, and both Cuvée and the stepsisinlaw are expecting in March. Everybody there was either a parent or soon to be one, which still seems like a strange context for me to be in. This time last year, our friends were all childless late-thirtysomethings like ourselves. Now all of a sudden we’re a passel of late-thirtysomething first-time parents. We’re all going to be miserable cranky old wretches by the time we pass our young off to college or the mill (as fate allows).
I remember seven years back or so, Kermit and I would sometimes go to Club Mallard to drink and not meet women. Actually, the way it worked out was that I’d drink and we’d both fail to meet women. Kermit was always the designated driver because I’d never learned how. He’d nurse a beer all night while I lined up the cocktails and we’d commiserate about our various lifestyle shortfalls. I was pretty firmly convinced it was all over for me. Kermit would say, “No, you gotta keep getting back on that horse.” Then he’d pick some tunes and I’d drink some more and think that if the objective was to find a woman, then sitting at the bar drinking and talking only to the guy friend I came with might not be the most efficient way to go about it.
Fast forward a bit. Don’t ask me how, but I found my way out of that rut and was married to Mama Dog. Through an unlikely chain of events involving the fact that Bernardo doesn’t ever wake up on time, that his roommate had a copy of Us Magazine lying around, and that a book company was too cheap to arrange a real reading tour for a writer, I was the unlikely facilitator to first place Kermit and Cuvée in a room together. It looked like maybe Kermit was out of his rut, too, but he had an uncertain road to travel. When things were looking a little iffy for him in those early days, he sought my advice and, remembering his ready use of the horse cliché, I put on my best George I voice and said, “Stay the course.” He did, and so here we all are. Our tribe, ever growing.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 9:33 PM
1 Comments:
I put a lot of thought into my vote and ultimately picked Condi Rice because, well, I figured she'd be the one most likely to taste good. None of the others seemed particularly apetizing, for the following reasons:
Elderly Folk-Rocker Bob Dylan --- Flesh too stringy and carbonized from years of cigarette smoking.
Nike founder Phil Knight -- Too bland. Would be like eating a giant Wheat Chex morsel.
Dr. Condoleezza Rice -- The perfect fat to meat ratio. And mmmmmmmmm, bacon.
Prominent buddhist Steven Seagal -- Too much muscle, not enough gristle.
Mostly Canadian Celebrity Pamela Anderson -- Too much silicone and other man-made parts. Probably too many pharmaceutical residuals in bloodstream.
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