'Yakin' With Spike and Peepaw

Dad, whom little Charlie often refers to by the super-cool title "Peepaw," got a couple kayaks recently. He is very pleased with them and even put one in the swimming pool as soon as he brought them home, happily rowing himself about in the deep end for a while. He's taken the kayaks out into the Gulf, out on a lake or two, and down a couple rivers. They're pretty fun and we all like to tag along on his little kayaking trips, especially his friend Spike.

Spike is also a middle-aged retired military guy and he and Dad pal around and do lots of activities together. Last summer they even hauled Dad's fifth wheel on a church mission trip and stayed in it together. Dad told us about how they parked the camper next to a lake and turned the two armchairs towards the window to watch the sunset. All I could picture was that Cialis commercial with the two people in the random outdoor bathtubs holding hands and gazing at each other.

So, anyway, Spike is Dad's go-to kayaking partner. Dad recently decided to up the kayaking ante and try one of the larger rivers in our area, the Pea River. As he planned and plotted their cute little route, Mom and I came up with a name for their adventure: "'Yakin' the Pea with Spike and Peepaw." We imagined them filming a cable-access outdoors show as they floated down the chocolate-brown Pea River, commenting on the various snakes raining from the trees and paddling faster when they could hear banjos. They had a fine time and did not capsize or drown, and none of the snakes turned out to be poisonous. The only hiccups occurred when they had to portage their kayaks a short distance, which I'm sure was an awe-inspiring sight, and then Dad snagging his vessel on a stump and drenching his sandwich. Poor Peepaw. But, soggy sandwiches aside, they had a lovely 'yak.

And, more importantly, I composed a theme song for their television show:

If you're an outdoorsy person
Then we know what you'll like:
'Yakin' with ol' Peepaw and Spike!

If you're into snakes and alligators
Hop in your 'yak
And wave to the haters!

You'll have a great time
And make memories, I bet
We sure hope your sandwich doesn't get wet!

Grab your bugspray
And say, "Yeehaw!"
You're 'yakin' with Spike and Peepaw!

Wedding Crasher

I am not good at going to weddings. I have been in several and acquitted myself tolerably well but when it comes to being a guest I am hot garbage. Andy was a groomsman in a very fancy society wedding a couple years ago, and insisted that Charlie and I attend. I ended up sadly removing my torn pantyhose in Andy's Hyundai while young Charlie slept in a puddle of his own pee in his car seat behind me. And that was not the lowest point of the evening.

This weekend one of Andy's best friends is getting married and Andy is once again in the wedding. I couldn't be happier for the lovely couple but I could be a lot happier for me.

It started as we were in the hotel dressing for the rehearsal. I was about to put on my adorable gray flats when I realized that would be difficult since they were jauntily resting on the bench in our bedroom several hours away. So of course I couldn't wear the nice pants I'd brought with the scummy flip flops I'd worn in the car so I had to wear the jeans I'd been wearing to make the flip flops less obtrusive. After a small panic attack and an emergency phone call to Best Friend Nicole, I decided to go and see what the rest of the women attending the rehearsal were wearing and decide if I should inflict my farmer attire on them. We screeched to the church and Andy jumped out to go rehearse. I sat, stalker-like, in the church parking lot but apparently everyone had gone in already. So I figured the rehearsal itself wouldn't last too long so I'd just wait and see what everyone was wearing when it was over and they came out. 45 minutes of watching "Frasier" on Netflix later, Andy texted me and said the rehearsal was almost over and all the women in the very small group were wearing dresses. I couldn't go in. The janitor was dressed more nicely than I was. So I decided to take my offensive denim clad self back to the hotel and get a pizza on the way to make myself feel better. Toppings? Pepperoni and shame. I got my pizza and got back in the car and ate a slice while sitting in the car contemplating my own absurdity and then I realized Andy had our damn room key. And he was off merrily eating barbecue with the rest of the well-dressed people.

So here I sit, huddled in that same Hyundai, miserably stuffing my face with pizza and waiting for someone to call the police about a suspicious vehicle containing a chubby girl wearing inappropriate jeans and blubbering about tossed salad and scrambled eggs.

Happy wedding.

UPDATE: I made it back to the hotel and promptly locked myself out of the hotel room. But at least I was barefoot.

Car

My very first car was a teal 1998 Buick Skylark. It looked exactly as cool as it sounds. I accessorized it with attractive Spongebob seat covers and matching steering wheel cover. I was grateful to have wheels but not exactly overjoyed to be driving a car identical to that of the little old lady up the street; I named my Buick "Car" because it was basically that or something like "Mildred." Mom always insisted that Car was "sporty." The only sport that came to mind when picturing my Buick was shuffleboard. This was a serious retirement community vehicle. Car did have some neat features though. Sometimes her horn would start to blow for no reason and wouldn't stop until I beat frantically on the steering wheel. This usually happened when I was at a light beside a cop car or a bunch of teenage boys. There was also a strange rattle that periodically rang out from the area of the glove compartment. I would reassure my startled passenger by telling them the Glove Compartment Demon was harmless unless provoked. On one memorable occasion Car's brakes went out completely and I shot screaming through a stop sign. When I coasted, white-faced and shaking, into our driveway and told my parents, they immediately assumed that Silly Sam had forgotten how to operate the brake pedal and went for a test drive, whereupon they too experienced the terror of barreling through a stop sign to the soundtrack of a blaring car horn and the desperate rattling of the frightened Glove Compartment Demon. Dad immediately took Car to the shop after prying Mom out of the passenger seat with a spatula. One awesome day I managed to high-center Car on the curb of our driveway. I smacked the curb so hard the tire came off the rim and was destroyed.  Dad ended up having to lift Car off the curb. Then he threw an air compressor across the yard, probably because he was so proud of what a good driver I'd become and he wanted to celebrate. My little brother was the lucky recipient of many jaunts around town in Car. Once I drove him to a piano lesson and then home on what turned out to be a completely flat tire. I was actually driving on the rim, probably throwing off sparks as I trundled down the road with my horn sounding. I did learn a lot from Car and her sporty quirks; for example, the windshield washer fluid does not actually refill every time it rains, nor does the blinker require a special oil to function. Also it's best to not talk on one's Nokia cell phone (with the one inch screen and clip on cover) while piloting a boat like Car, because one will inevitably crash into the garage door and one's father will once again be forced to hurl heavy equipment across the front yard to vent his feelings.

Eventually Adam inherited Car. He spruced her up with "No Fear" stickers and renamed her "Club X-Static."

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.