Weekend Stuff

Saturday was, um, fun? My kids were hung over from too much candy and 3 minutes prior to leaving the apartment for a party my son decides to taste my salad. One bite of the bleu cheese and he's bolting for the bathroom, announcing that he is going to vomip (not a typo). He makes it to the can in time, bends over and spews. Alas, little Cloogin (not his real name) didn't life the lid. Mrs. McNoogin stayed behind to clean up the mess, bless her heart, and off we went. A saturday afternoon birthday party for a family friend's son. Gym thing with inflatable slides, trampoline bunjee jumping and 0ther assorted fun things. The kind of Saturday afternoon party that tires the kids out, making it easy to put them to bed early.

Not when you have another party that night. We were stuck celebrating my sister in law's birthday as well as my mother outlaw's birthday. Good times.

My kids were a wreck. They were starving when we got to the restaurant and we had the inevitable hour and a half wait. Why? Because my moronic outlaw chose an italian restaurant that is about as touristy a place as you can get and, to add to the insanity, it was the night before the NYC Marathon so every runner in the city was dining on pasta.

So, we get to the restaurant with the knowledge that I am going to pick up the tab and not eat a thing. Carbs are not on my menu and this place is a carb factory. My kids are going berserk, the place is too crowded for us to stand anywhere and chaos ensures. Fortunately, I am friendly with the magician who seems to perform at every kid party these days and he gets a kick out of the fact that I am the only non-professional who can blow up those long skinny balloons used for making animals and swords and other shit. So, after messing around with the magicians and the kids, making such wonderful balloon things as "lower intestines" and "a virulent bactieria," I left for the dinner with a pocketfull of balloons.

So, at the restaurant I resort to making balloon things for my kids. My daughter, Soogin (not her real name) is having a blast, my son Cloogin (not his real name) is distracted from the hell of this restaurant and all seems right in the world. We all endured the hour wait, my wife acting as a human shield, keeping her mother away from the hostess. We finally get seated and my sister in law admits to not understanding why we are eating Italian food. She's married to an italian guy, they have this kind of food all the time, only it's good. Her husband cooks, her inlaws all cook and, she says, she'd "rather have fish."

My outlaw, Satan (her real name), then starts complaining about the poor lighting, the crappy table (it was in a corner, perfect for the kids) and the lack of bread, water, butter, gold flakes etc on the table. This is a ploy the red menace (her real nickname, so given by her dead husband's friends at his funeral) uses at every meal in a restaurant. She figures she'll bitch and moan thru the entire meal and then drop the "give me something free" line when she gets the bill. To make her seem like even more of a cheap lunatic, my brother in law and I pay for every meal. I deal with the waiters who are so thrilled to not have to talk to her that they end up comping my booze. And I drank a lot that night. No food for me, just a nice bourbon appetizer followed by a bourbon entree and I ended it with bourbon and coffee for dessert.

So the meal cost me a few buck. I went home and ate dinner. No biggie, I'm used to it. The outlaw knows I don't eat pasta so she picks italian meals whenever possible. It's her way of saying "recognize me."
I do my best to be nice but I tend to drop the odd comment or two that responds to her "recognize me" with a big "fuck off, it's my family, not yours." Truth is, she fancies herself as some Ewing matriarch, minus the oil, money, taste or looks.


So I woke up Sunday, mildly hungover, and we started planning the day. My wife wanted to take the kids to the Met to see the egyptian wing and the armor and weapons wing. Cool stuff but there's the NYC marathon and getting around the city can be hell, I tell her.

"But I want to take the kids to see the runners."

I am all for supporting your friends who run and I have the utmost respect for anyone who even plans on running, regardless of whether they finish. Hell, props to anyone who trains for it.

But standing on a cold corner, watching joggers? Why?

What's the fucking point of that? Who do we cheer? What if I'm cheering for one stranger and another stranger thinks it was for them? Should I run along side people, ask them their names so we can cheer for them? Do I just start cheering "GO YOU!" and point at people?

My son, clearly felt the same way. He was bored and itching to get in the museum so we split up from my wife and my daughter who was standing there watching the ice cream cart and not the runners.

The museum was pretty cool. I haven't been there in ages and my kids were somewhat into it for the most part. When they got bored we headed home. Stopping at a shoe store for the kids of course. Forced to listen to the owner tell us about the celebs that came in. He always mentions them coming in. We must just miss them every time we're there.

The night ended with me making leftover pasta for everyone and watching them all eat again. A fine end to the weekend.

Oh, and I managed to not have to repair the roller coaster yesterday for the first time since completion. Tonight or tomorrow, I'm taking it down. Takes up too much room and it is way too delicate.


Next week, the boy goes to the Intrepid and I'm taking my daughter to the magic museum near my office. Maybe I'll learn a few tricks, like how to make my outlaw stay in florida.