Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Sethanese, All Grown Up

Today was the day that Seth became a man.  We took him to the fort for his date with a certain Walmart shower curtain.  We got there nice and early -- early to the point that he got number ONE when we checked in.  The gentleman at the counter asked him "are you really READY to be Number ONE" to which Seth responded in some sleepy version of agreement.  Said gentleman then said, "well, we could do you one better." "Huh?"  "You could be Number NOW."  We laughed and sat down in the empty waiting area.  Suddenly, we hear a female voice call out "Number NOW."

Seth didn't flinch.

She called out again "Number NOW."  I nudged him and we got down to business.  It was a busy day, with going to the fort, then my doctor appointment, and Seth had two appointments.  Appointments mean waiting, so while I was waiting for the doctor, I was sending Seth Snapchats, which were met with mixed responses, at best.  And when I came out, he shared what he'd been texting with his little lady friend.

No joke, this kid's little lady friend is a PERFECT match for him.  Seriously.  I laughed so stinkin hard when I read this that I about lost it.  Then I asked him if I could share it on the blog.  He thought the idea was great, and so it is that I share it with you, complete with their spellings and lack of punctuations and YELLING AT EACH OTHER IN CAPS.

Seth:  Doodswag!  Whatcha got goin on tomorrow?

Elaine:  Nuffin. :-)  planning on coming home and doing whatever the hell I want. You?

Seth: Noice. I gotta get up early and get me a military id then i have doctors appointments.

Elaine: Wait what

Seth: No Idea. Something about Jim being a Marine means I get a military ID. Insurance stuff.

Elaine: Yeah, that'd be good. Please dun enlist. I need you to take care of the farm.

Seth: Wait. Wut farm?

Elaine: Yeah.

Seth:  U wot?

Elaine: I AM ONLY A LITTLE WOMAN I CAIN'T HANDLE A WHOLE FARM ON MAH OWN DARYL.

Seth: GERTRUDE GED DEMMIT AH TELLS YA I GOTTA SERVE ME COUNTRY!

Elaine:  DARYL THESE CHICKENS AND CHILDREN AIN'T GONNA RAISE THEMSELVES.

Seth: THAS WHY YOU'S HERE WOMAN!

Elaine: I HAVE SO MANY OTHER RESPONSIBILITIES AROUND THIS FARM. I CANNOT STAND TO  KNOWN THAT YOU COULDA BEEN DOIN HALF OF IT. CLYDE AIN'T EVEN SEVEN YET, DARYL.

Seth: THE HELL DOES RESPANSIBILINIES MEAN?  CLEETUS AND MAGGY ARE OLD ENUF TO HELP YOU! HELL, WHEN I WAS 9 I'D ALREADY DUN KILLED MAH FIRST COW.

Elaine: I WILL NOT LET YOU GO TO WAR AND HANG AROUND WITH THE IRAYNIYANS AND BE UNFAITHFUL TO THE BIBLE BY KILLIN PERSONS. YOU COME HOME THIS INSTANT DARYL.

Seth: DAMMIT WOMAN TELL THAT TO OBAHMA!

Elaine:  HONEY YOU DAMN WELL KNOW I TRIED.  THAT MAN WON'T LISTEN TO US.  HE DUN WANT NUTHIN FROM YOU WID YOUR BUM LEG AND GLASS EYE.

Elaine:  wow that actually sounded anti Obama. My bad.

Seth: LOL well that was fin.

Seth: Fun

Seth: Fin Fun.

Is this girl a perfect match for The Spare, or what?  And for all of Seth's posturing that Jim and I need our own sitcom, I am now convinced that he and Elaine need one of their own.  Coming to a cable channel near you.


Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Ciao, Ristorante

A local landmark fell recently.  It had been a fixture for years -- before I moved to the eastside 25 years ago -- but I had never been there.  A plain cement block building, painted white, with "Salute Ristorante" painted on the trim, it was completely unremarkable.  Heck, even the parking lot sign was hand done: a white circle with hand painted letters saying "closed" on it, and attached to a thin chain.  A sign that was strangely unnecessary, because the parking lot was always closed.

A friend of mine said that it was her husband's favorite Italian place, and despite his wonderful reviews, and the fact that we drove by it all the time, we never ate there.  It was reputedly run by a true Italian who summered in Indianapolis, of all places, and wintered in Italy.  My friend said that Vito (yep, that was really his name) cooked and served real Italian food, on a level with nothing else found here locally.  She said that you had to pay in cash, and when you did, he would pull a huge roll of bills out of his pocket to make change for you.

Heck, we never even talked about going there, save the one or two conversations I had with my friend about it, so it was funny that last summer, when Thomas and I were driving by there, he mentioned that he half wanted to go there, and the other half of him was sure that he never would.  He mentioned that he was curious about this place that had sat there for years with a neon "OPEN" sign on at times -- but rarely with a car in the lot.  The kicker was that he didn't want to visit it, because he was sure that it must be a front for the mob, and he didn't want to destroy the picture in his head, which seemingly involved Tony Soprano and a strategically placed juke box.  Apparently Thomas wasn't alone in this belief.

The other day, I was in town for something, and I realized that there was construction going on in the building.  They're changing it into a gas station, and the only construction guy there happened to be digging a big hole in front, presumably for the gas tanks.  I'm sure that's their cover story, but I know better.  I'm pretty sure that now we know where Jimmy Hoffa's buried.

Monday, May 05, 2014

People Will Talk (But Not in Church)

I have a real thing about talking in church.  Growing up a preacher's kid, I was called out from the pulpit by my father on more than one occasion for chatting during the sermon, so I still get a little nervous if the person next to me starts chatting.  Keep in mind that my husband has, by his own admission, ADHD -- though he tangles the letters pretty often, making it all sorts of acronyms like ADT. No dear, not even close.  He can sit through an entire sermon with not a word, but by the time we get to communion, all bets are off.  And I never know what's going to fly out of his mouth, meaning there can be wildly inappropriate laughter involved.

Fortunately, our minister has ADHD too, so his filter occasionally goes off as well.  Like the time I got to the front of the line to be served the communion bread.  There was a backup at the wine serving, so I just stood there waiting patiently.  No sense in getting the bread if I can't move, right?  I smiled at our pastor, who mouthed something to me that I couldn't make out.  I furrowed my brow and tilted my head, trying to figure out what he'd said.  He said it again.  And again.  I mouthed "I can't understand you," and he finally shrugged it off.  By then it was time to serve, so I moved though the line and sat down.  After church, he came up and said "I was was saying traffic jam."  Gotcha!  "Yes listeners, we have  a backup in the center aisle.  There are a couple of laggers at the wine service, but the traffic should only be held up for four minutes or so, and then it's clear sailing........"

I love our church.

And so it was that we attended evening service yesterday.  Evening service is usually pretty casual and small, but this was a special service to greet our new associate pastor, so the place was packed.  There were a handful of other pastors there for the installation.  There they sat in a line, all in white robes with red stoles.  One of them, from a city south of Indianapolis, preached the sermon, warning us that yes, there was a clock facing him at the back of the church, but that he didn't pay much attention to it, once he got going.  And he got going. And going.  And going.....not overly long, mind you, but longer than we're used to.  Of course, by the end, Jim was getting fidgety. He made some joke about asking "the cardinals" where their hats were.  Oye vay.  Fortunately, he was able to blow off some steam by the passing of the peace, making sure to greet his girlfriend -- a 101 year old lady he always makes a point to say hi too. But by the time we sat down again, he was restless again.  Maybe it was the smell of the food in the kitchen (they were having a Cinco de Mayo dinner after the service) but he was in particularly rare form.  I gave him the look.  I shushed him.  He wasn't having any of it.  They were getting ready to serve communion, and since we were in the front, we were going to have to wait a long time for our turn while he fidgeted.  And then the pastor emerged from the sacristy.

This is a new pastor.  He does things his own way.  He's young, and sweet, and has a beautiful singing voice.  And he, for the first time during our attendance, wore a chasable.  Now, I can't find a picture of the exact chasable, but it was beautiful.  A deep ruby red, it was embroidered with a gold cross.  Worn over his white robe, it looked beautiful.  I was taking it in, because I'd never seen this before, when Jim leans over and says "what is this, Fistful of Dollars?"

I darned near lost it.  By the time he said something about the Cinco de Mayo dinner afterward, the solemnity of the moment was gone, especially given the Mexican accent it was rendered in.  Of course, I responded by singing the alternate Spanish lyrics of the last hymn, which befuddled him, but really wasn't disrespectful.  Oh well, at least it got him to quit talking.