If you’re still impressed with yourself for chomping at least one serving of every dish at your Thanksgiving feast, think how proud you’re going to feel after digesting the following collection of newsy type tidbits! (Just please don’t call them “leftovers” - I prefer something more flavorful, say, “sound bites on a shingle.”)
No. 3 son received word the other day that he’s been accepted for induction into the “Society of High School Persons Who Are Kicking Tail in Math.” Okay, that’s probably not the actual name of the organization, but it’s something like that. I have a good excuse for not remembering the club’s name, because he’s not even going to be an official member of it for NINE MORE YEARS. Seriously. The letter he received, signed by the student President of his school’s chapter, as well as the student Treasurer, it advised him that he should plan to attend an induction ceremony on, and I quote, “December 5, 2021.”
The good news is that I can withhold the $10 initiation fee until then. Now I was never smart enough in math to be chosen for an honor society, but I got out my calculator and did some figgerin’, and I’ve deduced that when the Treasurer of No. 3 son’s Society gets that $10, she’ll do some quick calculations of her own and conclude that she doesn’t care.
We traveled to Buffalo, New York for Thanksgiving and saw many friends and family members. At one get-together, we were introduced to the five-month old granddaughter of our friend Grace. At one point we were also introduced to a picture of Grace when she was only a few months old, and the resemblance between her picture and the new baby was jaw-dropping, to the point where I blurted out that it was “creepy.” Both Grace and the baby gave me kind of a funny look for that.
A short while later the baby was evidently feeling peckish and started to screw up her face and cry. It was then that I blurted out “Now she really looks like Grace!” The house shook with laughter from all the guests, and then, within just a few seconds the house shook from Grace slamming the front door behind me.
My No. 5 son (age 11) and his nine-year old cousin got a big kick out of a Thanksgiving Day football play when the NY Jets quarterback essentially knocked himself down while carrying the ball by running right into a teammate’s heinie. They giggled themselves silly over it, especially the suuuuuper slooooow motion replay. And then they were able to relive the joy the next day when I showed them the newspaper article containing the line “Sanchez inexplicably ran right into his own lineman’s butt.”
Most of the friends we visited in Buffalo have kids around the same ages as mine, and you just know that they get sooooo exceedingly tired of hearing things like “look how big your are!” And “boy have you grown!” I, too, cringe as such cliches, but was a little surprised that when I gave them my best empathetic look after hearing them they stared back at me with an undisguised “not that line again” eye roll. Turns out this was because I was the one who had just said something like “You’re sprouting like a weed!”
I guess that even after years of modulating my behaviors and mannerisms to evoke maximum hipness, even I am susceptible to the dreaded condition known as Involuntary Fogey-ism.
It surprised me to learn on our Thanksgiving travels that No. 4 son, who generally tends to put the “devil” in “daredevil,” is afraid of flying. Like, REALLY afraid. Even though he’ll take on any gut-busting roller coaster known to man without batting an eye, AND right after eating a Styrofoam container of gut-busting amusement park chili nachos. My attitudes about altitudes are the complete opposite of his: Flying is not so trying, thrill riders are suicidal. I tried to calm his per-flight jitters with soothing words but he would have none of it, especially when I avowed that I would never ride - EVER -the Incredible Hulk roller-coaster at Universal Studios theme park.
We decided to not try to convert one another to the other’s way of thinking, and instead to commiserate over something we’re mutually horrified by and fearful of: inexplicably running right into each other’s butts.