Road Warriors (true tales from the aspalt)
Editor's note: This post contains TMI about ThomG, but was way too funny not to write about, as this is real life.
“Do you cut your dick hair?”
Rooming on the road with dad presents all sorts of interesting ways to interact.
The room we’re in now has a shitter and shower in one room, the vanity in the other.
As in the room.
I don’t usually wear anything to shave (my face) in the mornings; no need to break that habit on the road.
Except that I’m standing there in full view of dad, in front of a huge mirror, and dad is reading a book on his queen-sized bed.
And behind me is another full-sized mirror (who designed this place?)
“I trim, yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I walked over to my suitcase and pulled on a pair of pants.
“You don’t wear underwear?”
“No, dad, I don’t wear underwear and I shave my testicles. Anything else you might want to know about my personal habits?”
“Good God, no.”
I met a man in the Midwest who can make an Americano without fucking it up.
Steve owns the hotel we’re staying at (I didn’t talk to him about the whole vanity situation, but I thought about it) and he owns a string of coffee places. He bought a cool gas station next to the hotel, and put in a espresso bar.
He’s a former Iowa State basketball player who has his degree in journalism (advertising).
We hit it off immediately.
He knows First Sister well; his family hosted an Australian kid who played basketball at Ames High – and dated my niece.
“Best Americano in the Midwest,” I told him at my niece’s graduation party.
“That’s so cool, thanks for that.”
No, thanks for a damn good cup of coffee.
The party came off without a hitch. Even the severe thunderstorms didn’t dampen what was a fantastic event.
I was cutting up the last of the cheese for a tray when the first guests arrived.
We had mini cheesecakes, a sheet cake and these cool fruit and pound cake skewers that you dipped into chocolate fondue (all the skewers were attached to a palm tree made out of pineapples) from the paid caterer.
I made up cheese and fruit platters.
Mostly, I took off any and all pressure on First Sister, her husband and my niece, so they could entertain and enjoy.
If anything, I am anal/efficient.
Everything worked like clockwork, and when the party was over, we had everything cleaned up in 30 minutes.
Two parents asked for my business card.
So I could cater their parties.
I explained that I was just helping out my sister.
They were disappointed, and told me so.
So it’s good to know that if this journalism thing doesn’t work out, I have a bright future in catering/event planning.
"I'll give you a dollar if you wear your leg backward," I said as we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot in Ames so dad could buy a hairbrush (I think he just wanted to secretly drive me insane).
"Can't. It's built to fit one way."
"It'd be a neat trick, though."
"Oh, yeah."
"Think about it, think of all the fun you could get into, especially at Wal-Mart."
"You're weird, you know that?"
"I am my father's son."
"Bullshit."
And his blue eyes twinkled.
And he smiled.
“Do you cut your dick hair?”
Rooming on the road with dad presents all sorts of interesting ways to interact.
The room we’re in now has a shitter and shower in one room, the vanity in the other.
As in the room.
I don’t usually wear anything to shave (my face) in the mornings; no need to break that habit on the road.
Except that I’m standing there in full view of dad, in front of a huge mirror, and dad is reading a book on his queen-sized bed.
And behind me is another full-sized mirror (who designed this place?)
“I trim, yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I walked over to my suitcase and pulled on a pair of pants.
“You don’t wear underwear?”
“No, dad, I don’t wear underwear and I shave my testicles. Anything else you might want to know about my personal habits?”
“Good God, no.”
I met a man in the Midwest who can make an Americano without fucking it up.
Steve owns the hotel we’re staying at (I didn’t talk to him about the whole vanity situation, but I thought about it) and he owns a string of coffee places. He bought a cool gas station next to the hotel, and put in a espresso bar.
He’s a former Iowa State basketball player who has his degree in journalism (advertising).
We hit it off immediately.
He knows First Sister well; his family hosted an Australian kid who played basketball at Ames High – and dated my niece.
“Best Americano in the Midwest,” I told him at my niece’s graduation party.
“That’s so cool, thanks for that.”
No, thanks for a damn good cup of coffee.
The party came off without a hitch. Even the severe thunderstorms didn’t dampen what was a fantastic event.
I was cutting up the last of the cheese for a tray when the first guests arrived.
We had mini cheesecakes, a sheet cake and these cool fruit and pound cake skewers that you dipped into chocolate fondue (all the skewers were attached to a palm tree made out of pineapples) from the paid caterer.
I made up cheese and fruit platters.
Mostly, I took off any and all pressure on First Sister, her husband and my niece, so they could entertain and enjoy.
If anything, I am anal/efficient.
Everything worked like clockwork, and when the party was over, we had everything cleaned up in 30 minutes.
Two parents asked for my business card.
So I could cater their parties.
I explained that I was just helping out my sister.
They were disappointed, and told me so.
So it’s good to know that if this journalism thing doesn’t work out, I have a bright future in catering/event planning.
"I'll give you a dollar if you wear your leg backward," I said as we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot in Ames so dad could buy a hairbrush (I think he just wanted to secretly drive me insane).
"Can't. It's built to fit one way."
"It'd be a neat trick, though."
"Oh, yeah."
"Think about it, think of all the fun you could get into, especially at Wal-Mart."
"You're weird, you know that?"
"I am my father's son."
"Bullshit."
And his blue eyes twinkled.
And he smiled.
Comments