Sometimes, you just got to wonder why God made beer.
Or, rather, why the Oh Wise One would give men such an affinity for Bud. Because the results really make you go “hmmmm.”
The day after Halloween, Siig got up early in the morning to make a 9 am tee time with the Pink Gorilla, a.k.a. our friend Matt, who had dressed in a bright magenta gorilla suit for trick-or-treating. At noon, Siig called me from the bar of the golf course, definitely well into a few bloody marys. Matt had invited us all to a bar-b-que at his house. I told him I’d get the kids ready and we’d wait to eat lunch.
“I’ll come pick you up,” he said.
Famous last words when bloodies and beer are involved.
An hour later, still no Siigo. My stomach was rumbling. I picked up the phone and called my delinquent husband. “Where are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ummm, you said you would come pick us up. We’ve been waiting.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. We started having this rad conversation about back in the day and….oh, never mind. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
Twenty minutes later and Siigo shows up, happy as a drunk clam. He tells us to hurry up and get in the car. And then he starts wrestling with the children. Forty-five minutes later, we are finally on our way to Matt and Donya’s house. Now I am really hungry. Luckily, I bring two apples and string cheese with us, which the kids gobble up. I, of course, being a mom, eat nothing.
We arrive at Matt’s house close to 3 pm. This time, Matt is in a black gorilla costume. I’m starting to wonder what’s with this guy and monkeys. The party congregates in the front yard, where the guys – happy with their cans of Bud, Matt’s homemade brew, skateboards and guitars in the ‘band room’ – have long since forgotten about eating. I, on the other hand, have not. I sneak a peek into Donya’s fridge – there are several packages of sausages waiting to be cooked. I try to rest easy knowing that at least there is food in the house. I stare at my car, contemplating a covert run to the store. Finally, someone puts some chips and salsa out. I’m saved.
Around 4 pm, Donya – who did not know that she was going to be hosting a party at her house until her husband informed her later that day – asks Matt to start the bar-b-que, which apparently has some trick to it that only he holds the secret to. An hour goes by. The bar-b-que remains unlit. The boys, helped along by shots of vodka, have now turned into 8 year olds. They skate up and down the hill, play guitar, watch the football game at a neighbor’s house. They don’t have a care in the world. Finally, the women realize that if we want to eat, and feed our kids, we are going to have to take matters into our own hands.
Somehow, the bar-b-que gets going. Sausages are cooked. Macaroni and cheese gets made. Kids get fed. And then finally, finally, at around 5:00, I eat lunch. Or is it dunch? Or linner? The men, however, deep into their beers and regression, do not even notice there’s food on the table until two hours later. Nor do they notice 10 kids jumping on a trampoline that is sitting precariously close to a pile of rocks. I step into manage the situation – only 3 kids on a at a time – and stand in between the trampoline and the death pile. When I can’t take it anymore, I tell the kids there’s candy inside. They go screaming inside the house. I breathe a sigh of relief. Better rotten teeth than crushed skulls.
So what is it about drinking that makes men throw all responsibility out the window? If you have the answer, I got a cold one for you. Unless, of course, you’re a man. Then you just get a pink gorilla suit.