Troubles and Treats (21 page)

“Tell me again why we’re spending our Friday night with your parents?” Drew asks for
the tenth time tonight.

“I told you, my mom wants to show us some reward she got from a group she’s in.”

“Reward or
A
ward?” Drew asks.

“I’m not sure.  Whatever the one is where you get a trophy or something.”

I don’t know why Drew is making a fuss about going to dinner at my parents’ house. 
They love him.  I think maybe more than they do me.

“My mom said she was making something you mentioned liking a while ago.  I tried to
get her to tell me what it was, but she said it was a surprise,” I say with a shrug.

I can practically see Drew’s eyes light up with happiness.  My mom is a very good
cook.  If you ask Drew what three things he would want with him if he was stranded
on a desert island, he’d say the July 1990 issue of Playboy, me, and my mom’s homemade
chicken pot pie.  He’s been
grumpy
ever since
he was grounded from hanging out with the boys.  Hopefully this dinner will put him
in a good mood.

When we pull into my parents' driveway, Drew is out of the car and running through
their front door before I’m even unbuckled.  No matter what kind of a mood he’s in,
there’s no way his stomach can deny him my mom’s cooking.

I get the kids out of the car and make my way into the house.  Of course, as soon
as I enter I see my parents pawning all over Drew, hugging him and squeezing his cheeks
and asking him a million questions, like they haven’t just seen him a week ago.

“Oooooooh, give me that grandson of mine!” my mother squeals, running over to take
Billy out of my arms.  She presses kisses all over his cheeks while I bend down to
help Veronica out of her coat.

“Give Gammy a kiss,” my mom says, bending down to Veronica’s level.

“You’re a stinkin’ dumb stupid head,” Veronica tells her.

“Awww, isn’t she sweet?  I could just eat her up!” my mom says with a smile, standing
back up and shifting Billy to her other arm.

My mom has a hard time understanding Veronica when she talks.  She had thought it
was rude to ask Veronica to repeat something or tell her she didn’t understand her,
so instead she just sort of tunes her out and pretends like she gets what she’s saying. 
It’s almost like that dog whistle thingy that only dogs can hear.  Except, Veronica
is the thingy and my mom is the dog.  Wait, no.  Would the thingy be the dog?  Or
would my mom be the whistle?

I've told her she needs to stop doing that.  Just last week Veronica had asked her
if she could paint on the walls, and Mom just smiled at her and told her she was a
good little girl.  My parents now have a lovely drawing of a giant pink blob on their
living room wall.

“It smells awesome in here, Ma.  What did you make for dinner?” Drew asks as my dad
walks up next to him with the business section of the newspaper.  A year ago, Drew
had watched some stockbroker movie and when my parents stopped over that night, he
started quoting the movie randomly throughout the night.  My dad now thinks he’s a
Wall Street genius and has Drew give him stock tips each week.  I still don’t understand
why Drew keeps going along with it.

“Well, remember that conversation we had a few weeks ago and you said something about
how a bearded clam was your favorite thing to eat?” my mom asks in answer to Drew’s
question about dinner.

I throw an angry look over at Drew, but he’s too busy snort-laughing with his hands
over his face.

“I tried to use the Ga-Google thingy on the computer to search for: How to make a
bearded clam.  All that came up were some really disturbing pictures, so I decided
to just wing it and make something else.  I hope it tastes as good as the bearded
clam,” my mom tells him, passing Billy off to my dad as she walks by him to get to
the kitchen.

“Daddy, I wanna eat a beardy clam,” Veronica says.

“Veronica, don’t say that,” I tell her softly while Drew snorts even louder.

“I wanna eat a beardy clam, you stinkin’ dumb stupid head!” Veronica shouts.

“Oh, that’s it!  Time out!” I tell her.  “Not another word for five minutes.”

Veronica stomps her feet angrily into the kitchen with my mother, probably hoping
for some sympathy when she tells her I’m mean.  Unfortunately for Veronica, my mom
will probably think she's said, “I’m so clean!”

“Okay, dinner is served!” my mom yells from the dining room.

My dad turns to head that way, and I whisper angrily at Drew while we follow.  “Seriously,
Drew?  You told my mom you liked to eat bearded clam?”

Drew giggles and covers it up with a cough.

“I assumed she knew what that was and we’d get a good laugh about it.  How was I supposed
to know she’d go on Google looking for a recipe?” he whispers back.  “Oh Jesus, your
mom would have been sitting at her computer in her housecoat and slippers with curlers
in her hair looking at pictures of furry pussies!  This day is full of win!”

I smack him in the arm as we walk into the dining room and take our seats.

As soon as we’re seated, my mom takes the cover off of the pan in the middle of the
table.

“Drew, I hope stuffed clams are as good as bearded clams!” she says with a smile.

“That’s going to be tough because Jenny has the most DELICIOUS bearded clam, but I’m
keeping my fingers crossed,” Drew says, trying to keep the laugh in with is hand tightly
covering his mouth, but it was no use.

“Jenny, I didn’t know
you
made a bearded clam before.  “Does it have mustard in it?” my mom asks.

“Only if you’re doing it in the parking lot of a baseball game,” Drew snickers.

“So, Mom, what’s this award you were telling me about?” I ask, changing the subject
as far away from my clam as possible as she goes around the table to serve everyone.

“Oh!  I was voted Most Caring at the KC Club this year!” she says excitedly as she
gets back to her seat.

“Why does Kasey have a club?” Drew asks through a mouthful of food.

“No, not
Kasey,
KC Club,” my mom explains.

“I know.  But who is this Kasey chick and why does she have her own club?” Drew questions.

“KC, for kindness and caring.  Get it?  KC Club,” my mom tries again.

“Who decided Kasey was kind and caring?  I seriously want to know what the deal is
with this bitch.  I don’t get it.”

My mom just continues to try and explain it to him while I help Veronica with her
food, trying not to roll my eyes or make them stop.

“No, no, no.  KC.  Capital 'K', capital 'C',” my mom says.

“That’s the dumbest spelling of Kasey I’ve ever heard of,” Drew tells her.

This just keeps getting worse.

“Hey, Dad, did you and Mom ever go to marriage counseling?” I blurt out.

Drew flicks my thigh with his finger and looks at me funny.

He’s probably not happy I’m bringing this up because he doesn’t want anyone to know
about the marriage counselor thing.  I don’t know what the big deal is.  When we got
home and Drew asked if he could hug my vagina, I told him no and he started sobbing. 
He can’t say marriage counseling didn’t work on him.  Look at how he wasn’t afraid
to show his emotions?  That’s a total breakthrough.  I’m just curious to see if my
parents ever went through hard times with each other.

“Nonsense!  That crap is for sissies and girly-men.  If you can’t fix your own marriage,
how the hell can anyone else?  What those quacks charge in an hour could feed a small
country for year,” he complains.

“Seriously?  A whole country?  Like, which one?  Texas?” Drew asks in astonishment.

“Drew, you silly!  Texas isn’t a country!” my mom says with a laugh.  “It’s a consonant.”

My dad continues to complain about how young people now-a-days can’t even wipe their
own ass without help and how the institution of marriage is going down the shitter. 
Obviously asking this question hadn't been the best idea.

“Here’s another question for you.  Have you ever fallen asleep during sex?” Drew asks,
looking over at me with one eyebrow raised.

I look away from him because I know exactly why he's asked that question.  I’m still
living by the fake-it-till you make rule, and I had wanted to try and do something
for Drew, so when he got home from work the other night, I asked him if I could give
him a hand job.  I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I’m kind of awesome at hand
jobs.  Just the right amount of pressure mixed with the right amount of lotion and
he’s done in fifteen point seven seconds.  I really hadn't meant to fall asleep in
the middle of it the other night, but come on!  Drew gets home from work at four in
the morning.  I've been exhausted.  One minute I’m stroking away and Drew is loving
it, and the next, he’s shaking me awake, yelling because in my sleep, my grip tightened
on his penis and it was cutting off his circulation.

“Please don’t ask my parents about sex at the dinner table. I’m trying to eat here!”
I whisper to Drew.

“I’m still trying to get over the fact that my penis put yo
u
to sleep!” Drew argues back in a loud whisper.

Luckily, my dad had got distracted by Billy spitting up in his arms and the question
is forgotten.  I don’t want to have to hear anything that has the words “my parents”
and “sex” in the same sentence, but I kind of wish I would have heard my dad’s answer. 
I cannot possibly be the only woman who has fallen asleep during a hand job.

“Ma, what kind of seafood did you stuff this thing with?  It’s amazing,” Drew tells
her.

“A little crab and some lobster.  I wanted to put salmon in it, but I’m confused by
salmon.  I mean, what part of the fish is salmon cut from?  I asked the guy at the
fish market but he didn’t know either.  I wonder if salmon is a fancy word for stomach
or fin.  They should just call it stomach or fin.  All these different words for things
are weird,” she explains.

We finish dinner and then move into the living room for coffee.

My dad puts a blanket down on the floor for Billy and is sitting next to him making
funny faces.

“Gammy, I feel pukey.  Your food sucks,” Veronica tells her.

“That’s nice, dear!” my mom replies as she pats her on the head.

“Do you really not feel well, sweetie?” I ask as I lift her up onto my lap and feel
her forehead.

“I shoulda never, never ate Gammy’s clam,” Veronica tells me, resting her head on
my shoulder.

“There are so many things wrong with that statement,” Drew whispers.

We spend a few more minutes chatting with my parents until Veronica starts crying
that her tummy hurts.  We pack up the kids and head home, but not before Drew tells
my dad to buy low, sell high and to watch his bottom line before the market closes
or the risk capital will be higher than the profit sharing.

My dad shakes Drew’s hand and tells him that without him, he and my mom would be broke.

Dew asks me to drive home because all of a sudden he feels funny.  I swear sometimes
the sickness in our family works through osmouses.  You know, where one person is
sick and a mouse walks by and gets the sickness and then passes it on to someone else
by sitting on their head? Halfway home Drew starts groaning and clutching his stomach.

“What’s wrong?  Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Oh Jesus, your mom’s clam made me sick,” he mutters.

He moans for a few more seconds until he realizes what he just said and laughs through
his pain.

“Your mom’s clam was delicious, but now, your mom’s clam is vicious!” Drew laughs
before suddenly bending over and hugging his stomach.

It’s my turn to groan now as I turn onto our street.

“Seriously, stop saying that.  It’s freaking me out,” I complain as I pull into the
driveway.

“Your mom’s clam was smooth going down, but now I’m regretting swallowing it,” he
mutters with a laugh.

“Shut up!” I warn him as I pull into the driveway.

“At least it wasn’t bearded.  I’d be choking on curly hairs right now.  Your mom’s
clam was as clean as a baby’s bottom!”

As soon as I shut off the car and open the door, Drew leans out of his side and pukes
all over the driveway.

“Oh my God!  Your mom’s clam was infected!” he yells and laughs in between dry heaves.

I get the kids out of the car and walk into the house without him, happy to just let
him puke alone in the driveway.

“It’s time to turn you boys into men,” my dad states, standing in front of the fireplace
with his arms crossed in front of him.  He gives Carter, Jim, and I each a stern look.

“Hey, I’m man enough,” Carter complains while Jim nods in agreement.

“Yeah, me too.  It’s fuck face here who needs work,” Jim says, pointing in my direction.

“Fuck you,” I complain, punching Jim in the shoulder.

“GET IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME A CHICKEN POT PIE, BITCH!” Jim yells at me.

“Seriously, fuck off!”

“Hey, I’m just getting you prepared for this challenge and getting your wife back,”
Jim explains with a shrug.

Carter had called me last weekend once we were finally un-grounded and were allowed
talk to each other again.  Claire spilled the beans to him about how Jenny has been
feeling lately and Carter wanted to give me a head’s up.  Of course, Claire swore
him to secrecy and told him she’d never give him another blow job again if he told
me, so Carter obviously threatened my life if I said anything to Jenny about it.

I spent all week trying to be a better husband, but I had no idea what the fuck I
was doing or how to be better since I thought I was pretty fucking awesome to begin
with.  I made sure to remember to put the toilet seat down and the cap back on the
toothpaste and when Jenny never commented on it, I brought it up to her and asked
if it made her happy.  She told me I was an idiot and walk out of the room.

That led to me calling my dad and asking him for help.

I had told Jenny I was helping my dad put together a bookcase and we all met at Liz
and Jim’s house while she was out grocery shopping with the kids.  Jim had said she
was taking the girls over to have lunch with her parents after, so we should have
plenty of time to get this done without anyone knowing about it.

“Alright boys, listen up.  There are three rules to live by when you’re married. 
Number one, don’t piss off your wife.  Number two, don’t piss off your wife, and number
three…”

He holds out his hands, palms up, indicating for us to finish.

“Never piss off your wife,” the three of us say in unison.

“Wonderful, The Three Stooges can be taught,” my dad says.

“Heeeeey!” Jim complains.

“QUICK!  Tell me what you do when your wife comes home from work with a box of tampons
in her hands and starts complaining that the house is a mess,” my dad fires at Jim.

“Uh, um…fuck!  Uh, tell her she looks pretty?” Jim stammers quickly.

“WRONG!  You tell her to go take a nap so you can clean the house!” my dad answers.

“Fuck!” Jim grumbles.

“Stand up, soldiers!” my dad yells.

We all get up from the couch quickly as he comes over and pushes the coffee table
out from in front of us.

“DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY YOU SNOT-NOSED MOTHER FUCKERS!”

We drop to the ground and start our push-ups, each of us grunting and panting.

“I DON’T HEAR YOU COUNTING, ASSHOLES!”

“Son of a bitch! How is this going to help us?” Carter whispers in between counting
while he breathes heavily.

“It’s going to teach you pussies some respect,” my dad says suddenly, squatting down
and putting his face right into Carter’s.

“Your dad scares the fuck out of me,” Carter mutters as quietly as possible as my
dad gets up and walks back over to the fireplace.

We finish our push-ups and groan at the pain in our arms and backs as we get up from
the floor.

We watch as my dad turns around and bends down to unzip a duffel bag that’s on the
floor next to the fireplace.

He stands up and turns around to face us, holding three baby dolls in his arms.

“Time for baby duty, fuckers.  Let’s see what you’re made of,” he tells us, handing
us each one of the dolls.

Jim holds his by the hair, I hold mine by the foot, and Carter cradles his in his
arms, swaying gently back and forth.

“Jim, Drew, right now your babies would be DEAD!  You are holding a life in your arms
and you just killed it.  A man and his baby are a powerful force that can devastate
small countries,” my dad lectures.

“Don’t you mean a man and his gun?  A baby can’t really devastate a small country,”
Jim tells him.

“Have you ever been in a room with a baby who is projectile vomiting, screaming his
fool head off, and diarrhea is exploding out of his ass so much you think he has a
fire hose shoved up there spraying shit instead of water?  Babies are the Napalm of
western civilization!”

My dad pulls a stop watch out of the pocket of his pants holds it in front of him
with his thumb hovering over the start button.

“ON YOUR MARK!” he shouts.

“Wait!  What the fuck are we doing?” I ask frantically, putting the baby up on my
shoulder as I pat its back.

“You are changing diapers, limp dicks!  GET SET!”

Carter gets into ready position, crouching low to the ground, his doll shoved into
the back of his t-shirt with the head sticking out of the top and its eyes staring
right at me.

“Son of a bitch!  Where are the diapers?!” Jim shouts, tucking the doll under one
arm like a football.

“This is your house, asshole!  Shouldn’t you know that?” I ask him, sticking the doll’s
feet down the front of my pants so its limp body falls forward and it’s head is facing
my crotch.

“Molly doesn’t wear diapers anymore!  We don’t have any fucking diapers!” he shouts
back at me.