Thump Thump Thump

My house (thump) is filled (thump) with a constant (thump, thump, thump) drum-(thump) beat.  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.  Annoyed yet?  Try living with an 11-year old boy who is constantly playing with balls.  Nope, not those balls.  (Although, that might be quieter, so I might welcome it. I'll get back to you on that in the next couple years.)  These are soccer balls, tennis balls, really anything round that could possibly be called a ball.

Parker plays soccer.  Saturdays are games, Mondays and Wednesdays are practices.  And every other minute of his life (at home) is spent kicking and throwing balls.  His bedroom has become his own personal sports arena.  All he needs in there are (yup) his balls, a pen, and his brackets.  I swear the kids has brackets for his brackets.  Now you will ask "what are brackets and how does this apply to his balls?".   I don't truly get it, but he plays fantasy 'games' with the balls.  Sometimes it is hockey teams, playing with little rubber stress balls.  Two teams play against each other, round-robin-style, they get eliminated until I hear something like "Hey, mom, the Red Wings won in my bracket today".  What that means is something that only his brain truly understands.  So I smile and nod, just glad that for that brief moment, the thump has stopped.  Tomorrow, it might be a tennis ball and the Minnesota Vikings have succeeded.  (thump) Yesterday, he tried to play basketball with the Christmas ornaments I had out to make a wreath.  (This was more of a ting-ting-ting, but equally annoying.)

Someone is always asking "What on earth is Parker doing up there?"  (Right now, he is using his balls to pretend he has uneven boobs in his shirt.  I give him about 3 minutes of this before the thumping begins again-or he decides to line them up in his pants like a giant penis.)  We ask him nicely to stop playing with his balls.  That usually lasts about 37 seconds until we hear it again.  Then one of the girls will say, "Parker, please stop."  That lasts about 12 seconds.  Then it's Jeff or I yelling, "Parker, knock it off and put your balls away", followed by some under-the-breath term of endearment that rhymes with "trucker" and starts with an "f".  

Now any good parent would be asking "Why don't you just take away the balls?".  Oh, my dear friends, we have. They have been on top of our cabinets, in our trash, in our drawers, our closet, our basement, garage. . . and yet they mysteriously find their way back.  I think he must just keep a personal stash of them somewhere, hidden under an invisibility cloak.  I'm telling you, ANYTHING round, and he is compelled to launch it.  (Maybe it is time to move the fat Guinea Pig out of his room, now that I think of it.) Nothing we have been able to do will keep the constant thump at bay.

And even more obnoxious is the thump of his entire body when he chases after these balls.  He throws the ball and then his body.  It kind of like someone trying to play catch with himself.  We have no problem playing catch with him outside when the weather cooperates, but more often than not, he is perfectly content with his self-made version.  It sucks! (thump, thump, thump)  The windows shake and the dogs run for cover.  I cringe with every new thump.  But it ends (thank goodness!) when he is finally asleep; my hair simmers back down on my head, my eyes stopped bulging out of their sockets, and my blood pressure returns to normal.  Only to have him hit the wall in his sleep, shaking me awake once again. . .

Dayna

ps.  He chose to make new butt cheeks with the balls instead of the penis.

If Table 48 Could Talk

If Table 48 could talk...

Table 48 was the place to be!  The closest table to the kitchen, the best place to catch server gossip and hear the cooks yelling at each other - and my favorite place to have dinner after a long grueling shift at the Seafood Peddlar.  Table 48 was where you counted out your money and tipped the bus boy (unless it was the young girl who didn't speak English and stole all your tips that shift.)  It is also where we put that shady couple that walked in 5 minutes before we closed every Monday night.  (I had the pleasure of seeing them many years later at another establishment where I worked, but I digress.)

At Table 48, you could smoke.  The little blue curtains did absolutely NOTHING to prevent smoke from drifting to the nearby non-smoking area.  But back in the 90's, not too many people complained.  (Everyone wanted to sit by the damn fish tanks anyway, which was really nowhere near the smoking section.)  Of course, we all smoked and told our shift stories while sitting there counting that money.  Most days were good, at first.  By the end, it was really hard to pay the rent.

Table 48 heard all of the manager meetings.  It heard the interviews for servers, line cooks, bus boys, bartenders.  It's where Al would sit and watch the happenings when he came in.  Heaven only knows what that man had to say to this table!  It probably heard him scheming about ways to cheat us out of our pay or to not pay the vendor bills that were piling up.  Maybe it heard him talk about how he would break the news to the staff that we were closing.  And yet more-likely than not, it heard silence from him.  He was not exactly an up-front man.

Table 48 heard about my upcoming nuptials.  It was also there that Marianne told me that she didn't know if the restaurant would still be open when I got back from my honeymoon.  It knew everything about my best friend, Melissa and our children.  It knew how Jade couldn't drive at night because of her cataracts.  It heard Miriam go on and on about her children.  It probably knew that Tanya was pregnant (again) before the rest of us did!

Table 48 could probably tell you all about the family of mice that lived underneath it, too.  It felt the tickling of little feet that skittered around under its legs.  I imagine there were probably a million little mice families around there, like a tiny little mouse mafia. Darting around with their beedy little eyes, it was easy to imagine their suspicious behavior was because someone was always out to get them.  (It was usually us with cardboard boxes, attempting to be humane and let them outside.  But the little bastards always found a way back in!)  They scared people, they pooped in salads. All the while, I'm sure this table was laughing!

Table 48 tasted the drippings of gravy from the mashed potatoes that were sloppily dropped.  I know this because I was always dropping something at after-hours dinners!  The last memory I have of serving people here was this crazy family that ordered lobsters.  They made the most God-awful mess of that table! Butter everywhere, lobster carcass on the table, on the floor.  In desperation, I chased them into the parking lot demanding my tip.  The woman called me a "bitch" and told me to look harder.  She had stuck a $5 bill in the sugar caddy - for their $200 dinner!  Needless to say, the clientele rarely understood that our $4/hour wage was not enough to put food in our mouths.

Table 48 saw the bare ass of some crazy waitress as she lifted her skirts to a grimy cook with tiny arms. I don't remember her name - only that she was married and was incredibly drunk that night.  Thankfully that memory only lasted as long as the table because it wasn't something anyone needed to see! But I bet, if you ask others who were there longer than myself, it wasn't the only bare ass that sat atop that piece of wood! (Yes, pun intended.)

I miss Table 48.  I miss the late nights, ducking under booths to avoid the cops doing security checks while we sat in the corner booth drinking our coronas.  (That may have actually been table 7 in the bar, but who is counting?)  I miss sticking my hands in the lobster tank when the other staff were too scared to attempt it.  I miss Marianne and Melissa.  I miss Cheryl.  I miss Steve, the guy who would sit at the bar and cry into his red wine about his wife leaving him.  I even miss the other Steve, the manager who liked his cocaine more than his family.  I miss Tanya - even though we got to work together again at Q River and 99.  (That is a whole other tale to tell!)

The Seafood Peddlar (otherwise known as Al's Ocean Grill) is gone. Melissa and Marianne arrived one day to chains on the doors.  We knew it was coming, but we never realized just how sad that day would be.   Table 48 was knocked down along with the rest of the building. The fish tanks are gone, the cold orange floor in the kitchen is gone.  And now all that remains is an Auto Zone and a whole lot of old memories.  I think if I could go back and change just one thing before those locks kept us out, I would take out table 48.  Not the booths, just the table top.  My heart goes out to that lonely table that has probably been sent to a nasty old garbage pile somewhere in New Jersey.  It never had the chance to tell us how much it loved us all.  It never had a chance to tell its story.  But I tried.