The plow had come through throwing hunks of snow in front of the drive. The roads were now easily passable, but the driveway was blocked. Shovel-shovel-shovel. It was a short shovel.
After leaving I went in search for a Christmas gift or two for my lady. I avoid malls at all costs. The last time I went to a mall for Christmas shopping I was probably stoned and not yet twenty. I hit up a few stores and as a whole avoided lines.
Lines don’t really kill me. I’m patient like a Monk sometimes. The longest line I was in was on the exit ramp off of I 75. The traffic was maddening—there’s a damn mall nearby, which I’m sure was the reason for the delay. I felt that urge of aggravation and annoyance sitting there in my white Mazda Protégé listening to a sports talk radio show I could care less about. I wasn’t in the mood for NPR, which is rare and didn’t feel like music. Maybe I took a deep breath, but not for sure, I did decide I really didn’t care about the traffic, as I honestly had nothing I needed to do.
I love that needing to do nothing. Of course there’s always stuff to do. Take all the boxes in my basement. We moved into our house three months ago and things are coming along quite well, but the basement is filled—in an organized filled sort of way with boxes. I could be doing that. I could be cleaning, or putting my bindings on my new Santa Cruz snowboard my badass wife got me for my Birthday. I could have been shoveling the rest of the blocks of plow snow blocking the other half of the drive, but I didn’t need to be doing any of these. Had I not been stuck in a line of vehicles I would have most likely been reading You Shall Know Our Velocity or playing the soccer game Winning Eleven for DS.
The only other line I found myself in was the place I found one of the gifts I really wanted to get Liz. It was a short line and I had this family behind me who were talking about how bad their kid’s hands stunk from his gloves. The kid was about 15 and had a tie on, which was strange. His father didn’t have one on and the mother didn’t seem to be dressed up. They also ripped on the kid for wanting a 59/50 Colts hat. The mother’s comment went something lime this:
You know those stupid hats with those goofy flat bills.
To which pa replied:
Oh man. You want one of those lame things?
The exchange was a surprise as the couple did not appear to be the type that would openly punk their kid. I gave a chuckle hearing this, one I think was appreciated by the forty something folks and was called up to drop some cash in the name of Christmas.
Now I’m dancing on my board shuffling my feet left and right—it’s all in the hips. I’m having a surprising amount of fun and now pretend to be riding down a hill carving left and right. Yes, I am thirty years old and playing with the birthday present Liz got me a few weeks back. It’s a Santa Cruz All Star and I must tell you that I’m obviously wearing my Vans boots, it’s necessary seeing as I have to strap into my bindings, but what is not necessary is me wearing my snow pants. The things we do while home alone.
Liz is out at an engagement party; I coped out as I’ve had a cold the past few days. I felt well enough to go, but didn’t mind having the day to play around with my All Star, sweep the floor and watch football. At this point she is probably picking up her niece and nephew, which even three and a half years later I have to remember are my niece and nephew.
After carving up the tan carpet in the family room, a nice warm shower, eating spicy noodles and browsing Barnes and Noble the four of us are back at our house sitting around the table making our own game of pictionary. We are writing things that we will soon draw. Two huge zip lock bags of markers are on the table, two packs of colored pencil and a brand new 24 of Crayons. Liz is an art teacher and well equipped for kids.
Let the drawing and guessing begin.
Aiden is drawing what I am sure is Wolverine. It is a man with four long claws in place of hands.
“Wolverine, it’s Wolverine.”
“Nope.”
The wind gusts outside and I am happy I don’t feel a draft. It’s one degree out there, minus seventeen with wind chill. If that’s not Wolverine it’s got to be Freddy Krueger, but I didn’t write Freddy and I don’t think they know who he is. Liz wouldn’t write Freddy.
“It’s Freddy Krueger.”
“Who? No. Look it has claws.”
“A bear,” Solstice says and she’s right. The human thing with claws is apparently a bear. Laughter all around.
The shoveling of snow can be rhythmic and when it is it’s a wonderful thing. It’s a rhythmic event this sunny, snow three day away from Christmas day of a day. I’ll shovel for an hour and LP (as I often call her, here last name used to be Peltier hence the P) and her niece and nephew who are mine too will play in the front yard and then take it to the play set at the park for the same time span.
When we go inside we will eat rice and tofu with edamame beans that Liz has prepared at Solstice and Aiden’s request. Such a strange name that is so fitting for her—Solstice. I remember when I first heard it, Liz and I were only friends, though I was indeed interested, and I thought how strange of a name. Once we got together, three years later or so, it seemed the name would always be strange, but like anything it settled in and became normal. We are indeed adaptable.
After eating we kill time with hide and go seek—watching them play. We watch soccer and then their dad comes to get them. We talk their dad in to staying for some soccer viewing, I DVR’d Arsenal and Liverpool. We sit drinking Bell’s Two Hearted Ale watching what most call football, as a kid will randomly come into the room seeking the other.
They will leave and so too will we. Remaining Christmas shopping to be done and I’ll buy myself a pair of sweatpants. Navy blue Hanes sweatpants, you couldn’t get any less hip or dorkier if you tired. I’ll hear about the six-dollar purchase from me lady and it’s not in a good way.
This is what she does not say.
“Whoa, nice sweats baby. Damn you should pick up at least one more pair.”
Instead it is a few words here and there thrown in between her laughter.
“There for around the house,” I say a little defensive.
Sweatpants take me back to the summer between fifth and sixth grade. The dawn of junior high school. I was shopping with my mom for a few things and wanted to score a new pair of sweats. She made the good call of steering me clear from sweats. Thanks ma.
Comments