Crab Rampage 2

Last Edit January 15, 1999

Crabby Monday looms again.
And this time, it is my birthday.
We have this planned.
But my older son cannot make it to the crab feast. So he arrives at my office with cupcakes, candles that look like Crayola crayons, a balloon, and packages.
Wearing his new fireman's coat.
And carrying a foot-long charcoal lighter in his pocket.
Old pyromaniacs never grow up.
And he promptly begins rounding up people he has never seen before, including my boss, to sing to me. He lit the candles with his miniature flame thrower. He made it plain, if they don't sing, they don't get cupcakes.
When food is at stake, these people sing.
There were leftovers. I ate a small one. Sweet.
I have just spent the weekend throwing out more clothes. I am down to size 12-14 from 1-2X (18-20). What's a cupcake?
There were other leftovers. So periodically, throughout out the rest of the afternoon, some one would run it, sing happy birthday really, really fast and snatch a cupcake.
I got big fat curlers. Steam heat. I must find directions. I wanted them.
And a hairdryer. Ooops. I wanted one with a bonnet. I have the exact same model already. My son sulks. I tell him he did well. It was a nice thought. I had sent a list. Hair dryer or a South sea Tahitian pearl necklace. Or a Grape G3 Minitower Power Mac.
Well, his Christmas list has a G3 notebook on it. I gave him racing pants With Foxes.
I hugged and kissed him. And sent him e-mail later.
His parting shot. He looked at my web site.
"Frames, Momma."
He's right.
Yuck.
I came home and thought I could rest a bit. The younger one is not due to be retrieved from his job until seven.
While I was dozing by my artificial fire in my new room, my tree man commith.
With an armload of balloons.
He wants the stump grinding job.
These are self destructive balloons. They have been exploding on the way over.
One went off after I tied them to my Nordictrack - well, it has to have some use!
I almost had a heart seizure.
We are discussing stump grinding. I have another bidder. He is thinking about the Jacuzzi that has been idle for four years (motor). I will never use it up here. I only used it summers down there.
But then, down there, in my pretty house in San Diego, I have a 40x60 Jacuzzi bathtub and I used that all the time. No room for one up here.
I may get a portable. QVC has one. Easy for me to move around. At my time of life, if it ain't easy for an old lady to move around, the old lady don't want it.
We may deal. Or not. He has been underbid. By a lot.
But he did a good job on the tree. Screaming banshees or not.
The tree is down, sliced and diced, and anyone wanting redwood can email me. I have lots.
Now there is a giant stump. (By Wednesday it was sawdust.) Potential garden compost. You pay for this. I have!
The dog loves the sawdust. Throws her stuffed man around and races around the yard.
I let the tree man leave, I promise to put his name on the web (Allen Wilson, Paul Bunyan Tree Service 1-800 - ).
No more nap time.
I proceed to fetch the younger child.
It's time for crabs.
Red Lobster, look out! The servers again wince when they see us coming. They debate where to seat us. We had thought we were ten but we are down to six.
We are waiting next to the lobster tank. We discuss other protein. That I can have on my diet. I refuse to have Crab legs.
Tofu comes to mind.
They discuss the artificial crab meat. The kind you get with a red stripe on it. This leads to a discussion of artificial tofu. Tofu with red strips.
Racing Tofu.
We may have something there.
"Scott" (not his real name, we just call him that) gets to seat us.
Poor soul.
I end up next to my son.
We inform Scott that he must sing to me.
I am told I must wear a party hat.
Great. Over 50 professional woman will now look like an idiot while playing hockey puck with sugar substitute packages.
I am having fish tonight.
And wine.
And desert.
I deserve it.
I am old. Fabio is not.
I decide I am 39 and holding - preferably onto a 38 year old blonde Italian man with crystal blue eyes.
We enter the Sweat and Low war zone.
My table is sticky. I can't play.
I whine.
The waitress wipes off the table., We helpfully dry it so we can launch packets.
Yeah! Now we can really sling things around.
Scott walks by and tells us to behave.
Ha!
Fat chance.
Other diners are mystified. They have put us too near normal people.
I order Mahi-Mahi (it was excellent) and Zinfandel (I only made it through 1/2 glass) salad, one roll to absorb alcohol, and tea.
The rest are crabby Monday specials.
The server is slower than the one last week. Not as efficient.
The group gets rowdy. More than sugar packets are flung.
Scott snaps the rubber band off my party hat.
Booo!
They finally set into their crab legs. The first batch is not up to par. Salty. Not warm enough. They complain. And eat them.
My son makes the tendons sing the lollipop song in a high voice - they are dancing. Dan can't reach him.
Crab shell is flying. Bouncing off the ceiling.
Can they make 62?
I duck a lot.
I sip wine.
I turn red again. My face gives me away. (My doctor says I look like I just got slapped.)
I sip tea.
I want chocolate pecan pie. One piece. I don't know why.
My son has by now perfected several songs with various crab legs. The refills have arrived. The waitress groans.
The second group is hot.
The man next to me had missed last week and was slow the week before. He is determined to catch up.
These people are fast.
Another man is a virgin crab eater. He has been warned. He ignores activity and slings in.
My son now has the crab legs talking to each other.
He is consuming a lot.
The last leg on the platter is cold. They refuse to eat it. They dump buckets on it and order a refill.
They are racing.
The waitress is falling behind.
Intermission time.
They have plotted something.
All of a sudden, mute party horn favors are raised and blown. They bend. This causes a certain amount of off color hilarity.
Especially on the part of Cindy and myself, the only women in this motley group.
I had one too. It bent around my face.
My son's folded.
Cindy and I collapsed.
Tough when it folds up so early in the evening.
Cab lags arrive. '
Thank goodness.
And the plate was empty as soon as it hit the table.
My son is now humming Strangers in the Night and blowing bubbles in his soda. He is threatened with broken legs. His.
Scott tells us we should have been put in the back. This group is rowdy when idle.
The next intermission, I get a bag - passed around the table. With Fabio's picture on it. It is one from 1994 that I had blown up for scanning. He was posing for me. I was in the front row at a fan club meeting. It is a Polaroid. Ritz can enlarge it.
Inside the bag was a small package. A clear waterproof camera case with the photo and a small dragon inside. Film strip drawn on the camera case. Glitter stuff in the package.
Cute.
It's a good photo.
The devil posed so much that they made me put my cameras down. I was in the front row. It pays to be early. Nashville. Where I sat on his knee.
Actually, it reminds me I can celebrate. That purple suit with the lace? It is LOOSE!
GOAL!
My new clothes from the sales conference, size large, are loose.
I have refused to get on a scale through the holidays (actually, when we got home, my son had me get on the brand new scale that measures body fat - 158.5lbs - 37% fat - down 2 more pounds)
I've been going by clothes. I am into size S pants from QVC. XS is next. Size Med. top. And dropping. In more ways than one!
My son, who is wearing steel toed boots, keeps singing.
He is slowing down.
I caution against a repeat performance. Eat bread. Cut the richness.
The group now blames me.
They claim it is my fault.
They claim he has performance anxiety.
Right.
Crab shells are flying so much that one ends up in someone's hair.
The culprit says he just washed his crab and can't do anything with it.
The crab legs are singing again.
"A boy and his crab"
As opposed to a boy and his dog. They had developed film for me earlier that show my son and dog - and the dog does sleep with my son during the day.
They comment on this.
They are still grabbing legs.
Although slower, they are still crabby.
The glass of wine did me in.
I need more hot tea.
My son munches a roll. It's necessary for there to be more than crab meat in his stomach.
They have all made this mistake.
Third intermission.
I get a card - more appropriately known as a Cindy bomb. It explodes with glitter.
Very cute. Very clever.
My son has signed it "Mine is Bigger".
This refers to the happy birthdays they have all written.
By now, they have all died.
It's over. They lost the war.
The servers are now rounded up.
My hat is replaced on my head.
They sing tow songs. Scott has escaped without singing. He is in trouble.
I have 5 candles on ice-cream.
I share. One or two bites does me in.
No pie.
Maybe.
One guy is still eating. The one who had been slow before.
He grains at me. Tendrils of crab hang off his face.
I giggle. Cindy wipes him down.
They now resort to tongue jokes with the party blowers. Which are now very crooked.
Except my sons, which has a leak. We replace his.
Dan's has a mind of its own.
Cindy's kinks.
This leads to more jokes.
I can't repeat them.
More than one face is red.
Of course the other diners are watching.
I am a veteran of these occasions - I have raised two boys. I have been embarrassed before.
My son claims his is now cockeyed.
I am holding my stitches together.
I order pie.
I'll eat some and take out the rest.
Calories disperse if you spread them out.
Right!
My son has a platter of ice cream. Brownie. Fudge sauce. After he finished my birthday bowl.
Someone else has a scoop.
My pie will go home. Two bites got me.
The group has descended to discussing nuts. They tell me at least I am not eating someone else's. There is a cigar joke.
What has this country descended to?
Dan eats Cindy's nut at work. It has become an in joke.
They box up my pie.
My son plows through his platter.
We are all full.
I am full. Others have eyeballs rolling. In two directions.
I wonder what the bill tallies.
This leads to comments on duck billed platypuses.
Dan blows his horn again.
This leads to comments about it not good to have it out so far.
Which leads to contradictions from the female side. Size does too matter!
We start flowing money around the table. My credit card comes in handy. I am my son's bank.
Too bad! They only made it through 38 leg clusters!
Boo!
But all that ice cream.
Tendon man asks for a hand wipe.
He is not immediately understood.
This leads to other remarks I can't repeat either. It is definitely time to retire from the field.
They go back to the horns.
Wet naps arrive. We each get two.
My son gets 5.
He wins.
I take him home.
And they begin planning next week.