Saturday night found us meetin up wit da brotha de Zigster and his wife for a pizza at Blarney's Castle. Which is a most unlikely moniker for a huntin/sports themed bar/sandwich/pizza joint. And nary a corned beef sammich on the menu, even.
The pizza there, despite all the fabulous things we've heard about it, was merely...meh. But hey...it's close to home...like maybe five blocks if one could compare to the "city"...and they have a carryout window. Especially nice since we've moved to the land of no deliveries.
The company on the other hand...well...it'd be hard to beat. Especially since da brotha has a sense of humor very similar to the Zigster's. Perhaps a bit drier, but quite entertaining, nevertheless.
Now the four of us really have very little in common, other than the obvious sibling link. We don't do the typical family-type things and usually only meet up once a year or so for pizza and beer. But we are all of a similar "baby boomer" age. Me being more "baby" than the rest of the boomers. heh So we usually find a common ground in the whole "getting older" chat. But only after da brotha and da Zigster finish reminiscing about the uncommon number of various oddballs and looney-tunes that inhabited Henry, the little town they grew up in. (I dunno...must be somethin to do with the proximity to the river?)
So we're talkin about the Lasik surgery that da brotha recently had (and I'd love to have) and the fact that he and I now share the pleasure of sleeping attached to a contraption that resembles a World War I gas mask and the whole "now what the hell did I come in here for?" things that we ask ourselves every day. Stuff that sharply illustrates the fact that, despite all our efforts to deny it, we're firmly ensconced...deeply embedded...ok, on the down-hill side of middle age.
Eventually, the conversation somehow turned to driving and those of us who've done slid down to the bottom of previously-mentioned hill...and now drive badly. And slowly. And usually Buicks. heh Sometime after that particular conversation, the wife of da brotha told a little story.
Seems that as they were leaving to meet us, she took a quick glance at da brotha and noticed that the tag that should be on the inside of his snap-brim hat was stickin out and flappin against his...uh...hair challenged head. And that he had his down vest on...inside out.
After laughin like hyenas at the little story, (ok, some of it was probably nervous laughter...hit a little close ta home, ya know?) he looked at us and dryly said, "Yup. I'm ten steps closer to that white Buick."
I have a feeling that this is gonna become Ziggy's and my newest favorite catchphrase. We've had plans for a good two months now to attend our yearly New Year's Eve bash in Springfield. It's always a drunken, debauched...uh...I mean great time and we usually look forward to it for weeks. This morning, I got up, grabbed a cuppa and sat down at the table. Zig looked at me and said, "Ya know...I got to thinkin. It's supposed to snow and get really cold tonight. And I'm wonderin about the traffic...." I looked at him and said, "Yea. I don't really wanna go, either."
We look at each other over our coffee cups and simultaneously say, "Ten steps closer to the white Buick."
Now, ya might be askin yerself, "What the hell does all this have to do with a New Year's Eve story?"
Awww, c'mon. You can figure it out, can'tcha?
Another year is gone.
We're all ten steps closer to that white Buick. heh
Here's wishin y'all a safe, healthy, happy New Year. May it be filled with love and laughter.
But no Buicks.
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