The next day was
Saturday. On the weekend, we don't do much of anything, at least we try not to.
We usually watch TV and play video games; listen to Ian play guitar, and play
video games; go outside for a walk, and play video games; go see Ian fence and
play video games; shopping and play video games. Oh, did I mention already that
on the weekends we play video games?
Not playing video games
for the rest of the summer sounded like an eternity. What are we going to do
with our spare time? My dad gave us both books to read over the summer. War and Peace and Treasure Island, he said they are classics. The word classical
should be another word for long and dull. Oh well, we were going to have to
read them sometime during our high school years anyway, so might as well get it
over with. The good thing is, dad said if we read the books, he would minimize
the punishment to 2 weeks. I’m guessing reading them was punishment enough.
"Have you started
your book yet?" I asked Ian.
"Are you kidding,
I can't get passed the Preface," Ian said.
“And you’re the one
that likes to read,” I said back to him.
“Yeah, but out of my
own free will, not as a punishment,” he said.
"Hey, I have an
idea,” I said. “Why don't we tell mom that we're going down to the library to
read, because it's quieter there and we'll look up the Spark Notes for the
books? We could go through them in no time.”
"Well, I don't like Spark Notes,” Ian
said. “It doesn’t really go to the heart of the story, it just gives you a
summary. Mom calls them Cheat Notes.”
"These books are like 2,000
pages long, I don't want heart, I just want the facts," I said. "Oh
come on, we haven't done anything sneaky in a long time. And do we really want
to spend the rest of the summer reading?" I asked Ian, playing the
devilish side of his conscious.
"No, I had
illusions of grandeur of what my summer was going to be like, but now they are
dissipated," Ian said softly.
"Talk American,
will ya.”
So, that's what we did.
We went down to the library, and for a whole week, we would just stay there and
read the Spark Notes. Boy, when the Spark Notes for a book are longer than any
book you’ve ever read, you know you’re in trouble. A week pasted, and we
finally finished with the Spark Notes of our respective books. We would go home
in the evening and just put the book in front of our faces with a magazine inside
to make believe that we were reading the book. Little devils aren’t we.
It was the weekend
again. Time fly's when your mind is num. The Bells went with their children to
take a hike . . . no really, they went to the Adirondack Mountains to hike and
camp out for a week. Oh yeah, that’s the kind of vacation I want- carrying big
heavy bags, being bothered by pesky creatures, and having to fend for yourself.
Hey, it sounds just like going to school!
The Bonnelly's kids
spent their week over their aunt's house that lives in Englewood Cliffs, so I
didn't have any babysitter jobs that week. This gave us plenty of time to do
our dirty deed and by the weekend we were all done.
Dad took us to the movies on Saturday night,
and then threw some murder burgers from White Castle down our throats. What is
it about a little square burger out of a box that tastes soooooo gooooood? We devoured 100 of them between the 4 of us,
along with 25 boxes of fries, 15 boxes of onion rings and 10 chocolate shakes.
I’m exaggerating of course, but not by much.
“Mom, Ian is taking up
all the good air in the back of the car!” I said in frustration. Most likely,
whenever we ate murder burgers, it would quickly reek havoc in our digestive
system and give us the farts. Ian thinks his farts don’t smell, but he had a
hidden talent in creating gases without making a sound. They are silent but
deadly.
“Children you need to
breath deep and evenly,” mom said very calmly. Then when the fart gases slowly
seeped to the front of the car, dad rolled down the windows and left them down
all the way home. The toxic fumes that came out of us from the burgers were lethal.
If you would set a match, we would blow. When we got home, my dad had to leave
the windows to the car open so it could air out.
"Soooooo kiddies,”
my dad said as we got home, "your mom told me you both finished your book
assignments, very impressive. Finished in a week, very impressive.”
"Well, dad, you
know," I said, "we are really sorry for what happened with the video
game. We both admit we got carried away.”
"Yes, carried
away… far away,” muttered Ian standing behind me.
"And we both
really enjoyed reading such classical books as... such," I said.
"Very honored,”
Ian muttered again.
"And I have to
say, in behalf of both of us…”
"Nina, who was the
author of War and Peace?" my dad wanted to know.
"The author, like
who wrote the book? Like who spent soooooo much time writing a classic book,
about the time of war and the time of peace?" I said stumbling. I was trying to buy some time. How can I be so
stupid? I read all of the Spark Notes and never notice or cared to notice wrote
the book. Maybe our house would be on a sink hole and it would just open up and
swallow me. There was a long pause while my dad glared at us.
"Go to your room .
. . both of you . . . and start reading your books,” dad said. “And when you’re
done, you can switch books and read the other ones book.” We left silently.
**** ****
****
Sundays traditionally
has been an ‘I’m not doing nothing if I don’t feel like it day.’ So, if we
don’t feel like doing anything, we don’t. Even my mom that seems like she’s
always cooking something for someone, on Sunday, the kitchen closes early. We
do something call Bruncher – which is a combination of breakfast, lunch and dinner.
See, we took the br of breakfast, the unch of lunch and the er
of dinner and invented the word: Br-unch-ers.
And also, my parents do
something called Mimosa Sunday. Yes, a colorful family we are. Let me explain. We all drag out of bed around
oh say noon, and the first thing dad will do is pop open a bottle of champagne.
At this point my mom is in the kitchen cooking Bruncher and my dad is looking
for the next and best champagne recipe on earth via the internet, while my
brother and I are sipping on sparkling white grape juice, watching these two
drink good champagne.
“Okay, so last Sunday
we did a Bellini, which is white peach and champagne,” he said. “That was
good.”
“To tart for me,”
commented my mom.
“Okay, nice to know,”
said my dad. “How about this one… pomegranate and champagne?”
“Hmmm, I don’t think we
have pom juice.”
“What no pom juice,
disgraceful!” chimed in Ian. At that, we looked toward the sliding glass window
to the back yard and pressed up against it face first is Johnny. Ian went to open
the door for him. “We can’t be normal and use the front door, right?”
“Too normal, not for
me,” said Johnny. “Yo, Konichiway bro, Konichiway sis. And power to the mom and
dad,” he said as he sat down on a bar stool in the kitchen and served himself
some champagne in a flute.
“What do you think you’re doing young man?” my dad asked
him.
“Oh come on dad, I can
handle it…I’m not like these two light weights over here,” Koon said as he
dangled his fingers over to us.
“First, don’t call me
dad,” dad said.
“Honey,” mom responded.
“And second, you’re
under age, like my children. You are not permitted to drink. What you do in
your own house is not of my affairs. But, you will drink the sparkling grape
juice in this house until you are 21,” he said very firmly.
“Wow, that hurt,”
Johnny said quietly. “Sooooo, can I call you dad… or what?”
My father just sighed.
Johnny is truly a hopeless case.
“Mom and dad promised
us on the day of our high school graduation we could have one flute of
champagne each. So, if you want to join us in 2 years, 10 months, 4 days, 6
hours, 31 minutes and ( looking at the
clock and waiting) . . .10 seconds from right know, you’re more than welcomed,”
I told Koon with a half smile.
“Geez, I’ll keep that
in mind.”
Johnny went to the same
school with us, was in the same grade, and almost has the same classes as me, except
when he doesn’t show up for class, which is half the time. So I’m thinking that
he was going to graduate with us… I think.
“Oh, this one is
simple,” my dad said. “It’s called a Strawberry Sundae Champagne delight. You
use strawberry daiquiri mix and champagne accompanied by fresh cut
strawberries.”
“I just brought fresh
strawberries at the farmer’s market on Thursday. I’ll get some out, and cut
them. That’ll be perfect!” my mom said with a bounce in her voice. It’s kind of
sad to see what our parents get excited about these days. But, whatever gets
you through the night is alright by me, right?
My parents downed one
bottle of champagne in no time. It doesn’t seem to faze them one bit. They say
they only drink one, but I think they trick us and bring out another one when
we’re not looking.
Bruncher is usually a
little bit of everything - eggs, bacon, waffles, baked ham, potatoes, hummus,
dips of all kind, plenty of bread. (NOTE: Mom makes her own bread. And it is to
die for. Watch out Wonder Bread and Merita!) Our Bruncher looks like a
breakfast house just fired their breakfast cooks and decided to put the night
people to cook. But it was all good.
In the summer time we
would watch a good Yankee game on TV, or the Tour de France in the month of
July or Formula One racing whenever it’s on. The winter of course, is all
football - pro football, semi-professional football, arena football, Canadian
football, College football and Pee-Wee football, which sometimes are the best
games. Those little devils really get into it. But for the most part we drink, eat,
relax and had fun.
My dad is a pretty big
guy. You think he would have a Doberman Pincher, a Boxer or a Pit Bull for a
dog. So in contrast, it’s kind of funny seeing him with the Dog. But Prissy
loves him.
“Oh you crazy Dog…yes,
I know, I know you’re a crazy Dog,” He says with a high playful tone, as Prissy
is standing on her hind legs on top of the couch shivering, shaking, wagging
her tail and uncontrollable sneezing and yawning at the same time to grab dads
attention.
“Know your roll Dog . .
. it’s a dog-eat-dog world out their Dog, it’s a dog-ea- dog world . . . know your roll!” Mmmmmmmm . . . arf arf arf, achoo,
AAAAAUUUUUUUOOWWWHH! Pathetic.
