How about a slew of boys jammed into the back of a Suburban, gassed up with a never ending supply of beef jerky and Pop Rocks, heading to the big city for lil’ bit of culture.
Sound like fun, a trip down memory lane, or culture shock?
Living in the suburbs has its benefits, but you sure do miss the aesthetics of the rural landscape.
Until that rural landscape comes to an arena near you.
It’s man-time at our house. Rather attractive husband poured a pile of boys into the largest car we could beg, borrow or steal, then double buckled a la 1970 style, and headed downtown to see the big rigs. Brought an additional Dad for crowd control.
It’s not sexist. It’s man time. While my girls would love the big rigs, they could never survive the purple-nurple, fart-fest of drive time.
Last year, the dumbass dad (my rather attractive husband) didn’t buy tickets ahead of time and they couldn’t get in. What to do with a van of hyper boys jacked up on Mountain Dew promised a night to remember? How would they ever make this up to them? Bouncer dad and my lovely husband took them to our local grocery store for a cut-throat, live-or-die scavenger hunt. With shopping carts. Timed. Then bought nothing but nerf blasters for everybody with which they terrorized waitresses at the diner. To whom, some were related.
It got ugly, they had a blast, and I can’t shop there anymore.
This year he wisely bought tickets THE DAY THEY WENT ON SALE.
Monster Truck Jam: where our nice proper middle class suburb gets a taste of home. I can immediately tell where people grew up by the look on their face: horror or jealously. It can go either way.
|See the kid staring down the bouncer? TROUBLE.|
The boy invites very few present day friends, preferring to go old school with original playgroup dudes from his carseat days.
Professional plays, playoffs, leukemia, torrential rains and road closures hasn’t stopped them. Hockey took one of the old-timers, but he’ll be back. They always come back.
These boys, all grown up at the decrepit age of Axe, with separate lives and interests, all come running when the call comes to rendezvous in the city with a side of CO and ruptured eardrums.
Once a year.
My husband returns beaten, bruised and hating most, but not all, of the kids, swearing never again. The recruited helper Dad schleps back into the obscurity of his neighborhood, never to be seen again. Until next year.