Poor Lost Sole

Weird, goofy things happen to us all the time, we just need to be alert for them.  Such was the situation on Sunday. 

I don't "get" football, but I do enjoy a good party, so both Jer and I went to Mary Ann's for the Superbowl Sunday night.  Since the Gamecocks* weren't playing,  we didn't have any personal stake in either team, so we decided to just pick one to root for.  Jer noticed the Giants' head coach was the only one on either sideline that sang the national anthem.  That was good enough for him so he became a Giants fan for the evening.  (I would like to note though that he was wearing a Bengal's jersey.) 

I think Jer likes the Gamecocks because of the cheerleaders.

 [*When Jerry previewed this story, he reminded me that the Gamecocks are a college team and the Superbowl is a professional game.  I think that I've already made it clear I just don't get the football thing, and that spills over into sports in general for that matter.  However, I do understand that I'm not allowed to root for Clemson under any circumstances although I do not know why. 

Go Cocks!  Jerry insisted that I write that too. The phrase sounds dirty to me, but nobody in South Carolina seems to mind.]   

Football is a visual affair, which makes it perfect for mixed company.  Talking doesn't disturb the flow of the fun for the fans, so the men watched and the women talked.  Occasionally when the guys hollered, we'd look up from our conversations to catch the action.  (By "we" I mean everyone else.  Personally, I was so clueless that I didn't even figure out which team went with which color uniform until late in the third quarter - and even then I had to ask.) 

During a game high point, several of us noticed that something had fallen off one of the guys' shoes onto the wood floor.  To protect his personal privacy, we'll just call the shoe's owner 'Dick.'  It wasn't a big deal, just something that he'd brought in with him. You know how mud and grass can get stuck in the treads of your tennies and then when it dries a bit, it falls out all over the place?  Well, it was kind of like that, just a tiny bit of something on the floor.  The women ignored it.

Then Jerry saw it.  He doesn't ignore things well and so he started to tease 'Dick' about it.  "What ya got going there 'Dick?'"  'Dick' opined that spring had come early and it was probably just tree pollen.  As 'Dick' grew more animated watching the game, more stuff fell off his shoe.  The larger the pile grew, the more Jerry needled him.  "Geez, 'Dick', did you mow your grass today?"  The stuff did sort of look like a bunch of wet grass clippings by now.

Our hostess was trying to ignore the whole incident and kept directing us back to the screen but every time I looked at 'Dick,' I noticed that the mess was expanding.  The stuff on the floor was darker now, too.  Dog poop came to mind, but it didn't smell at all.  Big relief to him I'm sure, but now I could see 'Dick' squirming just a bit.  Eventually even Jerry must have sensed the poor guy's discomfort, because he quit ribbing him so much.  By now there was a small mound of debris underfoot - more specifically, under 'Dick's' foot.

Finally, after that last few exciting seconds of suspense, the game ended.  'Dick' leaned back and crossed his legs.  It was then everybody saw the bottom of 'Dick's' foot.  Literally.  The pile of stuff on the floor wasn't something he'd  stepped in, it was chunks of his shoe falling off.  Now everyone was howling with laughter!  It was soooooooo funny, especially because it had been a running joke the entire evening.

How old do shoes have to be before the rubber degrades enough for the sole to fall apart when you are doing nothing but sitting?  As the story unfolded, we learned that 'Dick' has a lot of shoes.  (How many?  Well, we couldn't pin him down to an exact number but his wife called it a shoe collection.) When he pulled out this particular pair of classics, they were so comfortable that he decided to start wearing them again. 

One more time, as it turns out.

Africa Hot: The Prequel

Fifteen years ago, our son moved out of his dorm room and into his first apartment.  For some reason, he expected us to help him move - and we did.  In honor of all the parents sending their children off to college, here's that story:


People who live in air conditioning are pansies.  Our son is a perfect example.  Josh lives in a fancy apartment in Indianapolis.  He is a student and I remember the weekend we helped him move from his dorm room into his new apartment.

"Wow!" my husband Jerry said.  "This is a nice complex.  How can he afford this place?"

I tried to allow a respectful moment of silence (after all, the man is my husband) but instead I burst out laughing.

"Oh," said Jerry.  "We're paying for it."

That night we stayed in the new apartment.  I slept in flannel pajamas in a goose down sleeping bag.  Still I dreamed of Arctic winds and woke up in the dead of the night freezing.  It was mid-August.

The next day we worked moving more furniture until noon when we decided to go out for lunch.  We found a quaint little pizza parlor with outdoor seating.  I noticed our son looking around.  "Isn't there anywhere inside to sit?"

"No."

He hesitated like he was going to say something else, then allowed the waiter to lead the way to our table.  August in Indiana is like August most everywhere else in this country:  hot.  This day was no different, but we were sitting on a covered patio and a pleasant, warm breeze was blowing.  You might have thought we were in the middle of the Sahara Desert with the sun beating relentlessly down upon us.

"Are you sure you want to stay here and eat?" Josh said.

Now Jerry is not a patient man and when he gets hungry he wants to eat and he wants to eat right now.  He'd been working hard doing heavy lifting all morning and he was hungry.  "This is fine."

The waiter came and asked us for our drink orders.

"Ice water," said Josh.

While we were waiting for the drinks to come, Josh fanned himself and remarked about how hot he was. When the waiter reappeared with the drinks, he served Josh first.  Before all of us at the table had even gotten our drinks, Josh was finished.  "Could I get some more water?"

"Sure.  Are you ready to order?"

We had an interesting lunch.  The pizza was excellent and before the meal was over, the waiter brought an entire pitcher of water over and set it in front of Josh.  Beads of sweat were trickling down his forehead and he had intensified his fanning efforts.  The entire conversation consisted of him grumbling about the heat.  Then he started chewing the ice cubes.  "When we're done here, want to go get ice cream?" he said.

We stopped at one of those designer ice cream saloons where a thimble full of the flavor-of-the-month costs slightly less than a house payment.  We were licking our cones on the way back to the car.  I glanced over at Josh.  Melting ice cream was running down the side of the cone, onto his arm and dripping off his elbow.  Only he was having this problem.  The rest of us had rock-solid ice cream.  I was beginning to wonder if his internal thermostat was out of whack.

When we got back to the apartment, it was like stepping into the freezer section of the grocery store.  "Thank God we're home!" said Josh.

I went to search for a sweater.