Crabbydad Tip #327: Every now and then, maybe once a year, do the exact opposite of what all common sense tells you to do and it might, just might, not turn out to be the shittiest idea you've ever had.
Case in point -- tonight was the PTO Family Night, a concept that normally makes me involuntarily dry-heave and produce the sound "Flnrrgnharfff." We had absolutely NO intention of attending, ESPECIALLY since the festivities were being held at a nearby ROLLER RINK. The spawn, however, had other notions, and were convinced that, oh yes, we were going to attend. I don't know if it was the sunny weather, the extra three cups of tea I had today, or the micro-stroke I must have suffered some time this afternoon, but I said, out-loud, "Ah, what the shit-- let's go skating!"
Of course, the Old Lady wasn't home, so I didn't have to duck after blurting it out. I called her up at work and sprung the idea on her and, boy, was she thrilled. She was so thrilled, in fact, that she gave my idea a ringing endorsement by stating, "Are you fucking fucked in the fucking head?!" Apparently I was, because a 1/2 hour later, we were in the car, rolling to the rinkage.
Now, up until the moment we entered the place, Mr. Z and Miss O were so excited they were practically shitting themselves, and all around them, with glee. The SECOND we walked inside, however, Miss O became "Miss O-rnery" and decided she was going to skate over my cold, dead body -- turning her mope-o-meter to moperdrive.
But I wasn't gonna let that stop me. Mr. Z was still stoked and I was gonna ride this bad idea all the way to its inevitable bone-splintering, tear-soaked conclusion. We rented our skates, strapped 'em on and hit the ol' wooden oval. Now, let me remind you that Mr. Z is THE MOST uncoordinated person on Earth, however, he is completely unaware of said uncoordinatude and will dive headlong into any coordination-required situation like a possum going after a tub of naval jelly.
Imagine a combination of Barney Fife, the Keystone Cops and a newborn foal on a pair of heavily-buttered jellyfish and you'll get an inkling of the hilarity that was Mr. Z attempting to propel himself across the floor on eight wheels. Oh my shit, I laughed so hard I nearly crapped my pants... through my nose. And he refused any help from me. Didn't want me near him.
I seriously have no idea how he didn't break every goddamn bone in his body. It was like a really bad actor pretending to be a really bad skater -- lots of windmilling arms, kicking-up feet and constant "Whoooaaaaa! Whooooaa!!!s." Like something Lenny & Squiggy might have done on a very special rollerskating episode of "Laverne & Shirley."
Finally, the boy allowed me to teach him a couple of basics, like "don't lean back," and "try alternating your feet," and "LOOK OUT!!!!" And sure enough, by the end of the night, his spazz-factor had plummeted considerably and he was actually doing pretty well. That boy never ceases to amaze me! He said it was the best time he's had in, maybe, ever. Major "proud-papa" moment.
We ended the evening joining the soiled, bad-touch rink mascot in rousing renditions of the Hokey-Pokey and the Chicken Dance. YES, the fucking Chicken Dance -- I told you, it was the EXACT OPPOSITE of what every crabby bone in my body was telling me to do... the goddamn Chicken Dance, for fuck's sake. And there I was, roller-dancing and laughing like I had just downed three grams of 'shrooms and a tank of nitrous. Fucking nuts.
Miss O spent the night riding the bench with the Old Lady, living vicariously off the fumes of Mr. Z's and my own little Xanadu.