We had gone to a cook-out at Savannah's friend Lisa's house and I was determined to get off on the right foot. The "right foot" being the right-wing religious zealot of which Savannah had had me described. It probably didn't help when someone asked if they could smoke and I yelled judgmentally, "Ye not be sucking on Satan's smokestacks around me, lassie!" I also sprinkled holy water upon anyone who dared utter a profanity in between my scheduled sermon on righteous living. When someone brought out the liquor, I arranged a prayer vigil. "I'd done shots with your friends Stacy and Lindsey right after they graduated," I hissed at Savannah after the third person curtsied and apologized for their sinful behavior, "Have you forgotten my penchant for stealing restaurant cutlery and my mild addiction to soft-core porn? Why are you painting me as Mother Teresa to these people?" I was a sinner in a strange land (ie California) and would have to convince my new friends that my resplendent, celestial glow was just the sun reflecting off the copious amount of sweat brought on by their warm West Coast weather.
Lisa had friends visiting from Texas, Ashleigh ("Spelled like "sleigh" as the end," she told me, "because I'm cool and smooth." I liked her immediately.), her back-flipping boy Lucas, and Ashleigh's sister Sarah. They swore like sailors, verbally mocked the 10-year-old, and made constant demands for alcohol (Well...not Lucas. Lucas was the most mature of all of us.). Who knew my soul sisters lived in the Lone Star State? Lisa was a kind and gracious hostess, catering to the clamoring supplications of her guests. "You know what we should do?" Sydney asked as our evening concluded, "We should have a camp-fire on the beach tomorrow." Everyone was amenable to the idea which raised my spirits. I must not have offended anyone too much if they were willing to undergo Round Two.
"I see the problem," Brad said, "You forgot the Mosiman motto." "Mediocrity is not a crime?" I asked. "No," Brad corrected, "Always leave them wanting more. That was your mistake." "You're right," I admitted glumly, "It did go down from there."
"Wow. How did you manage this?" I said admiringly as Sydney and I watched Savannah race across the park to help Lisa and her friends lug chairs, firewood, s'more-making supplies, beverages, and artisan cheese to our spot. Sydney smiled somewhat craftily, "I organize events," she explained, "Lisa pulls them off." No kidding. Before the first log was lit, I had an ice-cold Pepsi in my hand, music was playing, and s'more sticks were being distributed. Having contributed NOTHING, I decided to add to the entertainment.
"Here we go," Brad moaned, bracing himself.
Silhouetted against the light of the fire, Sydney's toes were perched perfectly. "Attention, Everyone," I announced proudly, "I would like to share with you one of Sydney Lynn's finest talents, attributed directly from my hereditary line." The sand fell silent. Eyes were glued toward the fire where Sydney's toes twitched in anticipatory readiness. She had waited her whole life for this moment. A gasp arose like a spark from the darkness. Horror? Delight? Morbid fascination? Envy? "I don't understand. What just happened," my niece Alexis said, frustrated. "She splayed her toes..." whispered a disembodied voice from beyond, "wider than is humanly-possible." A God-given gift, perhaps? Talk of demons were quickly dismissed as this was clearly a capability designed for the betterment of mankind. Alexis ripped off her toe-sock and splayed her own feet-fingers. It was determined that her ability was achieved by artificial means like the Pai Dong Long neck people of Thailand who add rings to their necks over the course of their lives.
"And...I may have shared a few pictures from my cell phone of some fungi," I admitted to my husband. "A few?" he accused, "Savannah said you shared them ALL." "Ashleigh shared one, too!" I said in my defense. "So if Ashleigh started telling corny jokes around a campfire, would you have to do it too?" Brad scolded. A long silence stretched three thousand miles between us. "Oh no," he muttered, "You didn't. Please tell me you didn't." I couldn't respond, mortified by my own behavior. "Tell me you didn't tell the Napoleon joke," Brad begged, "It's social suicide." I drew in a ragged breath. "I'm so sorry," I cried. "I'll never be able to show my face in San Diego," Brad realized. I had sealed our fate. We were uncool parents....forever condemned to pot-lucks and free philharmonic concerts at the park.
Fortunately, Lisa saved the day. With a deft slight-of-hand, she tossed some powder into the fire which erupted into color. "It's blue," I breathed. "Turquoise," Lucas corrected gently, staring hypnotized by the spell that Lisa had cast. In our small pocket of light, flames flickered over friendly faces bathed in pinks, greens ("Emerald," Lucas whispered), blues, and purple. It was a magical evening. "Aren't you glad I arranged this?" Sydney murmured, flexing her toes as we listened to the waves lap the shore. "Yes," I said, smiling at Lisa as she tossed in another batch; bringing a burst of color to our lives.
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