On the Money

If you were at a Nepalese restaurant in Golden last night and wondering if the couple in the parking lot was drunk, rest assured that the kids got home safe. We weren't hammered, only laughing like we'd eaten a bag of weed. Somehow it came up one of my more humorous language mix ups in Mexico.

It was in 2005. We were with my mom on what would be her last big hoorah. We didn't know that, but after some terrifying mishaps we did find out that she had gone blind. So by the end of the vacation I was a little hyper about the caregiver thing.

When you don't know someone is blind, you panic much less than when you do. That's from a purportedly sighted perspective, but as compared to our leisurely vacation mode to the resort, our exit was a might more energetic. I wanted to make sure we left the country quickly, and with my mother. That sounds like an easy chore. But in her hard-headed will to do things on her own, my mom had walked straight out of our room and into a hot tub. And I don't mean a graceful entrance, one for which my mother had always been known, but in not being able to see she dropped right into the water feature. We were horrified, but still probably less than the family of Scots using it. They were unnecessarily apologetic, and showed doubts about returning the scraped and bruised lady to her half-naked, hungover and sol-fried son.

From then on I was vigilant. And with vigilance comes bravado, which is brainless forward motion disguised as confidence, aka "Manboob Momentum" for the forward-leaning assuredness typical of its middle-aged male possessors.

There are times when I know I'm wrong. Someone will correct me and I have to go sheepishly back from where I came. But there are also times when I'm so high on, I don't know, certainty I guess, that I'm beyond asking questions and all about throwing forth.

This was the case in our packing up and getting out of the resort. I would confuse the Spanish word for "suitcase". So instead of telling the bellhops, the front desk, the bus driver and all the help in between that I had three suitcases, I shared with everybody that I had three wallets. Here the Mexican populace is weary of Americans throwing their money around, and I'm shouting about my multiple billfolds.
This probably wasn't all that good for security, as a guy who has that many wallets could use to lose a couple. We got out of the country fine, but there's this picture in my head of the bewildered resort staff listening to the cocksure American. I was so proud of my sentence: "Yo tengo tres carteras!" Not only was I telling them that I had three wallets, but that they were in my room and I wanted someone to get them.

Who wouldn't rob that guy?

Somehow that incident came up in our dinner conversation and Sarah was laughing so hard that she told everybody she was going to pee her pants. The kids weren't into it. Quin asked if we were okay, as I guess it sounded like I'd hurt myself. And I nearly did in that gut-grabbing hilarity that has you both wanting it to stop and for it to never end.

But it gets even better. Even if I had three wallets I wouldn't have much to put in them because I come from a long line of people who don't like money. Well, I love cash, but I must say I don't in the same way a lonely guy says he's voluntarily celibate. It's not that I'm completely broke, but my wife must pain wondering in how much comfort we'd live if I didn't do everything for free.

So you can imagine Sarah's joy when her eldest son expressed interest in cash. We had to leave the restaurant and go to a grocery store to get money for a tip (they had a debit card issue). While I was in there buying 99-cent seedless grapes for cash back, Sarah explained to Quin what I was doing. Quin replied, "I like cash."

Sarah perked up and used the moment to foment a little fire about the advantages of money. She went on to say that a lot of people like cash, and cash is used for many things. Quin agreed and Sarah finished with something confirmatory about cash being good.
Quin paused and then asked, "Is cash a fruit?"

I felt some wind as I exited the store, and I believe that was Sarah's deflation. Looks like she'll be working for a long time. But if it's any consolation I've done a lot of jobs where people paid me in produce.

On the way home there was more laughter. Our carteras absolutely full of it.

Gallons and gallons of adult drinks and I still remember this

I got away with one. Quin likes watching ET, but Sarah doesn't want him seeing the traumatic parts. Well I got lazy and let the movie roll right on through and Quin saw all the drama. How did I end up winning? What did seeing his favorite Extra Terrestrial dried up and near dead in a ravine do to Quin?

Quin told me: "ET drank an adult drink and he got sick and doctors had to help him."

This is such a win/win that it's hard to explain all the benefits. First, Quin saw ET drink the Coors out of the fridge, and now he equates that do ending up sick in a ditch. Second, the scary part with the scientists bursting into Elliot's home has been turned into a benign house call. And thirdly, he'll never drink Coors.

Oh, and there's the part about his daddy ending up near dead in a ditch and daddy worried as all heck that his surviving only means there's payback in the kids.

But there's a lot of depth here, stuff that goes back to Sarah and my childhood.

Sarah is big on protecting the boys from nasty stuff on TV. I'm with her, but not as vigilant. And these days, with every football game showing up with a four-hour erection and a bloodlust for violent gaming, it's good to be on the remote control. My only hesitation comes with the fact that growing up without a TV made me, well, soft. I see even a preview for the latest creepy movie about possessed children and I'm lying awake certain she's going to grab my foot.

This is a cause and effect that has come with plenty of life research. I don't think Sarah was able to watch a lot of bad TV--her parents didn't even get cable until all the kids were gone--but she grew up in Baltimore. On the other hand, I had to drive three hours to see a homeless guy vomiting. I woke up to the crisp silence of cold mountain mornings, and went to bed with layers and layers of stars twinkling me to sleep. Until I saw Poltergeist and would hide under my covers wondering when a tree was going to burst through the window and eat me.

I kid you not, after seeing Poltergeist I didn't sleep for a week. My belief is that a world without horrific images left me pretty sensitive to even the meekest of scary fare. I'm sticking to this because it's the only reason I have for sleeping with my friends parents during his birthday slumber party.

It was 1985. As part of the evening's festivities we watched Friday the 13th part 1 and part 2. I was mortified. My heart raced with every chase, every machete hacking and pretty much throughout the entire thing. After the second movie was over all the other kids drifted off to sleep like they'd just seen Yentl. That left me alone with my imagination in a wide open living room lit only by an aquarium. I did an elbow crawl over to the wall and slid the curtains closed with my toes. For the rest of the night I stared at the window wondering if there was anything looking back. Well, for the rest of night up until I sprinted to his parent's bedroom and asked to sleep with them. They were caught off guard, but my overall desperation convinced them it was serious. My friend's dad went and found some other place to retire, and I unwittingly chiseled my name in Walden Elementary lore by sleeping with my friend's mother.

And by "sleeping with" I mean crying and needing to be held. It was not an easy time to be me.

So I'm just a little scared for my boys. I want them to be a little tougher. I want them to be seasoned just enough to know that the psycho killer in the hockey mask is just a desperate actor who needed a gig. And if either of them ever need to share a bed with their friend's mom, it's because she needs the comfort.