Summer isn’t all icy treats and vacation destinations. No siree…
The gloves are off.
Put your dukes up, Summer. Because I’m going to pummel you.
And no, Summer isn’t the mom in the white Toyota something-or-other who in the final weeks of school repeatedly swiped MY secret (or so I thought), brilliant parking space behind campus so as to avoid the treacherous main parking lot, which is like the equivalent of a New York City street except instead of crazy taxi drivers it’s moms and dads who are inexplicably in an incredible hurry at 3:20 p.m. every week day.
No, when I say summer, I mean summer. The season.
We reached a truce last year. Really, it was the first time I actually savored that spicy stretch of weeks. Didn’t have to race to a job and 10 different summer camps. We hung out with no real agenda. It was lovely and we made the most of all my little chickadees home in the nest. Life was good. I gave myself up to the fluidity of few scheduled activities, knowing that it was our last, full, carefree summer before No. 1 went off to college.
This time, I didn’t even have a chance to lick one of my vodka Popsicles before summer sucker-punched me — well, more specifically threw a basketball straight at my face.
No. 3 is not even officially in high school yet, but he has high school basketball practice at least twice a week and strength training in the morning three times a week and then games on the other end of town two nights a week. Plus tournaments.
Get this: On Thursday night, I had to trek to the western-most part of the city for yet another tournament. I was expecting some fairly plush accommodations considering I had to dish out $6 a night to watch my own kid play. Sure enough, fold-up seats. Court side. We’re talking Drake court side. I can tell you exactly what flavor of Axe deodorant spray each of those 14-year-old boys used. I was very, very, very close to the action. The out-of-bounds lines were literally right under my feet. I could have tripped the player who poked my kid in the eye. Could have. But I didn’t.
But that wasn’t the bad part. What I’m mad about is that I was on the end of town with some of the most amazing Mexican food, so I figure I’ll take advantage of that and get a machaca burrito for dinner. No stinkin’ nachos and Gatorade from the community college snack bar for me! Since my kid was acting like he didn’t know me anyway, I left between games and floored it to my favorite burrito place… Turned out it closed at 6 p.m.
No worries. I had one other option. That place closed at 7 — it was 7:10 p.m.
I drove aimlessly, passing fast-food joint after fast-food joint and because I cannot relax, I pulled into the Safeway parking lot, grocery shopping between games. I ended up dining on wholly unsatisfying boneless Buffalo wings with third-degree burns from the heat lamp where they tasted like they sat for the past 43 days.
There was a second game and then a third and so I was in that smelly gym until after 10 p.m. Then I got to do it all again, multiple times, over the weekend.
I may talk smack about kicking summer’s ass, but clearly, she is kicking mine.