"We went out to dinner last night."
"Who all went?"
"The whole crew, me, my Mom, Uncle Darryl, my other Uncle Darryl and Gramma," Hunter says.
"What freak show transpired?" I ask as get out my note pad.
A glass of red wine.
Sound of boys playing baseball in the yard.
Dogs sitting staring at me with great love.
Sun beating down at 6 o'clock Saturday night.
Hunter telling stories.
I'm a simple girl (if you don't count the trainer, masseuse, esthetician, reiki healer, therapist, botox doctor, hair stylist, cleaning people and the Asian woman that does my nails)- straight up for you Hunter- but I am a simple girl. Small things make me abnormally happy. This is one of those times.
"So first my goddamn Mom stares at me put 6 quarters in the meter, as I start to fish through my wallet for more she says, 'You don't need quarters on Friday night honey.' Thanks Mom. You're a fuckin' peach."
"Good start," I say, "Please continue." (I'm not even charging her for this therapy session)
"So then we go in the restaurant and she tucks her napkin in the top of her shirt."
"Wait, who does that, (I'm confused) your Mom? Sydney? Or do you mean your 95 year old grandmother (cause that seems slightly more feasible)?"
"My Mom!" Hunter says.
"Why?" I ask.
"Cause she doesn't want to get anything on the shirt that she paid $450 for in Tortola when we could have gotten it at a head shop here for $20 and it probably cost the Mexicans a buck fifty tops to make."
"Then she pulls her bottle of wine out a brown paper bag, slams it on the counter and then reaches in her stupid gay beach bag and pulls out her own plastic wine glass with the dolphins on it."
"She brought her own wine glass?" this just keeps getting better and better. Dysfunctional is not even adequate to describe this family. They are worthy of so much more.
"She sure did. She won't drink out of anything that isn't plastic. You know she doesn't even use utensils to eat?" she says.
"I did not know that. For what? Like finger foods? Butlered hor devours? Granola bars?"
"No. Anything. Salad. Pasta. Piece by piece. She eats like a goddamn Aborigine and she taps everything twice before she puts it in her mouth."
"Is Tom Cruise her brother from another Mother? Can she count cards?" At this point I'm trying to figure out how to use these oddities to my advantage. Hunter seems disturbed. I am strangely intrigued by this kooky behavior.
"No. She's not Autistic! She's just fucking nuts. It's weird and uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as Bob's profile picture..."
When it's all said and done friends...
It all comes back to Bob.