Good Come!!!

Wow, so not that I’ve ever been that exciting, cuz I’m not, but this Indy trip really does not do much for the excitement meter in this kid’s life. And what this means is, I have a lot of time on my hands, and my friends for the most part have moved away or gotten married over the past couple years so no longer are the trips to the bars in Broadripple that regular…so despite my earlier entry indicating that I might be an irregular blogger…well…let’s just withdraw that statement…cuz…I guess it was a lie or something.

It also means that my blogs might be disappointing. Cuz you’re all expecting stories about getting vomited on at the club and hanging tough w/ Mr. Die Hard, and I’m all like, “so, I made this really delish summer vegetable salad tonight…”

So on that note, let me tell you some things about being home.

First, a Jack Bauer update, of course. Last night I went to puppy school. We learned some good stuff, such as the “come” command. And you can guess what this means. Or maybe you can’t. It means that I now have to hear “Good Come!” like every five minutes. Seriously, “good come!” And I know you’re thinking the exact same thing I’m thinking right now so don’t even act like you’re not. You SO want to try this line out…in the spirit of the fortune cookie…in bed…

Let’s see, what else. Well, today I had a tennis lesson w/ Jane and her teacher, Slater. Yep, the pro’s name is Slater. He divies his time b/t tennis and djing. He rather kicks your ass at the lesson too and makes you run like a fiend. My hand was too sweaty for my racquet and I needed one of those absorb grips so he let me use his racquet and he took mine. And I think he was kind of disgusted by how sweaty the grip on my racquet was, but, whatever, I’m a sweater. Not like the kind you wear. But more importantly, I want to discuss the phenomenon of the Carmel Housewife, I cap’ed it cuz it’s almost like an official title. These well-groomed, well-kept women spend the majority of their time playing tennis. We walk into the Carmel Racquet Club around 1:30 and it’s filled, totally filled, like all 20 courts there, with small instructional groups of women. Wearing really sweet little tennis outfits. And they’re all pretty good. But then again they should be as it’s pretty much their key hobby. Should I ever move back to Carmel, and become a Carmel Housewife, I am really going to have to work on my tennis, b/c without tennis, there really is…nothing…And I must admit, it kind of weirds me out, it really does.

Other than tennis, I will report that I did, like, nothing. I did go to the orthodontist – my bottom teeth are moving around just a little and driving me crazy so I want a new retainer – which meant I had to get impressions, and those things make me gag something fierce, and I almost booted. You know, I have actually thrown up on my orthodontist? And my dentist too.

I also went grocery shopping to make that salad for dinner thought. Which made for an interesting dinner, b/c it contained among other things, edamame, and Dick does NOT eat edamame. He doesn’t really eat veggies. He’s kind of five. I think we spent at least 10 minutes at dinner picking on my dad for not eating his vegetables. He also drinks too much Diet Coke and doesn’t drink enough water. You know, apparently he actually had a prescription written by his doctor to drink more water? I’m not shitting you. Totally happened.

The veggie convo was right after we talked about penile implants. Cuz I started drilling my dad about various implants. You do pec implants?? (had to ask for the hair guy) No. You do butt implants? No. You do calf implants? No. Umm…do you…do…penile implants?? NO. But I guess my mom was answering the phones at my dad’s office one day and she had this convo: “I was calling about getting my wife some boobies. Does the doctor do boobies?” Mom: “yes, he does breast enhancement surgery.” Guy: “Cool. So um, does he do, you know, like, man stuff?” Mom: “Umm, man stuff? You will have to be more specific sir.” Man: “You know! Like, man stuff!!” Mom: (clearly just totally being a pain in the ass): “No, I’m sorry, I do not know. What exactly are you asking?” I think this went on for a bit before the guy finally spit out the words. And NO, again, my dad does NOT do penile implants. Then my mom went off about how in LA everyone gets penile implants. Is this true? And how does my mom know? She likes to make stuff up. It’s part of her charm.