Tonight my son’s hockey team had a get-together at one of the parents’ houses.
During the course of the evening, I started noticing a trend:
There would be silence.
Now I don’t mean silence as in: ”Everybody shhhhh! She’s going to say something!” silence.
More like an “I think I didn’t hear right!” silence.
First of all, I have to say that I usually hate these gatherings.
The kids are
locked playing in another area of the house.
The men are sitting in front of a big screen watching hockey.
And the women are huddled around the kitchen table.
Usually the conversations are about their children.
The children’s teachers.
The children’s latest hockey game.
Tonight the monotony was broken up with a lady saying, “My sister is married to a sheep farmer in Australia. She told me she’s thinking of leaving him for some guy she met on the Internet.”
I lean in.
Finally. Finally something good.
But then other lady says, “So does she ever tell you about the work involved in sheering sheep?”
….ummm…weren’t we just talking about how the sister is fucking some other guy?
And somehow, I’m the only one who got stuck on that fact because the women have now launched into the inhumanities of sheering Marino sheep.
The ladies then move on to the topic of family time and bonding with their kids, and mention how their kids don’t like to play boardgames.
Between swigging my Diet Coke and eating tortilla chips, I pipe up, “Play Scrabble with them and let them spell dirty words. They’ll be begging to play it all the time.”
“Dirty words? What do you mean?” someone dares to ask.
“For instance, the other day Jackson spelled ‘twat’ on a double word score. He was thrilled.”
“T-W-A-T. You know, as in vagina.”
“So anyway, how did you say the sheep were sheered?” woman breaking the silence says to woman whose sister is fucking Internet guy.
Then the conversation moves to Facebook.
One woman says, “I joined Facebook to see what my old high school boyfriends looked like now. I was happy to see that they’re all fat, bald, and unhappily married.”
I pipe up, “Not my old high school boyfriends. Oh my god, talk about gorgeous and ripped.”
“How do you know?”
“Pictures. Shirt off. Totally edible.”
What? I didn’t say I ate him. I just said he WAS edible.
“So what were you saying about the sheep sheering business again?” woman breaking the silence says to woman whose sister is fucking Internet guy.
So I’m done with the ladies at that side of the table.
I turn to the ladies closest to me, and listen to them talking about all the activities their children are involved in and how they have no time for themselves.
I say, “I MAKE time for myself. I try to make it to hot yoga most days of the week.”
“Hot yoga? I hear that is terrific.”
“It is!” I say, bouncing on my seat at the excitement of having someone talk to me. “After only eight sessions I started noticing that my abs were getting ripped!”
Thankfully, my friend Kim who spends a fair bit of time at the beach with me says, “Sandra, your abs were ripped last summer!”
Feigning humility, I say, “No they weren’t.”
But yes. Yes they were.
But still. That was when I was hungry and on the heels of a competition.
Now they aren’t AS ripped.
[This is the area where I would post a recent picture of my abs, but I'm currently pre-menstrual and am not emotionally equipped to deal with the hate mail.]
But hot yoga talk continues at which time I inform them of the protocol.
One woman says, “I hear you have to get there about 30 minutes early.”
“I like to. This way I can get a spot in front of the mirror and stare at myself.”
Really? What? It’s important to ensure proper posture!
It’s not like I flex…all the time.
“So what were you saying about the sheep sheering business again?” woman breaking the silence is saying to woman whose sister is fucking Internet guy.
Fortunately, somebody takes pity on me, and brings the conversation back to hot yoga: “So what should I expect if I go?”
“Well, expect that the room will be very quiet and relaxing. Expect that you will sweat your ass off. And expect to hear people farting around you.”
Thankfully, Wayne pops up behind me and says, “Time to go?”
It was time to go hours earlier when I repeated the conversation I’d had with Jackson about the tattoo he wants to get when he’s older: “I want to get a tattoo of a guy pushing a lawn mower through my pubes. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
I thought it was funny.
Instead though sheep sheering was brought up.