Saturday, November 08, 2008

Protect your eyes.

I just got back from a fantastic trip down to North Carolina. It was work related, but it hardly seems fair to call it work. I was down there in conjunction with Trek Travel on their 4 day demo trip. There was actually a great deal of work involved. Part of that was due to the rides I had to lead. I got to ride trails in Pisgah National Forest, and Dupont Forest. Both absolutely amazing places to ride. The colors on the trees were astounding.

My roommate Darren went with me. I'm pretty sure he had a good time. Now, Darren is a guy's guy. He's popular with the ladies, has a lot of diverse interests that require lots of toys (mountain biking, dirt biking, etc), and he's an all around good guy. The only issue I openly have with Darren is his use of the word 'bitches'. It became my mission during our trip to try and encourage him to use another, less demeaning word...You know, like 'broads', or something. To try and encourage him to stop, I tried many tactics. A short, yet stern 'HEY!', a more pleading 'Seriously...please.', and sometimes brute force with a punch to the arm.

I thought I was making real progress. That is until we arrived at the home of my beloved parents on the way back north. This part of the story is important to remember for a bit later on. Keep reading...

A quick sidebar: anyone who knows my folks will understand where I owe the credit for my sarcastic wit. My father has a particularly biting sarcasm, and since his stroke it seems to be the one thing that has become more accute. I'm not sure he has much internal censorship. :~)

My family is very boisterous, and Thursday night dinners are shared with my brother and his family. This has become a mini-tradition since my brother was hit by a drunk driver two summers ago. A family meal is nothing short of a workout. There is copious laughter. I mean real, solid belly laughing. The kind that makes your face hurt.

Darren and I arrived at mom and dad's on one such Thursday night. Just after we finished our meal, I was holding my dad's hand when I noticed that his nails were getting long. His stroke has meant that his left hand doesn't really work, so he can't cut the nails on his right hand by himself.

This was the conversation that took place:

Me: Dad your nails are getting a bit long. They need to be trimmed.

Dad: No, they're ok.

Me: Not really dad. Why don't we trim them?

Dad: I keep them that long in case I have to scratch some bitch's eye out.

*Hysterical laughter from the table ensues. I think Darren was laughing harder than anyone.*

Me: You have no idea what you've just done, dad.


My father used to be a minister.