Ice Cream, Mum, & A Frenchman

As most of you know, I have a couple dinners per evening and on this particular night, I needed a little pick me up between first dinner and second. I headed to the kitchen and ate a slice of cheese while figuring out what my real snack would be. After staring into the fridge for 10 minutes, I spotted some smoked turkey. The thought of making a sandwich crossed my mind but I was way too hungry to go through all of those shenanigans. I slapped a slice of turkey on a slice of cheese, rolled it up, and ate it up yum. After 3 or 4 of these churkey rolls, my grandfather showed up, added a '99 Cabernet to the mix, and we shared some good times... that is, until my mom and Nana appeared. My grandfather put down his glass and tried to run but it was no use. "You stop there!" And he did. I was always impressed at the way my Nana navigated my grandfather's world. He walked back and stood next to me. I whispered to him that we could take them on and he appeared to have a surge of confidence. We were scolded immediately, as expected. Apparently the refrigerator is, in fact, NOT a trough. This was news to me and grandfather. He defended our actions, stating that refrigerators hold food just as troughs do. It is only natural to stand in front of them, door wide open, and snarf down treats. My mom piped in. "Even if that is the case, when one consumes sliced meat and cheese, one does so in sandwich form." My mom is such a stickler. Grandfather had nothin, so I figured it was my turn. I informed the maternal attackers that if we had toothpicks in the churkey rolls, their argument completely falls apart, as the rolls would then qualify for service on any deli platter. "Gotcha, Nana!" Grandfather and I exchanged high fives and basked in the glow of victory. But then grandfather messed it up. "Yeah that's right, gotcha! You have nothing on us! So we don't want to hear your nonsense about this any more! Ladies! Isn't that right, little one?" Nooo!! He always does this! Now I'm under pressure, as Nana, mom, and grandfather all stare at me. With whom do I side? Nana wields more in-home power. Mom supports Nana. Grandfather is only powerful when Nana is not around. Not good. So I decided to stay on the island and smiled... to grandfather it appeared supportive and impudent, and to the other two, an acknowledgement that grandfather is a bonehead. Luckily, it worked. Grandfather left the kitchen and Nana suggested we sate my appetite (and my hyperactive nature) with a trip to Winstone's for ice cream. [Winstone's is Baskin Robbins without the cool pink spoons]

Once there, I stood in the back of the line with my cousin, Shiloh, and best friend, Omar, arguing the tastiness of the flavor Turkish Delight with Chocolate Chips and whether Edmund from the Narnia books would have been as hard up for it as he was the candy. Something tells me Aslan would have been down. However, our discussion was interrupted by a man sitting at a nearby table ... Unshaven. Obnoxious. French. He looked remotely familiar to me but I couldn't place him. "Your eyes are like the jewels of the clear blue sky on a summer's day... following rain." Following rain? "Are you, mon ami, of legal age?" I lied and said no. He looked disappointed but immediately walked away. I guess potentially getting wrapped up in some statutory rape case wasn't on his agenda for the evening.

Before the three of us could continue with our inane babble, there was an exclamation, "It is the goddess of Brittania's regattas." It seemed that Pepe Le Pew had moved on but the phrase he used troubled me. I'd not heard it in quite a while but I recall a man saying it to my mother when I was about 15. My father became very agitated (as he tends to when men openly flirt with Ma) and was itching to put a dot on the man's head. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed... sorta. I think my dad growled at the man and he ran away, but I've no proof of such. My mother attended Oxford, where she played field hockey and rowed crew. Her rowing career began in the times when women's collegiate rowing was taking off. Though Oxford and Cambridge (and a few others) had fielded competitive squads since the 1920's, the rest of the British universities were now getting into the mix and in her senior year, she captained the nation's best crew. Apparently, she developed some sort of aura about her in this little world... I'm not quite sure how this is accomplished in a 4 or 8 man boat where synchronicity is paramount but I haven't been interested in finding out. My theory is that she wore cool sunglasses. In any case, all of that flew through my head and prompted a grisly realization. This greasy buffoon was speaking to my mother. Now it's one thing for my mum to get hit on. [I think that she's still a very beautiful woman and if a man cares to acknowledge such, so be it. My true concerns lay with spotting my dad actively finding her attractive... that is far more horrifying than random men about town.] But it's quite another when he hits on me first and then moves on to her! That is completely disgusting. Worst of all, he seems to know her already. And if he knows her already, wouldn't it stand to reason that he knows that she has children out there somewhere? Perhaps within 10 feet of where she's standing?

Pepe: I am Rene Hebert and I've not seen you since 1987. Stunning as ever, I see.
[She said thank you and they exchanged pleasantries. I thought that was where this craziness would end but he continued...]
Pepe: Your curled yet feathered chestnut hair... your green eyes. You bewitched me in earlier years, at Oxford, though you seemed quite taken with an American ruffian. [That must be dad] But when I spotted you again in 1987 in the Sun in a scandalous photo with drunk Americans, I was enchanted again. And your smile, I-

The referenced "scandalous" photo where the most scandalous things are a Budweiser can and bad '80's hair: (L-R) Rod (one of my dad's buddies), My Mum, her friend Renee circa 1987.

Mum: My sincerest apologies but I can't recall who you are nor do I appreciate your reference to my husband as a ruffian. He is nothing of the sort.
[I dunno about that mum. Daddy is a little rough round the edges]
Pepe: But I will, mon cheri. For I have loved you for many years. I sat either behind you or nearby in various economics lectures for 4 years! I also come from a family that was near yours during the Revolution... though you supported our counterpart, I have forgiven such trespasses.

Such trespasses? Was he talking about the French Revolution? Could he possibly be serious? He continued to talk and by this point, my entire family (er, the 10 of us at Winstone's) stood silent in confusion.

Pepe: I just cannot understand why your ancestors would support such a man of a theist cause. Atheism! Atheism is the key to democracy. NOT THEISM!

Cue tirade about theist government; America, Britain and their inferiority to the rest of Europe... especially France. Now I'm not one for heavy France bashing for familial reasons but I could stand by no longer. I'll not have some beret holding, Pepe Le Pew smack of ass telling my Mum and my Nana what was what about the ways of government. It was then that I took a cue from Marge Simpson - I could stand there like the French or I could do something. I got in his face, preparing to unleash a verbal assault. But before I could say anything, "Ohh, the buttercup from the back of the line! Come to take me up on my offer, eh?" Uh oh.

Ma: Have you propositioned my daughter?
Pepe: Daughter? No. This blue-eyed muffin was in the back of the line talking about books with a couple young men. If you were not so rude to me here, I would be taking you home with me. But it appears that she has interest. I am a mighty lover and she will know that. [Did he forget that I'm "underage?"] And you will--

*BIP BIP*

Left-handed uppercut and an overhand right! *Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier!* Pepe was down for the count. My mother.. my formerly sweet, kind, overly-polite English mother just battered a random Frenchman in a bloody creamery!! And followed her blows by saying, "What an incredibly rude scoundrel." No mom!! NO!! I hadn't a chance to back away and throw my hands over my head before she hugged me tightly and asked if I was okay... Apparently, she thought I might have been traumatized by Le Pew's advances. No mum! Not his advances. You! It was you that morphed into George Foreman and beat a man to shit! But unlike Foreman, you were so technically sound! [Good teaching, daddy.] Part of me was impressed but I had to put that aside and make room for the amount of shock and awe that I was to endure for the next few minutes. ... All this said, I'm not trying to judge my mom given the circumstances. Had my father been there, the scene would have been much worse... but she is my mother! In all my life, only once had I seen her raise a hand in violence... and it was much to my dismay. We were in the car and I started kicking the glove compartment. She scolded me and against my better judgment, I spat out, "Well daddy's not here to make me do pushups... so there!" She popped me so fast, I saw stars. It was one of those classic backhand busts that many mothers have doled out while dispensing justice from the driver's seat... the back of my head bounced off the seat and for a brief moment, I was disoriented and cross-eyed. That was the first and last time I crossed my mother... Further, I removed "so there" from my vocabulary.

Looking back on this experience, I have learned a few things... 1) My mother can be a fierce woman. 2) Pepe ought to run for the hills. 3) That sample of Turkish Delight ice cream was for the damn birds. Ack!