The first time I went to the beach with the family, the mom told me, "Grab your togs, jandals, and if you could grab the pram too, that'd be great." She was speaking Arabic. I stood there as confused as if I had just seen a cat strutting the street dressed as a hooker. The mom sensed my perplexity and interpreted togs, jandals, and pram into my language: bathingsuit, sandals, and stroller. I selected New Zealand because I thought they spoke my vernacular.
Tonight, as I sipped Chardonnay and washed the volcano of dishes from our standard eight-person meal, the dad bomb-barreled into the kitchen. He ransacked the desk and beat the pen holders.
"Kara, I need a rubber," he divulged, eyes frenzied and rabid.
Wine fired from my mouth.
"Um. Seeing as you have five kids... ya, I'd say you need at least one," I replied.
He raged through paper, scotch tape, and pencils.
"Do you have one? I can't find a rubber anywhere."
"No... sorry. I don't happen to have one on me," I said, a clown smile glossing my face.
The clock told me it was eight at night.
"Here we go," he rejoiced and discharged from the kitchen.
Five minutes later, I entered the dining room to see if I could assist with the seven-year-old's homework. The nine-year-old's math homework decomposes my sanity and frontal lobe. So, I help the five and seven-year-olds.
"I got a rubber," the dad said and erected an eraser. He was aiding the nine-year-old with his math.
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