When my wife is pregnant, she craves Chinese food. This is a little bit of an annoyance to me, as I could care less for the stuff. Never filling as say a good piece of juicy steak. That and I just know that they are sneaking octopus parts in my chow mien. Communists hate me and spend most of their day attempting to thwart the greatness that is the Hossman Family. But the wife wants it and when she is pregnant, I don’t have much choice.
I decided in the first pregnancy to do whatever the hell was requested of me without complaint. She’s the mother of my child, growing another minion for my plans, another bass player to my band. So whatever she asks, she gets. Of course, I’m pretty sure that she took advantage of this on many occasions. Feet rubs, back rubs were ok. But I began to question her when she said that I should get the oil changed on her car because it would help her pregnancy. I’m not sure how exactly and I’m not sure why she couldn’t spend 30 minutes sitting, but hey, what you going to do?
So tonight I’m with the little spud on the way to the Panda. I’m looking for convience in a Chinese restaurant and the Panda has a drive through. I live by the drive through. I’m a terrible cook and have had many disasters. I like riding with the kiddo in the car, it lets her know who is in control. Which of course is her. She gets chauffeured around, seeing many great sites, I the mindless driver. If she had a middle glass divider she would surely put it up while reminding me that I’m not being paid to talk but drive.
I bring my Ipod along for these trips so that we can have some sing along time. She loves this and I love my daughter, so there you go. I keep hoping that she will find a sweet spot in her heart for a little Metalica or possibly, if heaven allows, Rob Zombie. At this moment, it’s not to her tastes. She does like a little Aerosmith on occasion which has been my savior. Her “singing” is a more melodonic form of yelling at me. She can’t carry a tune yet, but the volume is good and high. Think drowning dolphin and that is what she sounds like. She laughs when I join her and when we are stopped I grab a foot and we do a little dance. On occasion, I have been known to do a little dance in the front seat for her which she very much digs.
At the drivethru for the Panda we are currently listening to the Lonely Goatherd from the Sound of Music soundtrack. I actually like this song, please read the Mary Poppins post. I can’t yodel for crap, but my daughter has got it down pat, minus the actual yodel part. She gives it a good shot though. She seems to be more partial to Johnny Cash but will take Julie Andrews on occasion.
We pull up to the menu and are waiting. “Orange chicken, orange chicken” I keep repeating to my self. I have actually messed this up in the past when my mother in law and my pregnant wife waiting on food. Please interpret that as “beatdown” and you get the picture. We are waiting for the person in front to go ahead and make an order although as we have been line for a good ten minutes you would think he would know what the hell he wants, for the love of Christ. That’s a different blog though. In the meantime, it’s dancing time with my daughter.
We proceed to crank up the Lonely Goatherd and get into it. She’s laughing so I grab her feet and we start doing a Christina Aguilera kind of thing. More joy comes. I’m singing along in full hossman volume American Idol audition. I’m getting into it. There then enters some shoulder shaking and hip thrusting on my part, the car is a rocking. Eyes closed, radio loud, yup, we are having some good times. My daughter starts to bounce in her seat, she’s getting into it. She joins with her dolphin cry and we have got a concert going ladies and gentlemen.
It’s at that moment that I look up and see the Hispanic/Chinese guy at the drivethru looking at me and laughing his balls off. I look at the menu again and realize that it’s not only the menu, but also the squawk box for placing your order. I have just given a resounding rendition of the Lonely Goatherd to Mr. Hispanic/Chinese can I take your order guy. He apparently has loved it, because he is beginning to double over. The words “Their duet becomes a trio” lodges in my throat but my daughter keeps on a rocking. This was the final desolation of my manhood and coolness. It’s gone. It’s been on the way out for years but I thought I had at least a little bit left. I might as well go ahead and buy my expanding waste sweatpants and black socks now, it’s all over.
So I panic. I hear, in a very shaky voice. “Can I take your order?”
“Yes, I need a double order of sweat and sour chicken.” I had a panic attack and my mind went blank. I’m a knob and I know it.
It wasn’t a total loss though. When I went back 15 minutes later I decided to leave the kid at home with mom and played some very loud Zombie. Time to redeem myself.