Father’s Day is this coming Sunday. During a foot massage last week, Princess Ai Lin commented that she was attending a Judeo/Christian Tabernacle BBQ on Father’s Day and that the women were cooking recipes from a local Mormon cookbook. I hope someone gives me one of those books because the photography is stunning and the commentary priceless. No, there is no Polygamy Pulled Pork Sandwich recipe but there are about a hundred recipes for popcorn balls, however.
I have not been invited to join the BBQ because Princess Ai Lin likes to “compartmentalize” her friends, as she puts it. The other women with whom she is BBQing form part of her Secret Book Club of Three. This is because so called Secret Shoshanna (Glickman) is from main line Philadelphia and eschews conversations with the likes of women from Detroit and rural America. Secret Shoshanna has, in effect, compartmentalized herself. Which is why I have never met her and am not part of the Secret Book Club of Three. The other member, whom I have met and find delightful, is a working woman and an Old China Hand; she is not in the market for expanding her circle of friends.
In any event, I mind not a whit that I am not invited because I am cooking up my own kind of fun for Mr. Understanding come this Sunday. I am content to live vicariously and which is why you will too, as I propel this paragraph to the main point of my post. Herewith, a sample of our foot massage conversation from last week.
EPP: So are you going to do anything special for Mr. Nuts-n-Bolts for Father’s Day?
PAL: Besides the BBQ? Nope.
EPP: Not even a card?
PAL: The kids will have made him cards at school.
EPP: But nothing else?
EPP: But won’t that hurt his feelings?
EPP: And you don’t care?
For those whose Mother’s Day was underwhelming, proceed apace. Liberate your calendar. Print my post “Prizeworthy” and gluestick it to some colored construction paper and write “Better Luck Next Year.” If you feel generous, find some of those funky scissors and cut some fancy borders. Slip this gem into an envelope and leave it on your beloved’s pillow. Mr. Understanding, however, will be duly honored. He took my advice on Mother’s Day. To the “T”.