You Can't Apologize For The Kids

*** continued from previous post ***


I drew my lips into thin lines, shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head in the negative. "Naw . . . I'm just futzing with ya. I'm voting for Obama."

While none of the family found it as amusing as Martha, I did at least get a grin from the two men.

Martha leaned over and bumped my shoulder with hers. "They have no sense of humor," she said apologetically. "I have no idea what happened to them. So serious all the time." She looked to her boys as if she expected an answer.

Just then our salads and a basket of piping-hot bread arrived, so the grand topic of conversation was put aside while we praised the salad and bread, and dove into our first course.

Mom leaned over and whispered "Really?"

"Babe," I said quietly, "you have to lighten up a bit. Stop being so nervous and relax. They're not going to kill us for making a joke."

"But really," she said, "you had to go straight to Hitler?"

"It's an old comedic artifice. Welcome to what I like to call the 'Dance of Satirical Intellectuals', or as the French say "Danse de la faiblesse d'esprit". That has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"I don't think that's what that phrase means," Mom said.

"What?"

"'Danse de la faiblesse d'esprit' translates roughly as 'Dance of the feeble-minded'."
What kind of an alien had I married?

"Since when do you speak French?"

Mom just shrugged her shoulders. Another one of her hidden stores of knowledge no doubt. Next thing I know, I'll have a miniature nuclear reactor sitting on the kitchen counter. Actually, that would be kind of cool. As long as we didn't go 'critical'. Then it would be a hoot!

*** the journey continues ***