Saturday Afternoon

As I sit here on this sunny, yet cold, Saturday afternoon, with Supertramp playing in the background, I'm easily reminded of, and wishing for, a Saturday afternoon from my childhood. A time when a T-shirt was worn in comfort, regardless of the cool temperatures. A Mountain Dew was guzzled from a wet glass bottle. Slim Jims, snickers and those powdered suckers sold in the large plastic jug by the cash register were consumed without thought or hesitation. Time was taken to smell the weeds; warmed under an autumn sun. Dirt roads or better yet, sandy two tracks were driven frequently. The radio knob was often turned in search of another good song. The Eagles, Steve Miller Band, E.L.O., Three Dog Night, Heart…Disco Duck.

My mother opted out of her normal cooking routine once the weekend rolled around. Which, oddly enough, served to create a new routine: Saturday night Chef Boyardee Pizzas baked in a rectangular cookie sheet.  To this day I’m still not a fan of pizza. I’m the only one of my kind, it seems. While my family busied themselves with pizza, I dined on fish sticks. I always did have a more sophisticated palate than the rest of my family. An example of my early eccentric ways would be: when my mom would pop for Kentucky Fried Chicken, I begged, and often succeeded at getting the Kentucky Fried Chicken fish dinner instead.  Yes - at one time they offered a fish dinner (no one knows why). Back to my Saturday night ritual...fish stick night was a big event, for this wild and crazy pre-teen. I carefully lined each stick onto the pan, and while they baked, I meticulously made the tartar sauce from the packet that came inside the box that proudly boasted a fisherman. The tartar sauce mix required a good hour to sit in the fridge. I’m assuming - to let the delightful flavors comingle. Unfortunately, the fish sticks only required a half hour in the oven.  I never did get the timing right. I attribute the odd taste of the tartar sauce, to this time management oversight, on my part.

With a plate, heaped with fish sticks, I descended the stairs to my bedroom; located in our finished basement. There I sat, cross legged, with my Siamese cat, devouring fish sticks (2:1 Me:Cat), while watching the Love Boat. Then, as if allowed a glimpse into the secret world of grown-ups, I would watch Fantasy Island. Something about the show seemed a bit risque for my young eyes and mind. Ten times out of ten, I watched it anyway. I liked how in the end, just like during Love Boat, everything turned out okay. It filled me with the belief that life was intended to work out. To this day, fundamentally, I still feel the same.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night to the snowy TV screen. With precision movements, I would slide out from under the covers (and my Siamese cat, who, like a gargoyle, sat on top of me throughout the entire night), and turn the TV off. Once the knob made its familiar clunk into the off position, the soft sound of static cracking and popping said goodnight to me as I made my way back to bed.

Occasionally on the weekends, my dad would take my brother and me out to some remote location, found only by traveling a sandy two track. Once there, they would target practice, while I enjoyed sitting in the sunshine, channeling my inner lizard. The soundtrack for my life back then, is often, the same soundtrack I rely upon today. When the day comes, and I finally do accept a partner into my life again - they better be ready. Regardless of any wealth that may or may not come my way, any fancy clothes that may or may not be in my closet - if given the chance - I will have us spending our lazy weekend afternoons, perched on the hood of an old car, wearing t-shirts and ripped jeans, with cold Mountain Dews in hand and Baker Street playing in the background. No cologne or expensive perfume, only the smell of earth baking in the sunshine, and the aroma given off by leaves turning slowly from green to brown.

Sane