Christ On A Barstool

The weekend is a blast.

I take a long walk in the State Park I've been visiting since Scott dumped me.  It has lots of trails through the woods and hills and paths along the creek. I have been taking pictures of the same spots throughout it since November when Scott went AWOL and have come to see it a little differently each time I go. It is very therapeutic to be there. I turn my usual five mile trek into seven just to say I did.

I return home and turn my attention to the yard. I am hosting a family reunion in a few short days and my yard looks like the set of Grey Gardens.  I have hedges to trim and lots of mowing to accomplish.  Branches to get rid of and weed whacking to do.  I hate weed whacking.  I may even hate it more than replacing the toilet seat, which is the decades long top dog in that department.

And after I've wasted my arms and sweat off ten pounds, I shower and get fabulous to join Kate and her son at a pub near her house.

Yes, her son. He's 10. And yes, a pub. It's that kind of place.

We walk through the woods near Kate's house with our Boy Scout leading the way and cross the threshold into Oz.  Kate's son finds his soccer coach at the bar and takes a stool next to him without hesitation.  He waves down the bar tender and orders "the usual" which for him is a rootbeer and an order of bacon. (The kid's palate is a little on the skimpy side.) Kate and I commandeer the big, poofy sofas and kick off our shoes. It's that kind of place.

The surly waitress grimaces as she hands us our menus and is even more disgruntled when we order beers before she can scurry away.

It is a Twin Peaks kind of night, with Kate's son playing video games with a boy he knows only from the bar. (Whaaat?) There is a man at the bar that makes sterling conversation with me every time I belly up for the purpose of reading the taps to choose my next beer.  He comments on every one, clearly an expert.  His voice is deep and buttery, and he might even be handsome if it weren't for the ponytail that reaches the waistband of his pants and his hard-to-ignore resemblance to Jesus Christ. 

"I saw you talking to Jesus," Kate says when I return to the sofa with a new IPA.  "He's cute except for that hair. And his legs are skinnier than yours."  This is the wavelength Kate and I tend to tune into together. She reads my mind and I read hers.  She comments that perhaps he'd find me attractive if I were in some kind of shepherd's robe.  All this as she borrows my adapter to plug her iPhone into the bar's Christmas lights for a charge.  We both practically pee in our collective pants when the bartender begins to place candles on the bar and one bearing the likeness of Jesus Himself is placed in front of Imposter Jesus.  We think the bartender must be thinking the same thing. We think we might need to make friends with her.

Our overstuffed pork roast sandwiches are served by Miss McNasty and another round of beers is ordered just to send her sailing over the edge of reason.  The Mavericks come on the jukebox, and Kate's son and his bar friend are running down the street to play basketball. 

All is right with the world.