I was all set to take it easy yesterday in an attempt to let the sore on my leg heal a bit. I had just hung up a load of laundry when the phone rang. It was Scott. His college roommate, whom he hasn't seen in nearly 20 years, was in town on business and was stopping by for dinner.
My first reaction to the news was excitement for Scott. I have heard "Mick" stories since we met, but I had yet to meet the infamous roommate. I was eager to put a face to the tales.
I started to survey the house before I hung up the phone. The upstairs was clean. Cluttered with Robby's toys and art projects, but relatively clean. I knew it would only take an hour or two to whip it into "company condition."
I knew that the downstairs was going to be a completely different story. I also knew that I was going to have to clean it because I assumed that Scott and Mick would want to play pool. Our downstairs area has become somewhat of a pit, and it was starting to smell.
After putting The Rescuers on television, I grabbed a handful of trash bags and headed into the pit. The dust was so thick it necessitated scrubbing. After three hours and five bulging trash bags, I was finally finished. The downstairs was transformed from a pit into a livable area. I also located all of the pool balls so I was confident that Scott and Mick would be able to play pool.
When the cleaning downstairs was complete, I scurried upstairs and went to work. I did all the prep work for dinner (chicken cordon bleu and red skin mashed potatoes) and cleaned the kitchen. Robby helped put his toys away, and only ended up in time-out twice!
I had just finished cleaning when Scott came home. All of my work and sweat was rewarded with a casual, "Hey, the place looks nice." He failed to observe all of the details, but this is not unusual. No worry, I thought. The place is clean, and he'll be able to entertain his friend downstairs.
As the time approached for Mick to arrive, I found myself growing nervous. Perhaps it was because of the myriad of stories I have heard over the years. Scott keeps in touch with only a few friends, and Mick is among the select group. I have spoken with him on the phone, but face to face is different.
I suppose I worried that I would be an embarrassment to Scott. I began to worry about my limp, which was growing increasingly more prominent. The sore on my leg certainly didn't benefit from a day of rest, and the activity aggravated the situation further. I was starting to hurt. No matter, I put on a happy face and tried to walk as normal as possible.
Mick was very nice. More importantly, Scott had a good time reconnecting with his friend. Robby enjoyed meeting Daddy's friend. For some strange reason, Robby insisted on calling Mick "Uncle Daddy." Despite our efforts to relabel Mick, the name stuck. "Uncle Daddy, come here." was bellowed by our three year old all evening.
I had images of Scott and Mick playing pool, telling stories and reliving their college years. Truth be told, they never made it downstairs. A few stories were told, and plans were made for a more "appropriate" reunion at a bar in the future. (One away from wives and kids.) Time and age has tempered the party animals. I was expecting a late night. Instead, they ate dinner, drank one beer and discussed issues involving acid reflux.