Spring just sproinged on the Mid Atlantic this week with 85 degree temperatures collapsing into the 50s ushering in wind gusts that knocked Lil’ P. on his precious, diapered butt this morning. Naturally, this weather change arrived right in time for spring break week, just as we embark on yet another Worrell Family Adventure in our camper. My family supplies me with endless funny bullshit inspiration, and I’m sure I’ll have much to write about as the week progresses.
Worrell Family Adventures always provide a plethora of WTFs, head shaking, sighs, and a wheelbarrow full of shits and giggles for all. One particular WFA we had earlier in our marriage before the advent of Lil’ K. and Lil’ P.(my bio kids), involved a small catamaran, Big. T., Big A.(my stepkids), and the two people loosely disguised as parents (Mr. Jenn and me). Mr. Jenn was sailing said catamaran, I was perched on the opposite pontoon, and the Bigs were hanging somewhere in the middle. Mr. Jenn allowed as to how much better he would like it if I cuddled up on his pontoon next to him so we could enjoy A Romantic Moment as our sails held hands with the wind and meandered down the river together. I moved gingerly across the cat, carefully plopping my arse next to him, when the wind saw an opportunity to have a bit of merriment with the Worrell clan. No sooner had I wedged my asscheeks next to his, then a monumental gust of wind took cruel advantage of the added weight of my wobbly butt, grabbed our sails, and flipped us on our starboard side. I heard the mast hit bottom then splash back to the surface as I launched over and past Mr. Jenn. He cursed loudly as my knee bashed his temple. I found the river floor, tried to stand, but then sank in the bottomless marsh mud. Big. A. had dropped gracefully into the river and was sputtering a little next to me. Mr. Jenn was rubbing the side of his head and looking around frantically. Three of us were accounted for, but where in the world was Big T.? We called his name in a panic until we heard a little voice from above. Backlit from the bright sunlight, Big T. was wrapped around the port pontoon which was several feet above the surface of the water. We tried gently to convince him to drop down. He shook his blond head and wrapped his arms and legs tighter around his post.
“Son,” Mr. Jenn said, trying to inhale some serenity from the river, “we have to turn this boat over. I need you to come on down. NOW.”
Big T. knew the Voice of Lost Patience, so he cautiously unwrapped first one leg, then the other. He hung there for a seemingly infinite amount of time.
Big T., bless his awkward little heart, possessed little insight back then into the physics of his own pre-adolescent body. He tried to pull himself up and over his perch for some unknown reason, but lost his grip. He slid off, legs flailing, and took the lower pontoon right in the ‘nards. He sat strattled, paralyzed in pain, with his mouth wide open in a silent howl.
“Oooooo,” Mr. Jenn winced, crossing his own legs under water. Big A., who had been contemplating tears, began to giggle. Big T. noted her reaction even in his moment of agony, and got all Steve-O from Jackass on us. He grabbed himself and commenced to rocking back and forth with that stupid look men get when they’re trying to make it look like they busted their nuts on purpose to impress some chick. Since Jackass hadn’t yet crashed into our living rooms on its jet-propelled bike and water skis, I assumed that Big T.’s ability to turn his pain and anguish into a comedy routine was either
- Inborn as it seems to be with all males;
- Something he learned by watching his dad rip his knee while trying to ride a skimboard into a tide pool at the beach in front of about fifteen families;
- Something he learned by watching his dad launch out of a inner tube pulled through a large boat wake. My dad was driving the boat at the time;
- Something he learned by watching his dad try to snow ski in the terrain park: Mr. Jenn tried to shred on a rail, but missed and face-planted in the snow;
- Something he learned by hearing his dad tell the story of losing control of a jet ski and winding up in a tree.
By this time, Big A. was howling, and Mr. Jenn was cursing as he attempted to right the boat. He pulled himself up on the upright pontoon and humped it repeatedly until the boat fell back down into the water. The mast popped back up, erect as ever, and all was right with the world.
That particular WFA ended happily, with Mr. Jenn and I hoisting the kids back on the boat and swimming the thing back to shore. Now that Big T. and Big A. are off at college having their own exploits, no doubt, Mr. Jenn and I are creating more opportunities for mayhem and insanity merriment and fun with the Little Worrells. Stay tuned while Lil’ K. and I quietly observe the indoctrination of Lil’ P. into the world of male nut-busting and bullshit social mores and customs during this latest upcoming Worrell Family Adventure. Have a literary day—wear your cup!