Cocaine Cat

Blogging topics are thin this spring. We’ve just come off of soccer season: six games during the week, plus weekend scrimmages and more games games games. As much as I like watching the boys play, nobody wants me to blog about my kid’s throw-ins or through-ball kicks. The sideline talk—now that’s something worth asking about. On the sidelines is where I find out which AP exams V should have been studying for (all of them!), what style of swimsuit is in this year (G-strings!!), and best opening lines for reviewing the birds and bees with our high schoolers (also G-strings?!).

On the sidelines of one game, I learned of my friend’s dream of inventing the pizza burger: two slices of pizza with a hamburger patty inside. Now I’m planning a Pizza Burger Party where I’ll make a bunch of prototypes, even though Kevin says the Italians already invented it, it’s called the calzone.

Then there was the game when my parents set up their chairs next to us, and Dad turned to Kevin and said, “Do you know what cocaine looks like?” I was a little offended he started with Kevin and not me. We both watched Cocaine Bear. But it didn’t matter since neither of us knew the answer and anyway the bigger question was, “Why are you asking?” Dad said his neighbor’s house is going to be demolished so he got permission to go in and take whatever he wanted. Among his finds was a cat statue.

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Back home, he turned it over to notice it had an opening on the bottom. He pried it open and pulled out a big bag of white powder. We spent the rest of the soccer game looking up “how to tell if it’s cocaine” and suggesting my dad either smell it or rub a little on his gums to find out (it should taste like gasoline). Dad wasn’t sure what to do with it. Take it to the police? Sell it? Wrap it up for our white elephant gift exchange? We left that game with a lot of questions, to say the least.

To our great joy, Dad brought the cat to the next game, sans bag of white powder. My MIL glanced over at it. “What are you doing with a cat urn?” After a brief moment of realization, we laughed so hard we cried, then spent the rest of the game periodically bursting into giggles.

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Somehow Dad hadn’t noticed the writing when he pulled out the cat cocaine. The devil’s in the details. RIP, Kit Kat.

This year the sideline talk has been worth all the days we spent standing in the rain, eating dinner out of mason jars while asking the person next to us to explain what off-sides means again. We deserved this. No; we didn’t deserve it. We urned it.

3 thoughts on “Cocaine Cat

  1. I have been reading you for years, and laughed at every post. But this one? Priceless, thanks!

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