The Meathead And The Bee

I'm sitting in my hotel room last night after a nice meal at a restaurant I like when I'm in town. The hotel itself is a pit, the carpet and furniture covered with unidentifiable stains, in-room air conditioners that howl like banshees, and rooms overlooking a particularly ugly parking lot.

Topping things off, the internet connection wasn't working. That meant I either had to read or watch TV. Reading gives me a thinkache and all I could find on television were reality shows and advertisements for Bowflex fitness systems. I hate reality and I hate exercise. I decided to to call home instead.

My oldest answers with a grunt. "What do you want?" Caller ID has its drawbacks.

"Just wanted to see what's going on at home," I reply.

"Nothing. I made dinner. It was good. There's not going to be any left for you."

Love you too son, I think, but keep it to myself for fear he'll hang up.

"Anything else new?" I ask.

"I already told you. No."

"Alright," I say. "Can I talk to your brother?"

"Which one?" he asks. "The big moron or the little moron?"

"Either one," I reply.

"The big one's not here. You'll have to talk to the little one."

"That's fine," I answer and he screams for his brother. My youngest gets on the phone.

"What's up, bud?" I ask.

"We had a spelling bee today," he says.

"Who's 'we'?" I ask, perking up at the idea they're spending at least part of the summer in pursuits more intellectually challenging than Xbox and fighting with each other.

"Me and Katie," he says.

I say reflexively, "Katie and I." Then it strikes me he's talking about our black lab. "You were having a spelling contest with a dog?"

"Yeah," he says proudly.

"You won, right?" I ask. Sadly, this isn't a foregone conclusion.

"We both did. We tied."

"You mean you're not better than our dog at spelling?"

"She's a smart dog." Not really, but that's beside the point.

"How come you can't beat a dog in a spelling contest?" I repeat.

"My brothers were the judges," he says.

That explains a lot. "Do I even want to know what words you were spelling?" I ask.

Pause. "Probably not," he says.

"Is your mother there?" I ask.

"Nope," he answers. "She's gone."

I don't blame her. I just hope she's back by the time I get home.