Thursdays are generally chaotic for us, so when we were asked to join a co-ed sand volleyball league on Thursday evenings, we gladly accepted. In our minds, it would be a fun way to let loose after a tumultuous day at work. My husband closes his business at 6:00 pm and our first game starts at 6:45 pm, not leaving us much time to get home, change clothes, grab dinner, get the baby ready, and head out the door. It’s always pandemonium.
Wednesday evening, my husband went for a skate sesh with his buddy Reagan. Several hours later when he limped through the door, his ankle looked like it swallowed a soft ball. Apparently the skate wheels weren’t the only thing that rolled that night.
His contribution to the game would be in question.
We left Black Dog Pet Spa at precisely 6 o’clock and went straight home. We were ecstatic to find that my daughter Dallas had made dinner for everyone! One less thing to worry about. After a mad rush of clothes changing, diaper changing, and face stuffing, we scrambled to the car and left for Landa Park. Upon arrival, I swiftly kicked off my flip-flops, cracked open a cold one, and sunk my toes in the sand. It was glorious. I’m not going to bore you with the details, but let’s just that by the time we finished our last game Jose’s ankle looked like it belonged to the Elephant Man and my right arm was burning from my shoulder down to my elbow nearly necessitating a sling. That being said, our team “The Sand Eaters” crushed it. We packed up our things and left the park triumphant.
In the car, my husband had the familiar gleam in his eye and I instinctively knew what was coming. With a presumptuous side grin, he voiced the desire to go have a few celebratory Lone Stars at our favorite watering hole – The Phoenix Saloon. Thursday Night Football was on the big screen and karaoke was happening on the small stage. He wasn’t ready to let go of the high we had from winning. We hobbled in the house appearing more wrecked than the bench players on my Fantasy Football team. (I’m looking at you Ertz, Rawls, Langford, and Walker.) I sheepishly asked Dally if she would mind watching Olive for a couple of hours and without hesitation, she said yes. Jose was ready to skedaddle, no time for a shower, so I said F-You to the Fashion Police, threw on my staple white sundress after Labor Day, and brushed sand from parts of my body that you should never have sand in.
Jose’s ankle injury seemed to have magically healed itself as I’m almost certain he skipped through the doors of The Phoenix. Our favorite bartender Mario greeted us with handshakes and Tall Boys. We felt good. A couple of friends walked in and joined us at the bar. While Jose was on stage singing “Never Tear Us Apart,” (making me weak in the knees) our friend emerged from the ladies room looking crestfallen. She immediately relayed to me that she overheard a gaggle of girls saying nasty, horrible, racist things about us while powdering their noses. Jesus Christ on a cracker!
(In my best southern drawl) Well, bless their pea-pickin’ little hearts. I might be able to turn the other cheek, but if Jose caught wind of this he might could cancel their birth certificates. No sooner did he get off stage than he saw the hurt in my eyes and asked what had happened. Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie so I spilled the beans. He surveilled the crowd, looking for the snakes in the grass. There were a ton of females there, many of whom appeared to have just left some sort of women’s only tacky prom dress party (but I ain’t judgin’, I swear it!) so it was difficult to identify the culprits.
In true Jose and Liz fashion, we retaliated in the most mature way we could think of – by getting on stage and delivering the most epic and Castelanish rendition of “You’re The One That I Want” (I was Sandy) ever sang in a karaoke bar. Or maybe not. Either way, we refused to let the lint lickers get the best of us and in doing so, we had a very sandy, very splendid evening.
Like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.