This is Zoe’s dad. His name is Dave.
He races motorcycles, which is my euphemism for Death Wish.
He didn’t race motorcycles when we were married.
Because apparently back then, I was his euphemism for Death Wish.
But that’s all in the past and I can barely recall it in excruciatingly vivid detail and now, Dave races motorcycles up in Canada in the summer.
Zoe goes with him because she adores her dad and she likes it when Canadians call her Zed-O-E, which is her name spelled in French.
And apparently after the races, there’s something called Zed’s Pit Row Chicken & Ribs which entails Zed-O-E and Dave and a smoker and enough food to feed a small province.
It has a nice sound to it, don’t you think?
Back here at home, I just call her plain old Zoe, but sometimes, when she has succeeded in pushing every single one of my buttons, it comes out sounding more like HEY, YOU THERE, YEAH, I’M TALKING TO YOU, LITTLE MISS BUTTHEAD.
Sometimes Helena calls her Snotty Little Hippy Hillbilly, but only when Zoe calls her a Little Box Eating Hobo.
It’s weird here.
No wonder Zoe likes going to Canada so much.
Zoe works the pit crew for her dad. Yes, the same daughter who views helping around our house as a form of indentured servitude, the one who goes into anaphylaxic shock when she gets near dishwater or dust, the one who has taken a constitutional stand against closets and the hangers that go in them, helps out in the pit without coercion. She’s in charge of placing the bike properly on its stand and putting warmers on the tires or taking them off, as the case may be.
They way I hear tell it, she actually cleans things and puts them back where they belong.
Are you still there? I can barely see you for the waves of irony washing over me right now.
Why she can’t manage to keep a simple pair of earrings together so that both pieces can enjoy a ride through the rinse and spin cycle of our washing machine at the same time is beyond me.
Maybe if I paved our upstairs and installed bleachers and decked myself out in motocross gear and rode a Kawasaki up and down our banister, Zoe would get inspired to clean up the clothes that are currently growing roots on her bedroom floor?
Dave says that he needs to improve his form. Apparently, he’s supposed to lean even further and drag his elbow, not his knee.
I’d rather drag my elbows too. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so freakishly pointy. But in all honestly, I’d probably be dragging my face. And leaving my epidermis and dermis and subcutaneous fat all over the track. Not to mention my innards and self-respect
Good thing I don’t race motorcycles.
I just want to know why he doesn’t fall over?
I’d ask Nate but then he’d be all centrifugal force this and centrifugal force that and then I’d have to get out my flow charts and subtitles and brush up on my Nate-Speak and I just don’t have the energy to holler OH MY GOD, MAKE IT STOP, SHAKE A JAR OF PENNIES AT IT all night.
I’m just going to say that he doesn’t fall over because.
Sometimes, all you need is a because. This is something I have to constantly drill into Helena’s head, especially when she asks me why she’s not allowed to date until she’s 37.
I’m so glad Nate doesn’t race motorcycles, in Canada or anywhere else.
However, he does race his Durango on his way to work. Or to dinner. Or to Lowes. Or to anywhere that isn’t here. I’d lean over and ask Mr. Jeff Gordon Wannabe what in the name of God he thinks he’s doing, but the G-force prevents me from breathing, let alone complaining.
I live in fear that one day, my subcutaneous fat is going to be all over I490.
I’d miss my subcutaneous fat.
I like saying subcutaneous.
Sub – cuuuuuuuuuuuuuu – TAYYYYY – nee – us.
It’s a happy word for something gross, don’t you think? Kind of like colonic.
I’d say that I when married Nate, I married my very own Death Wish, but seeing as how I’m already swimming in irony, I see no reason to actually drown in it.
If you asked Dave, he wouldn’t call it irony. He’d call it poetic justice.
So we just aren’t going to ask Dave.
Zoe told me recently that someday, she would like to ride a motorcycle just like her dad.
It it were anyone else whose belly button I’m not directly responsible for, I’d say Hey, it’s your life, go for it.
But because it is Zoe and I am solely responsible for that innie, I saved my breath and simply had a stroke.
Zoe can break a bone merely by waking up. She has trouble enough keeping her skeleton intact when riding a simple bike that is powered by her own two feet. Mix torque and turbo and horsepower into the equation and I’m going to have to add “pick out a casket” onto my to-do list for her sixteenth birthday party and I’ve already got my hands full figuring out how to bribe the Department of Motor Vehicles to ensure Zoe doesn’t get her license until she’s 40. I simply don’t need the extra hassle.
Thankfully Dave and I see eye to eye on this issue which is a good thing because if I declare NO MOTORCYCLES EVER, it’s as if I’m speaking Braille but if Dave says it, it’s pretty much because he’s a messenger of God.
Now I just have to make sure that God tells Dave that even the slightest taste of drugs, sex or alcohol can cause your boobs to swell to twice their size and migrate to your back. Permanently.