2010 Christmas Letter

The end is near

2010 is coming to a close with a disturbing turn of events at The Kingman. The kids can pretty much swap clothes with Ann Marie and I now. Nina regularly raids her mom’s closet and Ann Marie doesn’t hesitate to grab Nina’s hoodies when I refuse to turn on the furnace.  Likewise, Peter will head off to basketball wearing my gym shorts and fleece pullover. I can never wear those clothes again because he sweats a lot and it would not be right for me ever to wear them again. Still, I take a smug pride in being the only one around here that stomps around in size 15 boots (although this, too, is just a matter of time; Nina is only in 8th grade).

Beckerhead

I took a book along, just for times like this, and found a empty couch in the TV lounge near the cafeteria. Empty and quiet, there must have been 25 similar couches scattered around the room. Some had burnt orange cushions, others powder blue. It was going to be a long day at the nearby community college during the First Lego League regional qualifying event. As a quasi-chaperone I had no real responsibility or usefulness. I took a seat reclined and dipped into my novel. Within seconds some guy comes in, I don’t look up, but I can hear him talking to himself, like he is deciding where to sit and wants me to acknowledge him. I don’t. Sure enough he sits on the other side of my couch. My Couch. I could smell him.
“Reading a book, huh?” he says. Clearly this guy has powers of observation beyond that of us mere mortals. I look up, not to smile, but rather to just to look pissed and mean. Ann Marie says I have a gift.“Great idea,” more from him now. “Yeah, I just love to read, been readin’ my whole life. Whatcha readin’ there?”

Another mean look. This time I try to muster a true evil glare and turn my pissed off vibe up to eleven. But when I look up, he is bent over the front of the couch with his face next to my knee attempting to get a peek at the cover of my book.
“Oh, Hemingways. I love that guy.” He then produces a Glen Beck book from kids backpack and smiles at the cover.

“Lemme tell ya,” he says. “This fella… this Glen Beck. Whoa!” Then he goes on to evangelize about how Glen Beck is the single true voice of the nation and how he reads all his books and even drove all the way to Washington DC just to hear the dipshit give a speech. I never looked at him once, never stopped pretending to read Hemingways. Finally he shuts up about Glen Beck, talks to himself about the weather for a while then says, “Nice talking to ya!” and leaves the room.