Late Night "Booty Calls..."

Way back in 1983 (when I think I went on my second to last date) a "booty call" referred to a late night call from a significant or not so significant other for sex.

Well last Monday night at around 11:30 I got a booty call and let's just say that they weren't what they used to be.

When you become the parent of a teenager with fast growing feet a"booty call" becomes imbued with a whole new meaning.

The Road Runner , "Oh good you're awake."

Me: "Awake is relative state, what do you want?"

The Road Runner: "Your kid skis right?"

Me: "Well kind of." (Let's just say he has spent time on skis and on skill hills but that while on them he becomes a danger to himself and others...a big danger...)

The Road Runner: "He has ski boots right?"

Me: "Ah ha."

The Road Runner: "What size."

Me: "A 12, I think he's in a 14 now...he has paddles for feet." (Accidentally hang Up)

Cellphone rings again.

The Road Runner: "Can I borrow them?'

Me still not quite cogent: "Okay."

The Road Runner: "Can I borrow the skis too? Your boots may not work with our bindings."

Me (mumbling): "Whatever, we can arrange an exchange in the morning."

(I silently curse the day we became friends.)

The Road Runner (as if he were speaking to his 15 year old): "No I need them for tomorrow first thing!"

(Apparently it's his school's annual ski day.)

Me: "Okay I'll leave them on the porch"

The Road Runner: "I don't think I can get down there, my car's stuck in a snow bank, can't you bring them up."

(He lives uptown and doesn't think it's a good idea for a Black man to go down town to my neighourhood at night--I get the overpolicing of racialized men, but really, the guy drives a Buick...no how many men, black or not get pulled over driving while Buicked?)

Me: "So how do you propose to get them?"

The Road Runner: "Well I thought because you had a Volvo...you could...you know..."

Sound of me hanging up the phone...

Sometime between 12:30 and 1:30 there is a bang at my door; it gets louder and louder and louder.

I answer the door.

The Road Runner is standing there, snowy but unapologetic: "I'm here for the boots."

I stomp downstairs find two pairs of ski boots (hoping they are the wrong size), stomp back upstairs thrust them in his general direction. He makes soothing noises, "Poor sleep baby...."

I threaten to throw him out if he doesn't leave. Given that at 6"5 he's a foot taller than I am he takes no notice. Instead he says, looking at my faded flannel sheep printed pajamas and once fluffy but now grungy lamb slippers, "No wonder you're not getting any, those PJs are scruffy and scary, why don't you get yourself a sexy negligee or something."

I give him the look of death. He exits my foyer at top speed.

30 seconds later. More banging.

The Road Runner: "You wouldn't have a couple of pairs of hand-knitted socks to go with these would you?"

I get very, very angry.

Fortunately for me the neighbours never called the police and sistah knitster Karen-the-Criminal Lawyer lives a block away!