Welcome To The Island

Kitchen Table as Multipurpose Landing Pad

Pardon me, the SJG's gonna get a wee bit nostalgic.  As a family, we used to eat dinner at the kitchen table.  Gosh, that was nice.  Just four people sitting down at the same time for a nosh.  I miss those days, I really do.  Now we eat every meal at the island.  When a counter became a body of water, I can't tell you, exactly. Some time in the 80s, perhaps.  I admit, I haven't done my research, but I can tell you this.  Growing up in a humble town called Westwood, not once did I hear my mom say, "Hey, gang, let's eat at the island."  For me, islands conjure images of drinks with umbrellas, brought by cute waiters, and ocean breezes.  Paradise.  Not four people jammed around a common area, jostling for space, attempting to eat together.  But this, my friends, this is my reality.  Don't cry for me, blogosphere.   Now that the college bear has returned from his hard year in Santa Cruz, watching a lot of sports on TV  -- I kid, I'm sure he studied!  He did study, didn't he?  Hang on, I'll ask him.  Hey, Scotty, did you study in Santa Cruz?  Why am I asking?  I'm your mother.  It's my job to annoy you --  oops, I'm lost again on my private island of confusion.  Where was I?  Wait, it's coming to me.  Now that the college boy has returned, there are nights, like last night, when the four of us share a meal, before the eldest journeys back to his apartment down the street.  (We like to keep our people close by, as much as possible.)   And those meals are eaten, not at the table designated for eating, but here, at the tropical island where only two people get to sit, while two people -- Mom and Dad -- must fend for themselves.

The Island of Two Bar Stools

Hubby doesn't have a problem standing.  He always says, "I sit all day."  That leaves me.  I hover over the island enough as it is.  Breakfast and lunch, I float around the island, guarding my food, making sure Dusty doesn't jump up and steal it.  At dinner, call me a princess -- you'd be the first -- I want to sit.  I've just spent the last half hour cooking.  I deserve a break.  But seating on the island is rather limited, not to mention, highly competitive.  My loving sons always get there first.  Thanks for nothing, boys.  So I wind up bringing over a kitchen chair, and when I sit my tush down, I greet the counter at chin level.  This arrangement is beneath me, and yet, I endure.  Occasionally, hubby commands one of those people I personally birthed, after many long and agonizing hours, to, "Give Mom a @#%^'n bar stool!"  But that only happens when I start to seriously whine.  Like last night, and the night before.  I am the SJG.  I like to get my way, even if a son of mine gets booted off the island.  Sorry, dude.  The tribe has spoken.