An Overseas Tease

Boyleing Points
Typography

If you like early bird specials and Happy Hours, sometimes you miss history being made.  (Which is a good thing generally because you don’t want to be the one making history after Happy Hour).

I missed history the last couple of weeks.  I stayed with the Cubs and Indians until a few minutes before midnight (I don’t know how I lasted that long!) but I couldn’t stay awake for the Cubs’ dramatic history-making win.  I woke up to a text from my eldest son, not the one in Ireland. He said:  Wow.  Some game!  I still didn’t know who won until I turned on the TV.

As for that presidential thing I crashed long before midnight and didn’t know who was President until I checked my email from Ireland Wednesday morning.  The son who is studying abroad and who will remain nameless wrote:  I guess I’m staying.

He’s got to rely on old-fashioned email these days because his phone went missing so he can’t wake me in the middle of the night with a text.  I check my email first thing in the morning instead.  I read it again: I guess I’m staying.

That tells me who won the election.

At first I thought he was depressed that Donald Trump had won and was just gonna stay on the ancestral grounds. Turns out he was working another angle. He knew I didn’t like Trump since before Marla Maples.  And Trump’s gracious campaigning wouldn’t change that. And he knew last week’s Boyleing Points about the Pope and Trump was going to be hated by 74 percent of the people in Rockaway. 

The polling numbers say Rockaway is the Staten Island of Queens.  But we’re no Borough Park.

Quick aside, somebody said I should be ashamed about what I wrote about the Pope. Huh?  Trump calls him a disgrace and I should be ashamed?  Sheesh, have someone explain it to you. I was paying the Pope a compliment.  Love the Pope.  The other guy, not so much). 

Pretty soon, I guess the paper won’t be free any longer – I’ll have to pay people to read it.  I don’t like de Blasio and I didn’t vote for Meeks, ok? 

Anyway, my son figured I’d be kicked out of Rockaway and moving to Ireland.  There is an upside, he said as a tease.

I couldn’t imagine one.  Yeah?

You promised when I was 9 if we moved to Ireland I could get a dog.  I’ll be holding you to that.

I protested:  I said New Zealand!

He shot back:  You said Ireland qualified, too. And I made you sign an agreement!

I was still in that post-election fog because the first thing I thought, that’s the worst agreement since NAFTA and I’m gonna have to renegotiate.

But he wasn’t done.  It’s sunny here today. 

He was killing me.  And you know the Guinness is so much better over here.

Now he’s got me thinking.  Or tinking, as they say.  Rainbows, country lanes, such nice people. Maybe start a newspaper over there.  I start googling Aer Lingus and one-way tickets.

But then he goes too far.  He wants two dogs.  I was thinking a Huskie and a bulldog.

The rainbows vanish.  The sun goes dark.  I see rain and steady drizzle.  I feel my arthur-ritis and me aching knees.  And I see myself on that country lane, alone, cold and miserable, walking the dogs because no one else will.

I know how that works.  I’m staying. 

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