Frick and Frack came to America in 1937 as comedic ice skaters. I am unaware of comedic ice skating as an art form but have heard my whole life of Frick and Frack referencing a pair participating in hijinks of sorts. On Friday night, my Frick joined with Middle Chicken’s Frack as we found ourselves locked out of our little rental house at 3 a.m. Not a typo, 3 a.m.
The evening begins innocently. Happy hour with favorite pals happens frequently enough. It is our habit to meet on a good number of Fridays after work, imbibe a bit and nosh snacks. This week, a particular doll wants to host in her home instead of meeting at a watering hole. Middle Chicken came home from law school last week. Anxious to show her off, I implore her to join the old ladies for imbibation. She’s known them since she was a wee one. I question whether any twenty-three-year-old really wants to party with her mom’s pals. Evidently more than we know girls, more than we know. And when a Frick and Frack opportunity presents itself, who are we to pass?
There are interesting additions to this soiree including a new girl with a banging body. Truly, the chick is my age and she has a rocking body. An unnamed girlfriend later says, “You are delusional. She was tits on a stick.” Nonetheless, I think she is lovely. And strange. I say to her, “You look so cute. How do you stay in such great shape?” She stares at me for an inordinately long time causing me to peer back and forth between Middle Chicken and Sisterella as to what my error may have been. Stranger remains silent. I smile. She says, “I’ll tell you my secret. I eat half a McDonald’s hamburger and then I eat the other half at 2 a.m.”
I stifle myself. No one has a crappier diet than me but even I know not to eat McDonald’s every day and if I am saving half I am still in fact eating a whole McDonald’s hamburger. Score one for basic math. Not my specialty, but this night I am on the high side of average intelligence. At this point, Middle Chicken and I are exchanging the escape eye–you know the one; eyes open wide shifting toward the door. It’s time to go. We gather up Sisterella and decide splashes at the homestead might be a good idea.
Splashes with Sisterella lead to solving world issues and we go there–politics, friendship, death, marriage and the futures of all our chickens. We assure Middle Chicken that a month off at home is not the end of the world and in fact the world will continue to move about on its axis if she is not up to her neck in some project. Besides I’m going to put her to work for Amour as we need to design a new line. Little squee.
Suddenly ’tis two a.m. Sisterella is going to walk home. We will escort her; not because our neighborhood is dangerous but because we have had a bit to drink, fresh air might be good and the three of us feel fairly competent in our ability to fight off javelinas should they cross our path. Javelinas prove no problem as our singing while we skip and prancercize our way to Sisterella’s house frightens the socks off them and they hide from us. We bid adieu to Sisterella.
We resume skipping, dance a little and laugh a lot. Rounding the corner to our little abode the realization that I gave the house key to Baby Chicken creeps into my thoughts. Baby Chicken is overnighting across town. No matter; we will break in. Sometime between this week’s returning home to find various doors open, windows ajar and an abundance of entry points, and tonight, the abode has become Fort Knox. Middle Chicken and I remove screens, attempt to jimmy doors and lift the garage door. We call Oldest Chicken. As we wait for Mr. Grumpy Pant’s arrival, we decide to rest. It is, after all, 3 a.m. and we have been skipping. We lay in the driveway. This is Arizona girlfriend, we do not lay in the grass when it’s warm and dark. Hint–rattlesnakes. On the driveway we can see their approach so driveway it is. I shimmy down as my skirt is short and my heels tall. We lay next to each other and look at the sky.
“It’s so bright,” muses Middle Chicken. Remember she’s the brilliant one. “Did you know…?” I am in for information that will send me right back to the low end of average intelligence. “…that the asteroid QE2 from 1998 came closest to the earth today? It’s three point five million miles away and two miles wide. And the one that created the big bang was only a half a mile wide. It has a moon.” WTF? It gets worse. She adds, “When you wish upon a star that star is dead so therefore your dreams are dead.”
“Really?” say I, ever the mother. At the mention of QE2 my mind wanders to the cruise ship. I envision flowing champagne, formal gowns and the Queen. Middle Chicken continues to babble about asteroids and constellations and their importance. Whose child is this? I follow her instructions as she paints pictures in the sky but must admit what I see in her outline is an a-line skirt with a ruffle and certainly not some guy with a belt pointing at another star and some girl named Cass; as in iopia. The corner of the big dipper also evidently guided the slaves on their journeys. Again, whose child is this?
I hear Oldest Chicken’s car before I see it. I feel his anger and know the tables have turned. For every time The Norwegian and I had to pick him up from unruly behavior, my turn has come. He nearly runs us over as he swerves into the drive. We have wings on our feet as we jump up and he grumbles, “What kind of dumbasses lay down in their own driveway?” These are the lone words he utters as he whips open the car, strides to the front door wearing his sleepy face, unlocks it, gets in his car and heads back to the warmth of his bed. Middle Chicken and I are all, “Thank you, thank you.” We wear serious faces as we do regret dragging the poor boy from his bed at what is now 3:20 a.m. We shut the door and fall on the floor in laughter.
“We are in so much trouble,” Middle Chicken laughs. “Who cares?” say I. The Frick and Frack show, with all it’s dancing, skipping, squealing and laughter has come to an end for tonight. She’ll be home ’til August. Stay tuned.
The Duchess Diaries 