After several invites for supper over to the palatial abode of Mr. and Mrs. Homely Escapeons in the past several months, I finally accepted Sunday out of fear of death...or worse.
I go every once in a while at Mrs. Escapeons' insistence, if only to get a chance to hug her closely and to get a kiss, and to be jumped on by resident off-spring Ridley, a holy terror.
And to laugh and joke, of course, with the father and den mother of the household, Homely Escapeons himself, who I see every week or every other week at my place.
Mrs. Escapeons, looking resplendent on a cool but otherwise fine spring day and with recently transformed red hair (she's hot whatever colour, but forget I said that), accepted my hug.
And then she gave me hell for not being at their place since January 1.
She was later proven wrong, because I WAS at their place for a get-together with fellow bloggers Brian the Mennonite, Joyce of the Chronicles of Blunderview and Rey in February.
Still, I had not visited nearly as soon or as often as I should have. I must have been full of gas or something.
And that is a suitable segue into what occurred there over at least part of my several hours there on Sunday.
Mr. and Mrs. Homely Escapeons have a lovely young son, Ridley, who I am very proud to say calls me Uncle Chris.
He is the apple of Mrs. Escapeons' eye, and he and I kid all the time. I would be tempted to say he spits in Mr. Escapeons' eye, but that would be a falsehood.
He's a beautiful child and Mr. Escapeons is a fantastic father, as much as Mrs. Escapeons is every child's dream as a mother.
This is THE poster for a beautiful family, sincerely. Two unbelievable parents nurturing a strong young boy, and three other lovely kids in the picture.
You can only imagine.
But back to Sunday.
When it comes to kids and kidding and young boys and old boys who can't get over it and love that they refuse to grow up, what could be more fun than this?
Note Ridley putting some character hero, found in the garden after a long winter, being the first of several inanimate objects to test out the new toy.
First, I need to say that it was Mrs. Escapeons, not Mr., who broke down and bought this product for Ridley at the local store after scores of shoppers laughed as he laughed playing with it.
(Allie Baby, this one's on you)
OK, that revelation is out there.
Having said that, I had to focus on this because Mr. Escapeons did not want me to report that he spent the entire day drilling millions of holes in his deck to relieve the moisture within.
Anyway, the grape salad, the cheeseburgers, the barbecued farmer's sausage -- they were all fantastic.
Of course the Escapeons' only had Coke, instead of Pepsi, for my rye, but I can take it.
Still, here's a glimpse at parts of the rest of the afternoon...and if you've never had fun with a Whoopee Cushion, then a pox on you and go out and buy one and inject some fun into your life.
Ridley, like any normal young boy who has heard his own fart and laughed hysterically, poses for a picture of him having the power of all powers: the ability to make a similar sound on his own!
Homo Escapeons, who is not nearly as much a fan of bodily function sounds as Ridley or I are, but with his stupid eye protection glasses still on from drilling millions of unnecessary holes in his deck that he refused to let me blog about, plays along...kind of.
Almost, that is, as Ridley forces him to sit on the cushion. Ridley and I laugh. HE ponders his wasted day and sore back, or something.
However, I thought it was a little unfair when Ally Baby brought out some chips, a gigantic rye and COKE, grabbed my point-and-shoot camera and photographed me with my mouth full of chips.
Then, being the best buds for life that we are, soul brothers and saviours of the world and all that, me and Mr. Escapeons exchanged our lifelong show of respect for each other before supper.