“For cheesesteaks? I mean for christening? Yes, yes, we should definitely do that.” I tried once more for the lip gloss when the doorbell rang. “Great, someone’s early. Go ahead and grab some colored pencils out of my bag.”
“For what?”
“Scattergories.”
“Right!” he exclaimed, then disappeared through the bedroom.
Alone for the moment, I finally applied my lip gloss and allowed myself a thought or two about Megan and Trevor. Two kids, in as many years. Before getting married, Megan had been on the fast track at the Food Network, working in what was in many ways a dream job. But her dream was a family, and she made that happen. And now she was on the baby fast track. Instead of styling artisanal cheese boards and making cream puffs puffier, she was wiping spittle and stepping on baby rattles.
I had a sudden flash image of Simon stepping on a baby rattle that Clive had stolen for his own toy and then left in his path, and I chuckled. Babies babies everywhere, and not a vodka to drink. I finished my lip gloss, twisting the cap shut with a click, and took a deep breath. I chased away rattle thoughts and indulged in a cheesesteak fantasy moment, interrupted by Simon calling out, “Idiots are here!”
Hmmm, that could be anyone—we knew a lot of idiots. Time to go kick some idiot ass in Scattergories . . .
As usual, game night ended in bloodshed. The girls went down, and went down hard. I know exactly how that sounds. But it’s true. We sucked a big fat Scattergories dick. And Pictionary dick. And Apples to Apples could very well have been renamed Dicks to Dicks. In the end, the boys won big. But once everyone was gone, and my skirt was up around my ears as Simon took his victory lap . . . ahem . . . all was right with the world.
Chapter four
The following broadcast was originally aired on local San Francisco NBC affiliate KNTV . . .
“Hey there, it’s Neil coming to you live from Levi’s Stadium, where the 49ers are taking on the Seattle Seahawks, their toughest rivals in the NFC West. We’ll be with you play-by-play as these two powerhouse teams hash it out on the gridiron. But before the teams take to the field, there’s another rivalry playing out, one equally as fiercely competitive as anything inside the stadium. I’m talking, of course, about tailgating. Wieners or bratwurst? Hots or brats? We’re going to let these fans put it all on the line, and in the bun, as we taste test the best in tailgating cuisine.
“Now here we have Marcus O’Reilly, a native of the Bay Area, and a staunch hot dog supporter. He says there’s nothing like a good hot dog at a football game, isn’t that right, Marcus?”
“Oh, it sure is, Neil. A hot dog will take out a bratwurst any day of the week.”
“Those are fighting words, Marcus. And I’ll be taking a big bite out of that wiener in just a moment. Now over here we’ve got Angus Wheelwright, bratwurst enthusiast and, I understand, an amateur kickboxing champion, is that right?”
“You’re right about that, Neil. And I’m here to say that my bratwurst can kick a hot dog’s butt anywhere, anytime. Bring it, hot dog boy!”
“Whoa, whoa, fellas, let’s keep the trash talking on the field, huh? We’re just here to enjoy some delicious sausages before the big game and . . . Sorry, what’s that? I apologize, gentlemen, I’m getting some breaking news over my headphone about . . . a baby and a . . . delivery . . . van? Some kind of labor . . . dispute? Shouldn’t we be going back to the studio for this story? Wait a minute—who’s in labor? Sophia—wait, my Sophia? I’m on my way, I’m on my way! John! Gimme the van keys! Gimme the keys so I can—”
Audio is dropped at this point as the shot widens to include two confused sausage enthusiasts, three confused news crew guys, and an entire legion of tailgating fans eager to be on television, all watching as the KNTV satellite van careens away toward the on-ramp, driven by a panicked sportscaster. The last shot we can see before the feed is lost is the newscaster yelling out of the window at drivers to “Pull over, this is a baby emergency” and to “Get out of the way, for God’s sake” and “I’m having a baby! Waahooooooo!”
“Are you watching that again?”
“I can’t stop. I literally can’t stop. It’s too fantastic.”
“It is pretty great. How many hits is it up to now?” Simon asked.
“Hmm, looks like . . . Jesus Christ, it’s over thirty thousand views!” I refreshed the page and watched it climb again.
Neil finding out on air that Sophia had gone into labor had turned into YouTube gold in literally hours. It was posted within minutes of its airing here in the Bay Area, and it was all anyone in town was talking about. Sophia had texted Mimi and me, so we were already en route to the hospital when the on-air incident happened.
Unable to reach Neil, Sophia had contacted his producer, who unwisely began speaking into his ear during his broadcast. Unable to multitask at the best of times, Neil usually received very little feedback during his live segments, as he had trouble concentrating when the “little man in the booth” became the “little man in my ear.” But knowing she was in labor, they took a chance and told him.
And the world can now see what happened. His hijacking the affiliate van during the hot dog-versus-bratwurst debate had become comedy gold. Luckily, he was so beloved by viewers that the station had been flooded with emails and calls wishing Neil and Sophia luck in their special delivery.
In the meantime, I was in the hospital waiting room with Simon, Mimi, and Ryan. And I couldn’t stop watching the clip.
“He’s, like, a legitimate Internet star now,” I gushed, refreshing the page once more. “And we’re at thirty-five thousand views. This is crazy!”
“How many of those came from us?” Ryan asked, watching it on his phone.
“At least a hundred,” Mimi answered, watching it on her iPad.
Simon sat down next to me, then stood up and walked over toward the nurses’ station, scanned the hallway where our friends were, and then came to sit back down.
“Relax, babe, we’ll know something when we’re supposed to know something,” I told him.
“I know, I know,” Simon said, then looked toward the nurses’ station again. “How early was she?”
“Only a week, everything’s fine,” I answered, reaching for his hand and holding it on my lap.
“Oh I know, I know,” he said again, squeezing my hand. “I’m gonna go get some coffee, want anything?”
“For what?”
“Scattergories.”
“Right!” he exclaimed, then disappeared through the bedroom.
Alone for the moment, I finally applied my lip gloss and allowed myself a thought or two about Megan and Trevor. Two kids, in as many years. Before getting married, Megan had been on the fast track at the Food Network, working in what was in many ways a dream job. But her dream was a family, and she made that happen. And now she was on the baby fast track. Instead of styling artisanal cheese boards and making cream puffs puffier, she was wiping spittle and stepping on baby rattles.
I had a sudden flash image of Simon stepping on a baby rattle that Clive had stolen for his own toy and then left in his path, and I chuckled. Babies babies everywhere, and not a vodka to drink. I finished my lip gloss, twisting the cap shut with a click, and took a deep breath. I chased away rattle thoughts and indulged in a cheesesteak fantasy moment, interrupted by Simon calling out, “Idiots are here!”
Hmmm, that could be anyone—we knew a lot of idiots. Time to go kick some idiot ass in Scattergories . . .
As usual, game night ended in bloodshed. The girls went down, and went down hard. I know exactly how that sounds. But it’s true. We sucked a big fat Scattergories dick. And Pictionary dick. And Apples to Apples could very well have been renamed Dicks to Dicks. In the end, the boys won big. But once everyone was gone, and my skirt was up around my ears as Simon took his victory lap . . . ahem . . . all was right with the world.
Chapter four
The following broadcast was originally aired on local San Francisco NBC affiliate KNTV . . .
“Hey there, it’s Neil coming to you live from Levi’s Stadium, where the 49ers are taking on the Seattle Seahawks, their toughest rivals in the NFC West. We’ll be with you play-by-play as these two powerhouse teams hash it out on the gridiron. But before the teams take to the field, there’s another rivalry playing out, one equally as fiercely competitive as anything inside the stadium. I’m talking, of course, about tailgating. Wieners or bratwurst? Hots or brats? We’re going to let these fans put it all on the line, and in the bun, as we taste test the best in tailgating cuisine.
“Now here we have Marcus O’Reilly, a native of the Bay Area, and a staunch hot dog supporter. He says there’s nothing like a good hot dog at a football game, isn’t that right, Marcus?”
“Oh, it sure is, Neil. A hot dog will take out a bratwurst any day of the week.”
“Those are fighting words, Marcus. And I’ll be taking a big bite out of that wiener in just a moment. Now over here we’ve got Angus Wheelwright, bratwurst enthusiast and, I understand, an amateur kickboxing champion, is that right?”
“You’re right about that, Neil. And I’m here to say that my bratwurst can kick a hot dog’s butt anywhere, anytime. Bring it, hot dog boy!”
“Whoa, whoa, fellas, let’s keep the trash talking on the field, huh? We’re just here to enjoy some delicious sausages before the big game and . . . Sorry, what’s that? I apologize, gentlemen, I’m getting some breaking news over my headphone about . . . a baby and a . . . delivery . . . van? Some kind of labor . . . dispute? Shouldn’t we be going back to the studio for this story? Wait a minute—who’s in labor? Sophia—wait, my Sophia? I’m on my way, I’m on my way! John! Gimme the van keys! Gimme the keys so I can—”
Audio is dropped at this point as the shot widens to include two confused sausage enthusiasts, three confused news crew guys, and an entire legion of tailgating fans eager to be on television, all watching as the KNTV satellite van careens away toward the on-ramp, driven by a panicked sportscaster. The last shot we can see before the feed is lost is the newscaster yelling out of the window at drivers to “Pull over, this is a baby emergency” and to “Get out of the way, for God’s sake” and “I’m having a baby! Waahooooooo!”
“Are you watching that again?”
“I can’t stop. I literally can’t stop. It’s too fantastic.”
“It is pretty great. How many hits is it up to now?” Simon asked.
“Hmm, looks like . . . Jesus Christ, it’s over thirty thousand views!” I refreshed the page and watched it climb again.
Neil finding out on air that Sophia had gone into labor had turned into YouTube gold in literally hours. It was posted within minutes of its airing here in the Bay Area, and it was all anyone in town was talking about. Sophia had texted Mimi and me, so we were already en route to the hospital when the on-air incident happened.
Unable to reach Neil, Sophia had contacted his producer, who unwisely began speaking into his ear during his broadcast. Unable to multitask at the best of times, Neil usually received very little feedback during his live segments, as he had trouble concentrating when the “little man in the booth” became the “little man in my ear.” But knowing she was in labor, they took a chance and told him.
And the world can now see what happened. His hijacking the affiliate van during the hot dog-versus-bratwurst debate had become comedy gold. Luckily, he was so beloved by viewers that the station had been flooded with emails and calls wishing Neil and Sophia luck in their special delivery.
In the meantime, I was in the hospital waiting room with Simon, Mimi, and Ryan. And I couldn’t stop watching the clip.
“He’s, like, a legitimate Internet star now,” I gushed, refreshing the page once more. “And we’re at thirty-five thousand views. This is crazy!”
“How many of those came from us?” Ryan asked, watching it on his phone.
“At least a hundred,” Mimi answered, watching it on her iPad.
Simon sat down next to me, then stood up and walked over toward the nurses’ station, scanned the hallway where our friends were, and then came to sit back down.
“Relax, babe, we’ll know something when we’re supposed to know something,” I told him.
“I know, I know,” Simon said, then looked toward the nurses’ station again. “How early was she?”
“Only a week, everything’s fine,” I answered, reaching for his hand and holding it on my lap.
“Oh I know, I know,” he said again, squeezing my hand. “I’m gonna go get some coffee, want anything?”
