It's something I warned Pete about when he first visited my family back when we started dating. "Listen," I said. "My father is a good guy, but no sharp movements when dinner comes out or you could lose an appendage. He's very serious about his meals. Also, if he starts muttering under his breath and talking dirty at dinner don't think he's making any advances at my mother ... that's just food foreplay before he cuts into his steak."
At first Pete thought I was being overly dramatic, but after a few meals with my family he got the hang of it: At Scalia suppers it's every man for himself.
That said, last weekend Pete and I took a break from the city, the summer, the house, and all the responsibilities that come with a heartbeat and a pulse to escape to Big Poppa's casa on the bay. As soon as we arrived Big Poppa started the engine on the boat and we headed to dinner.
"Umm," Pete said, hoping up a wet line knotted to the side cleat. There was no bait bucket tied to it anymore.
"Nevermind!" I called, scrambling off the front. "Those are our minnows! Start the engine!"
After a few hours we quickly realized nothing was biting. So we headed back, loaded up the boat with beer and changed tactics: today we would be sloths and go to the beach. So off we went.
"Her?" Pete points at the girl tattooed on his arms wearing cuffed jeans, a gingham crop top, and bright blue eye shadow. "Oh that's just a pin-up."
"Okay, just making sure that's not my daughter."
"Dad!" The pin-up looks NOTHING like me. Plus, I haven't worn blue eye shadow since high school.
I guess he needed a day away from the city and congestion and construction as much as we did.