Does This Mean I Have To Get Some Gold Teeth?

I took my boys to a local beach yesterday. We met the Allstar Coach's wife and her kids there. She's the baby's Mom. Remember the baby? The one who makes my ovaries hurt? Yeah, that one.

We've become pretty friendly, and I really dig having a woman is so like myself to hang out with. She's a no nonsense kinda gal. I like that.

And...I've decided that rather than do my typical wait around and wait for her to ask me to do stuff because I don't want her to think that I like her more than she likes me, in case I totally misread her and it turns out she doesn't really like me all that much and I end up looking pathetic and needy..(insert deep breathe here) I would cut through all the bullshit and just ask her to do something.

So I did.

Her oldest son is the same age as Pubescent One and they get along really well. They share that same curious mixture of ultra casual coolness and supreme goofiness that is indicative of newly adolescent boys. And her daughter gets along famously with Diminutive One, despite being a few years younger.

So it's a good thing for everybody.

Unfortunately, the baby had an ear infection and wasn't feeling well, so they had to leave after only an hour or so. I kept her son with me and we hung around at the beach a while longer.

By and by I realized that the two older boys had happened upon a couple of girls and were flirting outrageously. I listened to their banter with a mixture of amusement and wistfulness.

Ahhhhhh, such memories. Beaches and boys...what better way to spend those sultry summer days when nothing mattered quite as much as getting the perfect tan, except getting boys to notice the perfect tan?

Three times I told them it was time to go, and three times they begged me for just fifteen more minutes. I really didn't mind, except that I was beginning to feel a mite charbroiled, despite multiple applications of sunscreen.

Finally, fearing third degree burns, I beckoned them out of the water and herded them, along with twelve tons of beach crap, back into the van.

As they clambered in, all sandy elbows and dripping hair, the friend whispered urgently to Pubescent One.

"Dude, I can't believe we didn't get their number! That's so stupid. Why didn't we get their number, man?"

Pubescent One was fairly matter of fact about it.

"We didn't have a pen, dude and my phone is dead. No big deal. They don't even go to our schools so we'd never see 'em anyway."

The friend wasn't quite so blase.

"Yeah but dude, they were HOT! At least we coulda texted 'em or something."

"Dude. They don't even have their own phone. They share with their Mom."

"SO! It doesn't matter. We shoulda got their number."

I couldn't help it. I interjected.

"Uh, Dudes, I got a pen and a piece of paper right here. Go get their number. I'll wait."

They exchanged looks and shrugged at one another.

Pubescent One said,

"Ya wanna?"

The friend was reluctant, though I'm not really sure why. He goes to private school, and is maybe a little less wordly than other kids his age. I don't think he's quite as...experienced when it comes to girls as the average thirteen year old.

"Nah. They're probably gone now anyway."

"No they're not. I can see 'em from here. C'mon, let's go. We'll be right back Mom."

Pubescent One got out and the friend followed, trailing behind like a loyal but reluctant puppy.

I waited and watched. We could indeed see the girls in question from our vantage point in the air conditioned van. The boys approached and Pubescent One introduced himself to their mother first. (That's my boy, heh) I watched him shake her hand, and then turn to introduce his friend, who hung his head in a hangdog manner and awkwardly stuck out his hand.

Then he bent to talk to the girls, who were sunbathing on brightly colored beach blankets. He bent one knee and propped his eblow upon it in a purposeful way that I think, was supposed to be debonair.

While he talked, the friend hopped up and down on alternating feet. The sand was REALLY hot and he apparently, he hadn't worn his shoes. Pubescent One shot him several looks, irritation clearly written on his face.

Eventually they returned. The moment the van doors shut Pubescent exploded with frustration.

"DUDE! What is WRONG with you?"

The friend played innocent.

"What? The sand was hot man. My feet were burning!"

"So! Did you have to say keep saying, ow my feet, ow my feet, ow my feet?? You sounded like a retard."

"Dude. I was going for sympathy. Girls love that."

"They love guys who act like retards?"

"No, stupid. They love acting all concerned and stuff."

"Whatever Dude. They probably won't even answer the phone now."

They discussed this all the way home and debated the likelihood that the hot beach girls would actually answer the phone, err, I mean, return their texts. But they did. Pubescent One spent the night at the friend's house, and his mother reported to me this morning that the boys could scarcely be torn away from the phone.

So now, after a few texts, they are "going out" with each other. Snort. Going out where? Neither of them can drive. Pubescent One got the older, tanner, blonder sister, and the friend got the younger, more fresh faced sister. And both are deliriously happy.

I feel so...dirty.