So Av got new roller skates today. Her old ones were the wheels-under-a-platform kind that you strap over your sneakers. Said sneakers have gotten too big for them. So she's graduated to the ones that are like ski boots on wheels. The ones Mom and Dad have to fork out some real bucks for. At least the grown-ups won the polite battle at Toys-R-Us: Av wanted the ones with Disney Princesses on them; Mom and Dad wanted the ones that cost twenty dollars less for twice the quality. "They have red swirlies on them!" I pleaded. "That's almost pink!" In the end I won because I busted out the big guns: These Skates Or No Skates. Harsh, you say? Or no, you probably don't say, if you're reading this circa 2010 when nobody has money for Disney skates.
So we get 'em on home, put 'em on her feet and set Av up in our newly cleaned out garage. We open the garage door, because it's been six hundred degrees out every day for the past month, and it doesn't take more than a few seconds for enough heat to build up in the closed garage to cook a turkey. GW perched himself out there on a bench, holding the baby, and watched me help Av try to get the feel of her big-girl skates on a hard surface. I probably looked like a moose with a broken leg trying to teach a drunk chicken how to do the cha-cha. Av had fun, but it wasn't long before she commented on the heat and wanted a break. I certainly wasn't going to argue. GW, who hadn't said a word the whole ten minutes we were out there because he was concentrating on keeping his head from catching fire, looked around the inside of the garage. He later told me he was thinking about how closely the shape of the garage resembled the inside of an oven. "This is what toast must feel like," he said. I got the family inside before anyone started actively hallucinating.
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