Oh, and by the way--to any of my trashy personal friends who may have figured out that I'm writing this blog: Don't even think about trying to rob my house while I'm gone. Not only has my tightwad ass actually sprung for a housesitter to protect things like my new pool, but my house is also sandwiched between the houses of two cops on alternate shifts--who actually like my family and me, believe it or not. Had I been in this situation in college when I was an avid underage drinker, I would've been pissed. However, now that I (almost) always follow the law, I enjoy the 24-hour protection.
And now, for this week's Friday post. As always, thank you for reading!
My sister-in-law got married last weekend.
Well, I call her my sister-in-law, but she’s actually my brother’s baby mama. She didn’t marry my brother, though, because she’s not a dumbass.
The guy she chose to make her husband is a pretty good guy, so we were happy with her choice. We weren’t, however, happy with her choice to make the wedding reception dry—meaning NO BEER FOR ANYONE—especially when we all found out that she and my little sister and another bridesmaid had each drunk a bottle of champagne before the ceremony.
But before I could scream “HYPOCRITE!” as we all sweated our sober balls off while watching the drunkies take their turns traipsing down the aisle during the humid, outdoor wedding, my husband reminded me that despite my sister-in-law’s strong insistence that we don’t, we had all packed coolers full of alcohol and snuck them into the backs of our cars for later.
So fair is fair, I suppose. She probably knew we wouldn’t listen to her and figured Screw ‘em. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
As I stood watching the lovely, half-drunk couple say their vows—as I and all of the other guests listened to them utter the most important words of the entire 5-minute ceremony—I became aware of a hissing noise coming from somewhere behind me.
“Pssst! Pssssssst! Shay! SHAY!”
I whipped my head around, alarmed. Who in the hell would be—
My eyes settled on my dad, a few rows back, holding my niece so that my older sister, who had moved front and center, could snap pictures of the celebrated couple still saying their vows.
I shrugged my shoulders at him. What the hell?
“COME HERE!” he whispered loudly while trying his best to motion me over with the arm that was cradling the baby.
“Holy shit, old man,” I muttered, making my way apologetically through the chairs full of guests in my row. I figured my niece had crapped her dress and my dad was freaking out, not wanting to change the diaper or something.
When I reached the spot where he was standing, however, I saw an evil grin spreading across his face. He jerked his head backward a little bit to let me know that I should come closer so that he could whisper something in my ear. He could hardly get it out; he was laughing so hard that tears were forming in the corners of his eyes.
“Tell your sister,” he giggled, “that Grandma Lottie called from Heaven and she wants her muumuu back.”
When I looked back at my dad, he had lifted his eyebrows, proud of himself. “That was good, right? That one was good? I can play the game again?”
“The game” began around the time of my wedding almost 10 years ago. My boy best friend had started saying things like, “Tell your mom that the 80’s called. They want their blue eyeshadow back.” You know the game, right?
Well, it was in full swing during my wedding. We did so many of them that we began to run out of people to make fun of and had to start in on clothes. One of my all-time favorites was from my husband, talking about my sister-in-law’s dress: “Tell my sister the couch called. It wants its pattern back.”
And to give my dad credit, he tried. He really did. He just couldn’t get it right.
The priest who married us bore a striking resemblance to Barry Manilow, or so all the old people kept telling us. He also played a mean piano and was more than happy to showcase his mad skillz during our ceremony.
My dad, desperate to get into the game, kept saying things like, “Somebody call Barry Manilow and tell him his piano’s missing! Who’s gonna call Barry Manilow and tell him his piano’s missing?!”
We kept trying to correct him. “DAD,” I said more than a few times. “Don’t you think Barry Manilow would notice if his piano went missing?”
“Yeah, dude,” my best friend would say. “And who the hell here has Barry Manilow’s number? How could we call him to tell him his piano’s missing?”
And then my dad would say, “Okay. Okay. Tell me again how to say it. Tell me again.”
A chorus of us would respond: “Tell the priest that Barry Manilow called. He wants his piano back.”
But as hard as Dad tried, he couldn’t get it. He simply could not get it. And so he was banned from the game. Anytime he tried to get back in on the action, we would all flip a hand up into his face, shake our heads, and say, “YOU’RE BANNED.”
So last weekend, when he came out with the muumuu line, I was so proud of him that I could’ve cried. And I had to make the historic announcement that almost 10 years later, Dad had gotten it. He’d finally gotten it.
It didn’t matter that the game had lost its luster the morning after my wedding 10 years ago because we had played it so much that we were sick of it. Dad had earned the right, with the muumuu line, to bring it back.
We spent the rest of my sister-in-law’s wedding trying to one-up each other playing the game. But nobody cried at any unfavorable comparisons made to them or their outfits during the playing of the game, so basically, we all lost.
Ah, well. It was fun trying.