The nature of life in reality . . .
I don't like Mondays
Why is it that three day weekends always suck! I mean they're great while it's still the weekend, but that Tuesday back-in-the-grind thing kills the whole deal. That and the fact that it was a holiday three day weekend. You see, any regular old three day weekend you would take off on Friday and play all weekend. Your time is your own. But, with a holiday three day weekend, you get Monday off. All the stores have funny hours so you can't go out and do a whole lot. It's just putting off Sunday really and it makes going back to the daily grind even worse. And holidays mean one other dreaded thing . . . family gatherings!
My family is pretty normal as families go. We have get togethers for holidays and everybody brings lots of food and we chit-chat politely before we leave and trash everyone who was there. The fourth of July is no small exception. Dateline 7/4/99 . . . It isn't a workday, and we've stayed out far too late the night before, so James and I sleep in a bit. It's a weekend luxury that we both relish in. So, we finally get up and at-em and go running about at errands for a while. I insisted that my family would make fun of me - yet again - if I wore my usual attire. They're good people and all, but a bit more patriotic than I. My three faces of Cartman shirt wasn't such a hit last year. Determined to avoid catty comments, I insisted that we check out Old Navy. They always have some sort of flag shirt for half a shilling or some similar pittance. Two stores later, I step up to the register with matching t-shirts for James and myself. He wasn't pleased. "We're not going to do this Twinkie thing are we?" "We're not Twinkies, dear. We just happen to have similar taste in holiday t-shirts." I guess I convinced him because he didn't say much more about it. After a drive out to the parents abode, James and I packed the Miata and headed out to the cousin's retreat in the far off north of Shelby County. Three thousand fat grams later, we left.
Conversation on the way home was interesting. You see, my car battery went dead last weekend and my stereo has a lock on it . . . it's a painful memory really. I don't have any tunes so we have to talk. James is continually wierded out by my family. I say we're normal, but we're really not. We do things together, we’re not divorced, and as far as I know there are no firearms present. But, to the point at hand - James was referred to by the dreaded name that dare not speak its na. . . uh . . . oh, never mind. My aunt called him Chris. Now for those of you who don't know, Chris is my ex-boyfriend. We dated for four years, but we broke up almost three years ago! He's married now! I won't go off on a rant here, but he's nothing at all like James. Now how she could have mistaken James for Chris is beyond me. James and I are engaged. We have been (officially) since January. He and I have been dating - in the presence of the family - for a year and a half. Her granddaughter is in my wedding for Christ's sake! Still, she says it. There is no resemblance in appearance or attitude. Their names begin with completely different consonants even. I don't get it.
Well, actually I do get it. You see, my aunt is pissed at me because I didn't call her and tell her that I was getting married. Yeah, I can hear you all agreeing with her. But the thing is, I didn't call and tell anybody! We told my parents and we told his parents. Then, I told my grandparents. That is completely in the realm of social grace! Custom has it that the family of the bride begins a "gossip tree" and passes around the information. This is a process that has worked very well in the past for my family and I errantly assumed that it would continue to work its whimsy in this instance. I was wrong. I'm sorry Shirley.
Can you remember my fiancée’s name now?