Top Five #4 - Family Dinner

I apologize for the sporadic nature of the posts. But that's the price you pay when you're working on a novel (Chapter One up at neverfinish2.blogspot.com - Chapter Two coming soon!), a bunch of other projects, and you're Daddy Day Care and Errand Boy all rolled into one. Maybe I can even write about that, or the two moments that recently convinced me The Bean and I have settled into redneck / white trash-dom. But for now, on with the show...

Moment number four on the list of stupidest things I've done since meeting The Wife that she hasn't left me for isn't actually something stupid I did. Unless you count introducing her to my family as stupid. Which, if you know my family, you might (just kidding, Mom!). Seriously though, is there anyone among us who hasn't hung their head in shame and humiliation upon introducing someone you think might be THE ONE to your family?

Anyone?

Anyone?

I thought not.

Let's face it. If there's any one thing family is truly good for, it's embarrassing you in front of the one person you try to seem coolest to. You know how it goes. You spend those first few weeks trying not to do any of the multitude of gross, annoying, or repulsive things you do either by yourself or around people who actually... well... know you. You eat neatly. Never pick your teeth. Burping is right out of the question. Farting or other bodily noises? Heavens no. You don't dare even use the bathroom in your future spouse's apartment for fear of the potential shame. You bathe regularly, dress nice, comb your hair.

You know. All the things you don't do when you're single. Or married.

So, you spend all that time trying to appear to be something your not (cool. suave. clean.) And then comes the moment of truth. You introduce her to the family.

And all that hard work and weeks of not farting goes right out the window.

And, in my case, it wasn't just the obligatory stories about when I was young and stupid (or old and stupid, either). Or the pictures of me as a naked child. Or even the discussions of former girlfriends (the only time I was grateful for my fallow dating history.) No, in my case, my family had a secret weapon.

Grandma.

A little history about Grandma. When she first met my mother, the first words out of her mouth? "So what do your people do?" Blunt isn't the right word for my grandmother. And it isn't that she's rude. She just says whatever comes into her brain. (Not unlike a certain grandson). I warned The Wife of this before dinner.

"Grandma might say something..."

"Stupid?" offered the always helpful Wife.

"No," I said. "Something..."

"Rude? Offensive? Impolite?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "One of those. All of those. But she won't mean anything by it, so don't take it personally."

The Wife nodded and seemed unconcerned. I, however, knew better.

In the early part of our relationship, The Wife's grandfather had grown ill with heart trouble. He was in the hospital for a while, but came through everything fine. The Wife, being exceptionally close to her grandfather, took the entire thing very hard. It was quite an emotional subject. One I suggested to the family we not bring up during dinner.

First words out of Grandma's mouth: "So, Lesley, what does your father do besides having heart attacks?"

Tacky. Borderline rude. Not even correct (it was her grandfather).

Totally Grandma.

She would follow that up with commentary on The Wife's hometown: Utica, NY

"Utica? Isn't that run by the mob?" After being told that, no, Utica isn't run by the mob, that's just an old rumor - "Oh. The mob wouldn't want it anyway. I heard it's all slums."

visualize me, banging my head on the table and you get the idea of how the night went.

Somehow, we survived. The Wife found grandma endlessly amusing and fun. Grandma loved The Wife. Probably more than she loved me (as is the case w / the rest of my family as well). And we would go on to have many more family dinners and many more chances for my family to embarrass me.

Which they have. And do.

Maybe I should let them write the blog.

Oh, the stories they could tell....

I'm An Idiot

     I’m an idiot.  

     To anyone who knows me, this is not news.

     And I’m not just the standard idiot.  The “man” idiot.  You know the one.  The idiot who has an exchange like this with The Wife:

     TW (in bed, one morning, moments after awakening me by punching me hard in the arm):  Bastard.

     ME (rubbing said arm):  What did I do?

     TW (clearly distraught):  You cheated on me.  In my dream.  I came home and caught you in bed with some other girl and then you told me about all the other times you did it.  You were so mean.

     ME (knowing full well I didn’t really cheat on her.  And also fully aware that that fact so doesn’t matter):  Oh.  (pausing to carefully consider my next words)... (still pausing)… Was she hot?

     TW:  Who?

     ME:  The girl I cheated on you with.  Was she hot?

     I rest my idiot case.

     But you see, were that where my idiocy stopped, I would be fine.  If my idiocy ended with my simple inability to think before I speak or to speak without having to talk around the feet in my mouth, I wouldn’t be writing this.  No, I’d be sitting here, taking care of The Bean and Stinky and watching old ER reruns on TNT.  But, you see, my idiocy – to paraphrase Val Kilmer in Tombstone – apparently knows no bounds.

     Yesterday was the 2nd anniversary of the day Lesley became The Wife.

     You can probably already see where I’m going with this.

     I didn’t do the standard man-idiot thing.  I didn’t forget.  I got a card.  Hell, I got two (one sweet, one funny, as is our tradition).  I even sort of got a present.  I remembered her wanting us to take dancing lessons.  So I was looking into signing us up for some.  

     Of course, it turned out that, as is her way, The Wife couldn’t wait for her present and dragged it out of me.  And of course, as is the way, it turned out she only wanted the lessons before we got married so I would know how to dance at the reception.  Now?  Not so big on the dancing.  But she was duly appreciative of the thought and gave me no grief over then not actually having a gift.

     Me?  I was annoyed that my “thoughtful” present wasn’t as “thoughtful” as I thought.  Or as appreciated as I thought it would be.

     Idiot Move #1.

     So we decided to go out to dinner.  And that meant The Wife hunting for clothes to wear.  And finding little that fit or hadn’t been soiled by The Bean’s efforts to give her formula back to us after she’d already drank it.  Which led to a good half hour of The Wife cursing the clothes and her self for not being in shape and not having done enough laundry.

     And a half hour of me growing more and more frustrated with her six changes of outfit, constant barrage of “does this look good?”, and griping about things she can’t change now and hasn’t done much to change in the past.  Leading me to get testy and short and, basically, act like a man.

     “Do you want to just do take out?”

     Idiot Move #2.

     And, finally, on the way to the restaurant,  we discover that the lot is full – other than being valet parked, which is not possible because the car is a mess and we have standards we cannot let the teenage valet goobers see below – but The Wife knows of another lot.  And so we drive on, in search of it and The Wife, as is her custom, fails to mention I need to take a left until after we’ve already pulled into the right only lane.  Which, of course, prompts a few testy words from me.

     Not Idiot move #3.  Though, understandably, you might think so.

     No, you see Idiot Move #3 came during the car ride to pick up The Bean at the babysitter.  And on the ride home after that.  And while The Wife took The Bean upstairs for book and bed and I stayed downstairs because I thought (another mistake, right there) we both needed time to cool down.  And then again this morning, and even now, as I write this.

     See, Idiot Move #3 wasn’t anything I did.  It was what I forgot.  

     I’ve been putting together a Top Five list of the dumbest things I’ve done that The Wife hasn’t left me for.  Could there be a Top Five list for her as well?  Of course.  But that, to repeat myself, is so not the point.  The point is, I’ve done some unbelievably dumb things in my time.  Some unbelievably dumb.

     The dumbest is forgetting that she stays with me.  She puts up with me and my idiocy.  She puts up with me telling her that the drinks were free.  She puts up with me running from our apartment because of a bird.  She forgives me when I leave a frantic message on her voice mail that makes her think I’ve killed The Bean, even though I’m just dealing with a messy poop.  She forgives me when I make her forty-five minutes late to our wedding rehearsal.  She put up with the engagement trip from hell, the worst pick-up line ever, and even me losing my underwear in Wal-Greens. And, on a daily basis, she puts up with my moods and stresses and complaints (not always well, but she does put up with them).

     Would another woman have left me for those things (or the others I can’t write about)?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Would another woman be able to laugh about them, tease me about them, let me write about them on the internet and have no shame that she’s married to an idiot?  Would another woman understand my fear of The Bean’s standing poop or my constant paranoia about every bump she takes.  Would another woman not write me off I find a red hair in my goatee and wonder (out loud) if I’m bleeding under the skin?

     The answer isn’t the point.  The point is, I don’t have to ask.

     Two years ago yesterday, I told The Wife that I couldn’t promise her that I wouldn’t annoy her.  That I wouldn’t bother her, irritate her, or make her want to throw a shoe at my head.  I couldn’t even promise her I wouldn’t do any of it that day.  And I still can’t promise any of that (as everything I’ve written here proves).  But I can promise her I’ll do my best not to forget anymore and to try and remember that one of the parts of loving someone – maybe the biggest – is forgetting the bad and remembering the good.

     The thing she does so very well every time I open my mouth.

     And, to paraphrase me, Honey, I know it’s not free drinks, but I hope that’ll do.