Playing Eighteen

I had the pleasure of spending last week with my sister who makes me laugh until I am crying, hacking and peeing.  Amongst our laughing this week, came this gem of a story. I so wish I could take credit for it, but this bit of genius goes out to her friend, Annie.

My sister Betsy’s good friend, Annie and her husband, Mark, had come up to Traverse City for their annual “Up North” vacation.  On one of those days, the tradition is for Annie and Betsy to spend a day at the pool lounging.  That’s what they do.  So, a few days before their rondevouz, Betsy received a text from Annie:

WTF??? I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY HAVE THE NERVE.  AAAAGGGHHHHH!

Betsy replied: OMG!  What’s wrong?

Annie responded: THEY WANT TO PLAY GOLF SATURDAY

Betsy:  That’s great - clears the way for us to sit by the pool.

Annie:  THAT’S NOT THE POINT.  TELL YOU WHEN I SEE YOU.

The all caps should signal that Annie was PISSED!

When Betsy and Annie finally hooked up that Saturday, Annie shared the following story. Please picture a small, dark haired fireball with a slight yiddish lilt.

“So, we were sitting with Mike and Patty the other night at The Lake Inn having a nice dinner -  broiled fish, light but still filling.  Anyway, they start talking about playing golf.  The good courses, the difficult courses, their best and worst shots.  Well, anyone who knows me KNOWS I loathe golf.  Don’t play, don’t watch, don’t care so I checked out. But these three people, unbeknownst to me, had the NERVE to make a golf date for the FOUR OF US on our last Saturday of vacation without even asking me if I wanted to join them.

So Mike and Patty showed up today about an hour before Tee time and I announced that I would not be joining them for the game.

There was silence.  Blank stares.

Patty asked, ‘Why not?’  So I pasted a big ass smile on my face and reminded her, I dont play golf, I don’t watch golf and I don’t like golf.  To which Mark and Mike both said they thought I could drive the cart and watch. AND WATCH!? Doesn’t that sound fun?

I told them I would happily meet them for dinner but would not be going out on the course with them.  Golfing was not something I wanted to do.

Silence. More blank stares.

So I said. ‘Let me put it in terms you might understand.  Lets say all four of us go to the Grand Traverse Mall.  Shopping, now that’s something I enjoy doing. We can go to eighteen different stores where I can search for an incredible outfit. . .one in each store.  Then, I’ll go try it on while you guys watch.  You can clap for me when I come out of the dressing room and model for you.  Doesn’t that sound fun?

Silence.

Mark finally spoke, ‘Tell Betsy I say hi!’ and he lead the golfing group out the door.”

Point made.

Say Yes To The Dress

I have spent a good amount of time extolling the huge differences between men and women.  I have waxed poetic on the XY chromosome and it’s unique set of qualities.  I have proclaimed my womanhood loud and proud, especially having lived with a house full of men.  After all of that, I have to sheepishly admit, I think I have been faking it.

Oh sure, I get my hair done, have manicures and pedicures, am drawn to handbags and shoes and love my share of jewelry.  I thought THAT alone qualified me for the girly girl club.  However, since my newly appointed role as MOG (Mother of the groom), I’ve had to face the very frightening reality that I don’t know nothin bout being no girl.  

Here’s the thing. . .unlike most of my female friends, I hate to shop.  Loathe it, in fact.  I pride myself on the fact that I usually know what I am looking for, where I want to go to get said item, and generally have a coupon when I go.  In and out.  The power shopping days where we girls all head to the mall, downtown Chicago or Galena or Lake Geneva are loads of fun. . .for the first block.  Then, I’m done. But, I amble along amiably, quietly checking my watch and wondering when everyone else wants to cease with the shopping and go get a drink.  

Now, faced with the daunting task of finding the perfect dress for my son’s wedding, I allowed the whole summer to pass knowing I had fall and winter to do that kind of shopping.  Fall had to gall to arrive so, unable to put if off further, I finally made the intrepid trip into a bridal salon.  I very quietly asked to see what they had in their “Mother Of” section and headed over there to peruse the selection.  Apparently people who work in those kind of shops are trained to actually help their clientele.  Not one but TWO overly energetic and enthusiastic women swarmed me, bombarding me with questions for which I did not know the answer, “What color are you thinking?  Formal? Tea length? Satin? Jacket? What dress size are you looking for?  

Size?  Well it depends. . .at Walmart I am an L but at Target I generally go for XL.  Is that what she meant?  Blinded by sequins, I sat down, while the ladies, completely unaware of my mental state, continued to pull dresses from their racks and hold them out for my approval. Well my head simply started spinning and  I wasn’t able to escape until the phone rang and one of the women went to answer it while the other went to see what was in back.  I hightailed it out to the car in search of a paper bag in which to breathe.  

No amount of estrogen can undo all the years of a testosterone driven household and the damage it has done to my “girl”.  Thankfully, the Bride and the MOB have consented to help me through this process. . .they know how to power shop. I might need some wine and Xanax but, if they are patient with me, I may discover my girl after all of these years.  I think I kind of miss her. 

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