Parents: part III

The morning of Day 2 began with this text message conversation. I think it epitomizes the entire weekend.

Aunt Melen: R u ok?

Me: So far so good. Boys are golfing. Girls are shopping.

Aunt Melen: U let cb (Cowboy) alone with ur dad??!! i thought u liked him.

Me: Well, if he’s gonna get scared, better now than later right?

Aunt Melen: Good point. is he packing his riffle?

The boys golfed 18 holes that day. My mom and I shopped and drank over-priced coffee. Check that one in the "success" column.

That night however, was probably more scary than the evening an American she-male, dressed in Winne the Pooh pajamas, screamed obscenities. At 4 a.m. In the bunk below me. In an Italian hostel.

Why didn't I blog back then?

Day 2 was the night my family was going to meet his family. See, this wasn’t just a meet the family weekend, this was a family-meet-the-family weekend.

I’d had nightmares all week. Had she been there, I’d have dug my nails into the she-male's nightgown and begged she cradle me to her silicone bosom.

And although the two parental parties seemed to exchange greetings, handshakes and cocktails without any major fist fights or freak outs, I think the biggest indiscretion of the weekend was when Cowboy started talking about kids.

I’d told him: Beware. My mom is hopped up on grandchildren. Don’t feed her habit. DO NOT mention the words “children” “pregnant” or “diaper genie,” lest she be stoned all week and need an intervention to get her back again.

I'd like to note my mother bought me a lot of clothes that weekend. And I'd like her to do it again. I love my mother very much.

But he didn’t listen.

That kid was CUTE he said. And he swam with FLOATIES and I PLAYED CATCH with him and... his words clouding mom's mind like a freshly lit bong.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? my face pleaded. But boys never understand girl-face language.

The whole conversation, my mom’s face reeked of Jane Jr.’s. She’d look at him with a smile so big she'd need a face lift before her lips returned to normal.

And then she’d look at me.

And then him.

Me.

Him.

Me.

Him.

Big.

Freaking.

Smile.

So my face spoke back: I swear to god woman, if you mention grandchildren right now, you won't be getting any.

And then her face said: you have some roads to cross before grandchildren, my dear.

So mine said: mention that again and it's SOO going in my blog.

Before long, the weekend ended, the parents left and four Ryans and a Cowboy still breathe. I can't say I have no scars, however, my dad's bad jokes left a rash like a gnarly STD. And Brother, I'll be needing that cocaine back... for the next visit.