Hello, my droogies. Again, sorry it’s been so long. It’s been a hellish month (probably something some of you were counting on) so sit back and relax as I bring you up to date.
First of all, the wedding: my daughter, the infamous Little Treasure, finally married the Human Tool, who is my now-son-in-law. He’s still working as a temp some place trying to figure out how to get through an interview for a programming job, except for this week, when he’s on his honeymoon.
First of all, we learned that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when his dad decides that his idea of a reception dinner is going to be himself, his son, my ex-wife’s husband and I at Famous Dave’s on a Sunday afternoon. They call it a bachelor party, they aren’t drinking and, frankly, I’d have rather been cutting the lawn.
Ladies, your did is going to shell out a lot of money for you to walk down that aisle. If you’re marrying someone who wants to cheap out on the reception dinner, your dad is not going to forget that, no matter what he says.
What gets better is when he get closer to the event, and we decide to actually HAVE a reception dinner. Now we go to an Italian restaurant that doesn’t serve wine, he (the Human Tool’s father) decides not to show, and we all end up going dutch.
That was the day before the wedding, and the Little Treasure is going to drop off her cats so that they are here when she leaves on her honeymoon. She’s coming over in the morning.
Oh, not the morning. Later this morning.
Well, by lunch.
And they show up at 2pm, and I have 2 hours to get my tux for the wedding, and make it to the practice event. When I pick it up, there’s a little kid with a tux on, saying, “I don’t like it,” and a line of people behind him checking their watches and exhaling in anger ad the poor fitter tried to make it better.
Once I’m sure I’ll be at least 10 minutes late, I just cut off the like, show my ticket for the tux I already paid for, and leave, letting them know I’ll come back tomorrow morning if it doesn’t fit.
So now it’s the morning of the unGodly event. I think that I’ve actually increased the per-capita income of East Tennessee at this point, when what happens but: brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
What is that, you ask? At 7am, that’s the high level alarm going off on septic tank, and my daughter is getting married at 3pm.
Not here, thank God. But this is a serious problem that can REALLY honk up your house. So while I’m getting ready and making plans to pick up my parents at the airport, I’m trying to find a septic guy who works on weekends.
In East Tennessee, that’s going to be some bubba who still advertises in the yellow pages. I’m more of an Internet guy, and it’s not an easy interface. I get some feelers out and then address the tux.
You know – the one that didn’t include black socks?
So I’m over to WalMart to get those, when I get a call from dad. Can you pick us up and take us to lunch before the wedding? No, 73-year-olds. Go starve. Well, I’ve got my socks and my tux, so I’m off.
The wedding is at 3p, I get there with the parents at 2:15pm and put on the tux for the first time. It fits by some miracle. I’m ready just in time for the wedding planner to find me on a freak out and tell me that the family of The Tool are drinking their own alcohol, and that’s illegal.
But we get through the wedding, with 10 people who RSVP’d not showing up. And, of course, me finding out that the people whom I didn’t think drank only do so when someone else is paying for it. I thought I’d overbought the bar and it was a break-even.
To finish the blessed event, we watched the Kentucky derby and my horse came in. I wish I’d bet $10,000 on him, because then … no, still wouldn’t have helped me. He was a 3/5
So I go drop the parents off at their hotel so they can get a plane home at 5:30am. That’s my dad – an idiot. I’m kind of surprised that he survived the Days Inn (which I don’t rent on a dare) but he did. I go home, and I get a text message from my daughter, now Mrs Tool.
“Want to go out and drink?”
What? You don’t drink. Well, after seeing 1/2 of her friends get plastered on daddy’s dime, yeah, now she wants to try it. So we bar hop until 1am. I’ve never heard so many bar tenders say, “Maybe drinking isn’t for you!” because she thinks it all tastes like show polish.
I go home (again), sleep with Beau the Wonder Dog and three cats, and get up at 6:00am to meet the only septic guy I could find, to pump out the tank. That bought me a week, and on Tuesday I learned that it was actually a problem with an EFI outlet that they have to use now.
Now she’s on her honey moon, five days in the Caribbean paid for by yours truly. The family-of-the-Tool gave them about $100 for expenses. They’re back on Saturday, I’m really surprised I haven’t gotten the big call for cash.
Take care, my droogies. Next post will actually be about a sugar baby