The Odd Broad

Relaxing

I can't honestly say I spent the last weekend of 2007 in a productive manner.  On the contrary, Hubby worked the entire time, so that pretty much left Kittie and I to our own devices.  Mostly we just lounged about, catching up with the DVR, watching trash tv.

I never mind spending time alone, though after a while I guess it can start to feel kind of unpleasant.  At one terrifyingly low point I was quite unable to turn the Keeping Up With The Kardashians marathon, but I somehow managed to pull myself away. 

While watching the tragic ending to The Outsiders, however, I got to thinking.  I've always been bowled over by the sheer volume of stars in that one film.  We're talking Swaze, Cruise, Lowe, Macchio, Dillon, Estevez...I began to wonder if the gang had had a fun time during the filming.  (The zany, wild stories of debauchery that surely must exist!)  I even decided it might make an interesting book:  Inside "The Outsiders", perhaps.  It was at this point my cat suggested I go and take a shower.

I debated leaving the house to go food shopping, then thought better of it.  Instead, and more importantly, I decided to watch Steel Magnolias.  I did wash a few dishes and drop off a bag of laundry at the laundromat, though.  These tasks would have to serve as my domestic contributions for the weekend. 

Occasionally I think it's healthy to relish in this sort of delicious laziness.  I mean, who says that taking a shower but getting back into the same dirty sweat suit is repulsive?  You know, that comfy, velour one Santa brought?  And who says it's not okay to eat leftover lasagna for breakfast?  Now that we're on the subject, who says not leaving the apartment for 48 hours is a bad thing?  (You don't have to answer that, I'm being ironical.)

Happy New Year to you, Lovely Reader!  May 2008 bring you lots of divine, marvelous things.

~The Slothful Broad

The Little Mrs.

What are your thoughts on addressing envelopes?  Do you have any?  I do.  In fact, I have several.

I remember a tense moment at my parent's kitchen table while I was addressing my wedding invitations.  Things were going just swimmingly when all of a sudden we hit a snag.  You see, Mom and Dad had just suggested I write Mr. & Mrs. (insert male's full name) and as you might imagine, I was having a difficult time of it. 

My eyes began to water: "What?  I'm not writing it that way! I can't!"  (I couldn't, could I?)

I gazed with disbelief at my mother, who'd always acted as my feminist guru over the years.  A master at reasoning with me, she took the practical approach:  "Some of the older people will definitely be offended if you don't address it that way.  It's ridiculous, it's annoying, but it's just the way it's done."

No doubt trying to be helpful, Dad chimed in: "It's not a big deal, it's just an envelope!"  (Says the lovable Mr.)

In the end, amid sighs and grumbles, I compromised.  A few of the guests were addressed in the aforementioned archaic manner and a good portion of the rest were not.  I tried to forget about my short-lived hypocrisy in regards to the envelope episode.  (And otherwise those invitations were lovely, I must tell you!)

This subject arises more than I'd like it to, however.  Why, just this month, as my mailbox filled up with Christmas cards, there I was again: Mrs. (Hubby's First and Last Name).   

My boss, mother-in-law, my cousin's new wife, and even one of my very best friends all addressed me in this fashion, and perhaps all for different reasons.  Regardless, it didn't really give me the warm fuzzies.  Instead, it got me to wondering.

Having already sat through countless diatribes on this very subject, my loving husband gently suggested I let the matter go.  And I did, it being Christmas and all.  But then I mentioned it again, just once.  And now I suppose I'm mentioning it yet again, to you. 

Perhaps I'm being oversensitive, but I can't help but find this outdated, moth-eaten, musty form of address to be vexing.  Is it just me?  Because in this day and age, if a woman being addressed by a man's first name is truly the only proper, genteel way of doing things, call me improper!  Just don't call me late for happy hour.  (Sorry.  Kittie made me write that.)

Especially now, when political correctness is so unbridled people are actually blaming portly Santa Claus for the collective plight of childhood obesity!  I suppose he does set a poor example, what with all his pudgy, merry philanthropy.  Some folks would even prefer him to say ha ha ha in lieu of ho ho ho.  Now, if ho ho ho has become too slutty a phrase for Jolly Old Saint Nick, surely my humble case isn't too far out there.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me go on record and say I adore being married to my husband.  I've even been known to declare that without him life would be a party I could not attend.  (I'm such a romantic.  A maudlin, morbid romantic.) 

At the risk of sounding too saccharine, I would go so far as to say I was born to marry this person. 

That said, I resent the fact that this whole issue makes me feel just a bit guilty, as if by wanting to retain my forename I'm somehow being disloyal to the love of my life.  Logically, I really don't believe one has anything to do with the other and yet...

Call me kooky, I guess I'm just one of those people who likes to see her own name in print.  Preferably on an envelope. 

xoxo

~Odd Broad Disclaimer: If you happen to be one of the myriad of souls who've addressed me in writing as Mrs. Hubby's first and last name, do not fret, for I still love you dearly.  While I may seem opinionated on the subject, I don't judge, not really.  After all, while writing this, I speedily inhaled an entire box of Annie's shells and cheese, justifying it with the comforting knowledge that at least it was organic.  To each her own, Que sera, sera, and all that.  xoxo

The Broad's Guide to Christmas

Happy Holidays, Dear Reader!  Over the years, there are several things I've learned about the holiday season that I feel I should impart to you...

1. Choose your carols with care: Please, for the love of God, don't continue to sing the opening line to John and Yoko's "Happy Christmas" while your parents are in the middle of a heated argument and you're all riding together in the car.  ("So this is Christmas...")  Curiously, I've found this song can be quite instigating when sung in an ironic manner.  At the time it may seem like an irresistibly funny thing to do, but it's just not a good idea.  Unless, of course, you want to be the reason your sweet mother drops an F bomb on The Baby Jesus' birthday.  (Sorry, Mommy)

2. Self help can sometimes hurt, especially when given in gift form: A Deepak Chopra page a day calendar is never a good choice for Dad.  Actually, I think it's probably safe to assume that self help material of any kind is off limits.  Especially if the gift giver happens to be a self righteous 18 year old.  And I do speak from experience: my own poor gift choices helped lead up to what is now referred to in my family as 1997's Christmas That Wasn't.  Well, my page a day and I can't actually take full credit for it; there were many different factors involved, and consequently many tears. 

I still remember Sissy calling over to my Auntie Donna's house late that Christmas morning. Christmas had been called off over there, too.  You see, my teenaged cousins had slept too late and wouldn't come down to open their gifts, causing my Aunt to spin into a terrible menopausal frenzy.  (Something to do with ungrateful, lazy children.)  When Sissy called over there my cousin Michael picked up the phone and their conversation went something like this:

Sissy: "Where is everyone?" 

Michael: "Over Auntie Kim's." 

Sissy: "What's going on over there?" 

Michael: "Christmas."

In the end, my Mother and Auntie Donna chose to eat dinner away from their ungrateful families while the rest of us tried to get on with the celebrating.  My sister later framed the picture of her and I standing in front of the tree, red eyed, posing with one of the very same self help books that helped instigate a Christmas that would go down in infamy.  If I remember correctly, it was a book about bowls.  How they were empty and should be filled with...oh I don't know, it was probably on sale.  I'd even gotten her the accompanying bowl journal, too. 

3. Don't stress yourself out or go into debt buying extra thoughtful gifts for every Tom, Dick, and Harriet you know:  They will only expect you to continue doing so year after year and, let's face it, who has the time?  It's a merry go round you should never get onto.  One year you're giving fabulous, thoughtful presents and the next year you're giving socks.  Or nuts in a plastic cup.  It's too large a leap; just say no and stick with something more moderate.  Something that won't attract too much attention yet isn't too crappy.

4. Respect your elders:  Do not encourage your father when he makes observations like the following, about his mother, your grandmother: "She could depress a hyena."  This is not Christmassy kind of talk.  (Sorry Gram.)

5. Think before you speak: Please don't tell your loving wife, "I already knew they wouldn't fit, I just bought them anyway."  (My sister didn't take too kindly to that statement two Christmasses ago.)

If you and your loved ones follow these rules, you are certain to have a very successful, holly jolly Christmas.  I believe this same theory may be applied to Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, too.

Happy Holidays!!

Love,

The Odd Broad

xoxo

Zoey has a lasagna in the oven

At the suggestion of my cousin Keely, I thought I'd take a moment and reflect upon the unfortunate circumstances surrounding a one Miss Jamie Lynn Spears.

I'm not sure if you read my post from November, when a mother slipped my husband a note asking him to please 'mistake' her daughter for Zoey from Zoey 101? 

He did not, of course, but the fact that someone would actually encourage such a thing disturbed us both greatly.  I can only wonder if that mother will continue to ask waiters to fool her unsuspecting daughter now that lil' Jamie Lynn is about to become somebody's mama.

Ah, Reader, this whole Spears situation just makes me feel sad.  This child has fame, fortune, and a career that most little girls dream of.  It baffles me that she had nobody around to provide her with a little guidance.  I mean, in the industry she's in, and with the track record of her older sister, nobody ever thought to talk to this teenager about practicing safe sex?  Forget about getting knocked up, what about the myriad of scary diseases out there?  In Hollywood, no less!  Honestly, is Nickleodeon planning on filming a Zoey episode on genital herpes?  I think we'd all like to see that.  Zoey 101 on Valtrex, perhaps.  (Biking and climbing mountains and rowing canoes, just like in the commercials!)

Sadly, they'll probably cancel the show instead of taking this opportunity to allow her to become a learning example for other kids.  Or, better yet, maybe MTV or VH-1 will make a reality show.  Brit's Baby Sister's Baby, perhaps. 

I do wonder about the repercussions this will have on American teens.  As if young girls don't have enough to worry about these days, what with the constant barrage of manipulative, misogynistic images they see every day on TV and in movies and magazines.  It makes my skin crawl, really it does.   

Furthermore, someone wealthy like Jamie Lynn won't ever have to worry about providing for this baby.  (Materially, not emotionally speaking, of course.)  Most teens who get pregnant don't experience this luxury.  She'll never have to stress about being able to afford formula, or Pampers, or onesies with ironic catchphrases. 

It's not that I'm blaming her, she's a child.  I blame her parents, getting filthy rich off of their two daughters yet not taking the time to protect them.  Buy the kid a box of Trojans, for eff's sake!  Did you learn nothing from the K-Fed fiasco?!

I suppose everything will work out ok, though.  After all, her baby's daddy is nineteen, and they did meet at church.   It's a match made in heaven.   

Tommy used to work on the docks

How does one determine if one's holiday soiree was a smashing success?

Did a grown man sip straight vodka through a sippy straw?  Check.

Was there multiple spillage?  Check.  (I knocked over an entire glass of "water" and then realized it was Absolute Pear.)

Did the landlord make a phone call?  Check.  (It was 2:35 am.  He just wanted to see if something was wrong with the toilet.)

Did the party break up around 4am?  Check.

Did the hostess imbibe sangria, prosecco, pinot grigio, sauvignon blanc, and champagne throughout the evening and still manage not to vomit or burst into showtunes?  Check!  (Well, there may have been one showtune, but it was pertinent to the anecdote being told.) 

Speaking of singing, around 3:30am certain noises emanating from the living room caused me to take pause. 

These sounds I speak of?  They were coming from none other than Hubby.  He was surrounded by several of his coworkers, strumming his acoustic guitar and singing Poison.  Now, my husband is an extremely skilled musician, but when he sings it means two things and two things only: one, he is highly intoxicated, and two, he will use rock star enunciation.  I was mystified when I first discovered this phenomenon...

Every rose has its thorn-AH.  Just like aaeevery night-AH has its dawn.  Just like aaaeeevery cowboy-AH, sings a saaaad, saaaad, song-AH...

In his every day life Hubby speaks in a perfect standard American dialect, yet curiously when he sings all of a sudden he's from Jersey.  And his middle name becomes Bon Jovi. 

I excused myself from the tarot card reading I was sloppily performing to put a quick end to the singalong.  Please know I was only doing this to be kind.  Hubby is ordinarily a private, reserved kind of guy.  Surely he'd thank me in the morning for saving him from singing 80's power ballads in front of his coworkers.

"OK Bret Michaels, hand over the guitar.  I'm only doing this because I love you." 

People were disappointed.  Apparently he's a real crowd pleaser.

I suppose Hubby deserved to get a little messy.  After all, he shopped, he cleaned, he'd gotten things ready while I was out that afternoon.  He passed around mini wieners and mozzarella sticks on a snowman tray.  He even fanned the napkins for a nice presentation.  And whereas my hungover self didn't take a shower until nearly 5pm today, Hubby got up and went into work. 

I must say, it was a lovely evening.  I even got to blow out the candles on an early birthday cake.  Those 2 and 9 candles kind of threw me for a loop, but just for a split second. 

I've really never been good with secrets.  Immediately after blowing out the candles I announced, "Oooh I made a good one, wanna hear?"

I did make a wish, and it was a good one, but I can't tell you what I wished for because then it won't come true.  Of course I really want to tell you though. 

But now I hear ya' found some-baaady new-AH, an' that I nev-ah meant that much ta you-AH.  Ta hear that tears me up inside-AH and ta see you cuts me-AH, like a knife, I said aaaavery rose has its thorn-AH...

You should hear him do living on a prayer. 

xoxo

Kittie turns nine, and the odd week in review

Note: The Odd Broad is on sinus meds.  (Hence the rambling nature of this post.)

On Monday Kittie turned nine.  Coincidentally, on the nineteenth I will turn twenty-nine.  I'm not sure how old that makes us in cat years, but Kittie doesn't seem to be all that concerned so I'm not either.

We gave her some wet food to celebrate.  She was very enthusiastic.  Wet Science Diet Light is to Kittie what Carvel ice cream cake is to me.

Even though she's technically a "senior cat," she's still as cute as a kitten, really she is.  Although recently she lost a tooth.  We have no idea how or when or even where the tooth went, I only know I looked at her one morning and realized it wasn't there.  It was all very mysterious.  Now when Kittie meows she resembles a toothless old man.

It's extremely endearing, of course, but I'm not sure if she'd cut it in the feline fashion world after all.

Do you recall this foolishness I speak of, by the way?  Not too long ago, when my husband wanted to introduce our Kittie into the world of feline modeling?  It all started because this lady he works with pimps out her cats for all sorts of lucrative modeling gigs.  I still don't know if Hubby was joking, but a part of me fears he wasn't. 

Anyways, the woman came into work recently and was very distraught.  You see, her cat had been shooting a print ad for baby phat and had suffered a fatal heart attack.  The poor little kitty didn't make it.  Apparently the photographer still got some good shots of her, though.

I find the whole situation to be more than a little disturbing.  Even more upsetting is the fact that this woman just placed her new kitty in "cat school."  Ah well.  To each her own.

How is the weather where you are, Dear Reader?  It was supposed to snow here today, though it didn't quite snow in my neck of the woods.  Instead, how shall I describe the watery, icy mess that rained down from the heavens?  Freezing rain?  Watery hail?  Angry ice pellets from hell?

All I know is, as I shuffled home through the slippery beige slush, I witnessed a sight that sent shivers up and down my frozen spine.  A girl walking next to me was actually wearing opened toed black patent leather sandals!  It was horrifying!  I can still see the red nail polish on her icy, wet toes.  Just looking at her made me feel colder.  Otherwise she was bundled up pretty snugly, so I wondered what had provoked her impractical choice of footwear?  Perhaps she'd lost a bet? 

I was dying to ask, but it was way too cold to talk to strangers. 

In other random news...recently I received my annual work review, where an anonymous fellow coworker noted that I "sport a ridiculously positive attitude."  I liked the sound of that.  Hubby did, too.  Ya, he had himself a real chuckle over that one.  (Apparently I sport an attitude of a different sort at home, though I can't imagine what that would be.  Ridiculously lovable, perhaps?  I think that must be it.)

And with that, I bid you good night.  Stay warm, Dear Reader.  Please don't wear any open toed shoes in the snow.  xoxo

PS- I came out of the shower this morning and happened upon this nativity scene.  Thankfully my camera was handy.  Were there any cats in the manger, I wonder?

It's the hap, happiest season of all!

I'm making a concerted effort to be more zen lately.  You know, 'tis the season and such.

On Friday morning, I was walking to the subway when I noticed the pale sun peeking out from behind a misty cloud.  It was so pretty.  This was going to be a good day, I could just feel it!

I started to cross the street but only made it about half way.  You see, there was an elderly woman behind the wheel of a car and she was doing something...strange.  She was inching her car forward, then back, then forward again.  In the middle of the road.  Obviously she was performing some sort of mystical automotive experiment. 

For a second I thought I could outwit the old lady and make a mad dash for the sidewalk, but then thought better of it.  I didn't want to become a statistic so close to Christmas, did I?

At last the old gal pulled away and I began to cross, but instantly I noticed the maroon minivan at the stop sign to the right wasn't going to let me.  "Oh, can't I just go?"  I whimpered.

I crossed the street, mumbling to myself.  "That was scary," I said to nobody in particular.

Wait a minute, the maroon minivan was slowing down.  The middle aged man inside was smiling, but I couldn't understand what he was saying.  "What?" I asked, half smiling myself.  I assumed he was saying something about the elderly old bitty and her reckless driving antics.  He drove away.

Four seconds later I realized what he'd actually said: "I don't take orders from nobody."

What the?  No, seriously, what the?

OK, I get it, I'm wanting to be zen and the only way to truly become zen is to sigh peacefully in the face of asininity.  I could do that, couldn't I? 

(Peaceful sigh.)  What the eff?  (Deep cleansing breath.)  Ya, ya, the sun looks pretty.

While on the subway, I pondered for a moment about what kind of a person would feel the need to pull over like that.  In a minivan, for Pete's sake!  (Who is Pete, by the way?  I've always wondered.)

But what would inspire someone to do that?  Was this man mental?  Did he have a family, a wife, a career?  I wanted to beat him. 

My inner voice of reason took over:  OK, that's enough, now.  I know, I know, I was there too, but you can't let something as silly as this ruin your day. 

Fine! 

I ended up having a nice day, actually.  I ordered the penne ala grecca from Angelo's for lunch, so that was a plus.  Even better, I got a bunch of bargains while shopping after work.  Initially I'd been Christmas shopping for other people, but somehow the only person I ended up buying anything for was myself. 

My last stop of the evening was Express.  I needed a top to go with my new wide leg silvery jeans.  Ooooh.  I spotted a short sleeved high necked sweater in soft gray.  At $59.95 it didn't really qualify as a steal, but it was a lovely little sweater. 

The thing was, when the girl behind the register rang me up, the sweater came out to be $69.95.  Hmmm?  I must've been tired, because I could've sworn the sweater was less than that.  I told the girl so.

"Ya," she sheepishly answered me.  "We really need to rip the tags off these."  She handed me my receipt.

"Oh, so the sweater really is $59 instead of $69?  Because the tag said $59, right?"  Now I was confused.

The girl elaborated: "Well, the price is actually $69.95, but the tags say $59.95.  That's a mistake, though, it's not the real price."

What the?

My tone was polite:  "Isn't there something you can do about it?  Because when I picked up the sweater the price tag said $59."

"No, sorry" the girl smiled. 

"Seriously?"  I asked, posing my question as benignly as possible. 

"Well, let me see" she said, and asked the blond boy ringing next to her.

Blondie looked like he'd been born annoyed.  "Ya, no, the sweaters are $69, the tag is wrong."

"Yes, but the tag is still attached to the sweater..." I started.  We're these people for reals?

"I'm sorry," the girl whispered as she gave me my bag.

"Oh, it's ok..."  I began to walk away, aware that this was exactly the sort of thing that would piss me off in the wee hours of the morning.  When I heard them call someone over to remove all the tags from the sweaters I realized I'd have to be a big girl and get my frigging ten bucks back.  It was the principle of the matter.

Balancing the three heavy bags I was already holding, I walked over to the rack and chose a sweater.  All of the tags still said $59.95. 

This was going to be awkward.  I smiled politely.  "Seriously, I really think you should give me the refund.  This tag is wrong and it's still on every sweater."

The blond haired boy got nastier.  Maybe his Spring Awakening audition hadn't gone so well that morning.  "Fine!"  He spat.  "Just give it to her!"   

You'd think I'd been asking him to donate a kidney or something.  The girl took the next customer as I waited.  Blondie also continued to take customers, and I continued to wait.  I was so zen.

When the girl finally refunded me my lousy ten bucks, I said, "thank you, I really appreciate it."

She said nothing.  I'm glad to report she had the greasiest hair ever.  It was just awful.  Way too much product.  At least I have that to hold onto.

How has your holiday shopping been going, Dear Reader?  Run into any dickheads at the mall lately?  I hope not.  Truly I do. 

xoxo 

Gettin' my patch buzz on

Did I ever tell you my nicotine patch story?  It will only take a minute.

Back in the day, before hubby was my hubby, he was my boyfriend and he smoked.  Hubby smoked a pack of Marlboro's a day for almost five years. 

Now, nobody in my family smokes.  (Well, except for my cousin Little Jimmy, though I'm pretty sure we all ridiculed him into stopping.  As in, Aw, look at Little Jimmy light up!  How adorable!)

At the time I thought hubby was so rugged with his cigarettes and his bleached hair and his baggy pants.  He was in a rock band.  He played poker with the guys every Thursday night.  He was the kind of kid who would staple the hem of his jeans when they ripped, yet would write me poetry on my birthday.  Ahhh.

The summer before we moved from Boston to New York together, hubby decided he was going to quit smoking.  Oddly, I'd never voiced an opinion one way or the other, but I was very supportive.  I even bought him the patch.

One morning the two of us got up extra early to drive to New York to find an apartment.  It was muggy and hubby must've sweated off his patch during the night, because when I awoke it was stuck firmly to the side of my arm.  Hmmm, that was weird.  Shrugging, I pulled it off, but it wasn't too long before I noticed I was feeling rather...strange.

Come to think of it, I was feeling fantastic!!  I bounded out of the room, curiously bursting with early morning energy.  Let's go to New York!!  Come on, wake up, sleepy!!  Get ready!!  Rise and shine!!  Start spreadin' the news... 

My patch buzz lasted almost twenty minutes before I ran to the bathroom and threw up.  Three times.

After that I was markedly subdued. 

My blue fitted sheet still has a tiny square mark where I must've stuck the patch after I ripped it off of my arm.  The stain never did come out.  I call it my patch sheet. 

Amazingly, hubby hasn't had a smoke in over seven years.  He applied his last patch the day we moved to the big apple.  I'm sure it wasn't easy.

In all these years, there was only one time early on when he nearly had a relapse.  We'd gotten into a fight over God knows what, and he'd gone to the corner mart and bought a pack of cigarettes.  Please.  Who did he think he was dealing with here?  I wasn't about to be the reason for his breaking his smoking hiatus!

Vehemently I grabbed the pack, hurled it to the ground and squashed it, right there on the sidewalk.  It was quite the show.  Hubby looked on, stunned.  (He tends to be the more civilized type, you see.) 

Up until that moment I figured I'd been pretty nonpartisan about his smoking.  It was only when he threatened to start again that I realized I was anything but neutral.

Hubby hasn't purchased another pack since, but if he does, I will have to squash it.  I will have to squash those butts with fervor.  After all, that's what I'm here for.

xoxo 

 

Do a little dance

Somehow I managed to pull myself away from my little angel of a nephew to be a bridesmaid in my cousin Stephen's wedding this past Saturday.

I danced till I dropped that night.  I shudder to think of the moves I performed on that dance floor.  For me, wedding dancing means two things:  one, I am now unable to move either of my legs without wincing, and two, I was very, very intoxicated. 

Three and a half robust glasses of pinot grigio on an empty stomach means something different to everyone.  For me, I suppose it means I will spontaneously break into aggressive dance.  Such is life.

I had to dance at Stevie's wedding, though.  Over the years my cousin and I have had a number of memorable adventures together.  There was the time he saved his brother Mikey and me from a garden snake.  We must've been about four or five.  "Stand back, I'll handle this!"  Stephen solemnly instructed us, and Mikey and I obeyed, clutching each other on top of the picnic table. 

"OK, you guys ready?"  Stevie waited about five seconds before calling out, "Maaaaaa!"   

That story didn't really translate when I told it at a keg party in high school.  "Stevie!  Remember when you saved us from the snake?!  Remember?"

We got thrown out of a bar on his 26th birthday.  It was also New Year's Eve and my husband's band was also playing at the time.  This was not one of our finer moments.

Curiously, from the nose down, everybody says Stephen and I look exactly alike.  Apparently we have the same mouth.  My husband finds this comparison extremely bothersome, and I can't say I blame him.

Creepy twin mouths aside, the wedding was lovely.  There was a tense moment at the rehearsal, though, when our cousin Little Jimmy showed up with an enormous bandage on his right cheek.  Everyone assumed a bar fight was to blame, but Jimmy promptly informed us he'd been whacked with a two by four at work.  He'd gotten eight stitches.  It was the day before the wedding.  What were the odds?

Naturally, the bride was none too pleased.  Perhaps we could find a bandage to match his tuxedo? 

He and my uncle were my partners walking down the aisle.  Uncle had badly hurt his leg recently so he was limping and wearing a sandal on one foot, and half of Jimmy's face was bandaged up.  We made a good looking trio.

I feel I should mention, at 22, Lil' Jimmy is certainly no longer little.  He's a man.  His dad is Big Jim, though Little Jim outweighs him now by probably 100 pounds.  All this won't stop us from calling him Lil' Jim for the rest of his life, of course. 

It would be hours later at the rehearsal dinner, when Stephen and his fiance were giving out gifts and saying sentimental things, when Jimmy would reveal to everyone his bandage was nothing but a hoax. 

He'd really had us going there.  We were all most impressed by his ingenuity.

The idea had dawned on him while he was stopped at a red light.  He'd glanced over at the person in the next car and saw that his face was all bandaged up.  Hmmm.  Lil' Jim called his Mother for guidance and asked if his plan was too sick a thing to do to his cousin the night before his wedding.

My Aunt's response?  "I'll tape you up!"

I should also mention he had the priest very concerned as well.  "What happened to you, son?"

Little Jim later told me he paused at that moment, perhaps experiencing a conflict of morals before answering, "I got hit by a two by four, father." 

Well, he'd gone this far, why stop now?  You can't say he's not committed. 

All in all, the wedding was a fun event.  I wished my sister could have been there, but she and her husband were home, cuddling with their beautiful little miracle. 

I got to see my nephew again on my way back to New York yesterday.  We rocked together and I told him, in my obsessive compulsive style, how very very very much I loved him. 

He seemed to say the same thing back.

xoxo