Strange Bedfellows – Or, What to Do When Your Brother Sleeps with Your In-Laws.

The thing I loved most about JT's proposal was that both of our families were represented when it went down (JT is, obvs, my now-husband. It's my nickname for him. And now yours, too!). His parents, Dawn and Jeff, were on the beach in Ocean City with us while his grandparents watched from our condo balcony 11 stories above. My brother, Eric, and sis-in-law, Nik, were there, too, getting some kick-ass candid photos of the whole thing (which they later had blown up and framed for me. Did I mention how hard my people rock?)

The thing I could have done without, however, happened later that night, when my brother decided he could not wait until the wedding to make the union of our two families official and attempted so sleep with JT”s parents.

Let's take it from the top.

Immediately after the proposal and subsequent 15 zillion phone calls to everyone we've ever met, JT and I wanted to celebrate. We decided to grab Eric and Nik and haul our little party to the boardwalk to eat, drink and merry it up.

We hopped on the Boardwalk Bus and soon learned it is not nearly as interesting for people watching mid-day as it is, say, midnightish when the drunken hoards begin to board. I once watched a swaying, slurring man disembark, sprint to the next stop and re-board. For six consecutive blocks. Each time he got on, he thought it was a different bus. He would get on, realize it wasn't headed in his desired direction, hop off, hoof it two blocks, then jump back on. Not one of us other passengers offered him any help, as we were too busy taking bets to see if he'd make it to the next stop. We let out a collective “Awww!” when the bus driver finally informed him he was effing nuts and couldn't get back on. And then an “Ewww!” as we all watched him ralph on the sidewalk. God, I love free entertainment.

Anyway, there was none of that on this trip (somewhat sadly) and we reached our destination, a bayside bar with all that tacky tiki crap on the walls and drinks served in coconuts, even though the closest native coconut is thousands of miles away.

So we found ourselves in this pseudo oasis drinking and talking about possible wedding ideas. That lasted about ten minutes before Eric got fed up and shouted, “You've been engaged one hour! No one gives a shit if you think the ring bearer's boutonniere should include an 'element of whimsy!'” So I told JT to stop all his wedding rambling (ahem) and we all spent the day just relaxing and generally being really really happy.

Drinks turned into dinner and what we thought looked like a fun Mexican spot on the boardwalk turned out to be a black hole where space and time are distended and what should be an hour-long meal turns into a 17-year social experiment in how much torture one person can sustain from a rude, slow and all-around terrible waitress before stabbing themselves in the jugular with a tortilla chip. After this particular girl took an hour to get our drinks, another 30 minutes to take our food order, delivered the (wrong) disgustingly undercooked meals, abandoned us for another 90 minutes, then took my debit card long enough to steal my identity and bid on all of eBay, JT and Eric literally just left. As I told them I was sure she'd return any minute with my poor abused card, they said they couldn't take another minute and needed a drink. So the boys took off in search of alcohol furnished by a human rather than a succubus, and Nik and I waited another 45 minutes so I could sign my debit slip and get the holy eff out of there. 

So Nik and I went to find the boys, and by the time we did in a tiny, sparsely populated dive bar a few blocks down, we had some catching up to do. We all calmed down from the disastrous dinner and tried to salvage the rest of our day. We played obnoxious hip hop and pop music on the jukebox, pumped quarters in the MegaTouch machine and laughed and carried on to the point of being OK again.

Until suddenly, we were very much not OK.

I believe it all began when JT decided to switch his drink of choice, lite beer, to Bud Light Platinum. I blame this choice for all of the following: 

JT sitting down Indian-style in the middle of a two-lane highway. Twice.

JT mounting a Dumpster.

JT punching an empty pizza box that was sitting atop of garage can (Not in like a weird, rage way. In an epically uncoordinated, bizarrely comedic way).

JT demanding I take him to a restaurant we'd eaten at once before where I'd gotten an order of their specialty: french fries topped with crab dip and cheese. Damn, those suckers were good, and JT had taken a few bites and remarked as such. Suddenly, those fries became a matter of national importance to my sloshed sweetheart. I'm pretty sure the astronauts in the Space Station heard his cry of “Crab fries!!!!” I took him there simply to get him to shut the eff up. Also, I kind of wanted some crab fries.

Nik and Eric laughed and laughed at all of this, as they too were feeling no pain. But they hadn't just

promised to take this man in holy matrimony, so I imagine their perspective of the whole spectacle was not nearly as “What the eff?” as mine.

We finally made it back to the condo, where the family was getting ready for bed. They all gathered around JT and howled as we regaled them with stories about his shenanigans, and cried laughing while watching him attempt to eat his crab fries in any kind of dignified manner. Cheese and crab everywhere, I tell you. We all laughed, had a few fries ourselves, put JT to bed on the pull-out couch, and called it a night. As the condo only had two bedrooms occupied by JT's parents and grandparents, Eric and Nik slept on an air mattress in the middle of the living room, and I snuggled up on the floor. JT's parents retired to their room, as did the grandparents, us all shouting “goodnights” at each other “Leave it to Beaver” style. I closed my eyes with a smile on my face, and conked out.

The next thing I heard was the concerned voice of JT's dad, Jeff, nudging me awake. (A note: Jeff has the best southern accent I've ever heard in my life. It's not super thick, just twangy enough to make his roots known. But Jeff is hysterically funny, known for perfectly-timed one-liners and something about that accent amplifies the hilarity in everything he says. So, with that in mind, moving on.)

“Darlin'?” I heard Jeff utter quietly, but firmly.

“Rumphff,” I answered, peeling my eyelids open. The only light in the condo crept out from the Dawn and Jeff's bedroom. It was almost pitch black.

“Rachel? Honey?”

OK, now I knew something was up, and it likely wasn't good. I snapped to consciousness.

“Yeah, Jeff, what's up? You OK?”

“Oh, I am darlin'. But you're gonna have to come getcher brother out of my bed.”

As thing has gone on FAR too long at this point, I will deem this TO BE CONTINUED. More (oh so much more) to come.

For a person who’s only happy when her never-ending to-do list has more checks than blank boxes, the last year has been enough to drastically up my investment in the sweet, sweet magic elixir/nerve-soother that is boxed wine. These days, my monthly recycling includes enough of these kicked bad boys to make a fort...or at least a small enclosure for an animal. Every time the bins have to go to the curb, I pray my neighbors assume I either a.) have a party every weekend with guests who apparate into my house Harry Potter-style, thus eliminating the need for street parking or b.) travel around all week snatching the boxes from hobos in attempts to get them off the sauce.

But I know none of this is true. And they know it too. And I know they know. But! What they don’t know is why.

Why have I become connaisseur of crappy wine with names like “Sunset Blush” and “Crisp White?” Why do I need something to calm the ceaseless list of Things To Do that runs on a loop in my mind any time it’s idle (and, often, when it’s very  much not idle and in the middle of, oh, I don’t know, Important Stuff That Requires My Full Attention)?

I’ve needed this because I got married. And bought a house. All in a one-year span.

Even if you’re not like me, and the term Type A means absolutely nothing to you…..even if the idea of SO MUCH CHANGE doesn’t render your daily heartburn medication useless...EVEN IF you prefer to galavant through life willy nilly-style without so much as an idea of what needs to be done, let alone a calendar on your phone that beeps every time you need to do something (a.k.a. every 15 seconds)… you have to admit that buying a house, packing, moving, planning a wedding and getting married are probably things best spread out over a period of, say, at least a decade.

Kidding, of course. I know there are tons of people who can pull this kind of stuff off in way less time (and with way more grace) than I did. I also know I put an absurd amount of pressure on myself to do things perfectly. I also know that perfection doesn’t exist. But try explaining that to my poor, spastic brain after 32 years of self-imposed abuse. It ain’t happening. So, yes, doing two whole things in one year is not that big of a deal...to most.

To me, it was a year of extreme highs and lows. There were days I was so excited and joy-filled I thought I might break into a soft shoe on my way to my office printer. There were days I felt so overwhelmed, I wanted to crawl into one of the several cubby holes in my new house and never come out. But most of all, there were days when something happened that struck me as so insanely, randomly hilarious, that I just had to make sure I remembered it.

And that’s exactly what I did. I wrote about the silly things, the oddball times, the moments no one could have planned for, no matter how high-strung you are. And those are the stories I intend to share here. They won’t be in any particular order, and I’ll probably pop in an update or even a brand new entry from time to time, based on whatever’s going on.

Some advice: these read a lot better when paired with a glass of “Delicious White” or “Fruity Sangria - Red.” Most of them were written with one nearby, anyway.

Happy reading!