Yes, Okay, I Miss the Butcher

It’s been a week and I’m ready to have his sorry ass back home.

Let’s use science to explore why.

In the past seven days:

Number of people who have asked me every single evening how my day was and were actually interested: 0

Number of heavily tattooed green mohawked idiots who don’t read Chinese and yet have some Chinese characters they hope mean “pain” tattooed very visibly on the back of their necks who have called and said “Hey, there, B., how you doing?” and to whom I have said “Are you going to marry me, yet or what?” who have replied in return, “Not yet.” and laughed before saying “Is the idiot there?”: 0

Number of heavily tattooed scrawny ex-army dudes who’ve come over to see if the Butcher can drive them to the grocery store, which is about 15 blocks from here, even though they walk from here to the river for their job and back every day: 0

Number of red-headed kids who’ve arrived unannounced to sit in my brown chair and say “Dude, you’re not going to believe…” and backed it up with some crazy ass story you wouldn’t ever believe, except that the redheaded kid is always getting into the strangest trouble: 0

Number of elaborate wrestling matches complete with body slams that the orange cat has been involved in: 0

Number of nights I’ve come home dog tired and hating my life only to find someone ready to take me out to dinner unannounced: 0

Number of times I’ve been sitting on the couch and thought of some random thing, like when the cat we had in high school ate the sausage off the last little bit of pizza and even though the kid who would go on to be a neo-Nazi saw the cat eat off it, still picked it up and ate the rest of it, and I can start to say “Do you remember when the cat ate…” only to have the Butcher be reminded of that former future neo-Nazi’s one-eyed cat who snuck into the church during communion one Christmas eve and how the high school football team thought they should chase him, so he says “How did that linebacker fit under that pew anyway?” and I start laughing and he start laughing, because we both know exactly what I just told you without having to go through it: 0

Number of times I’ve forgotten that there’s no toilet paper in the upstairs bathroom and wished someone could bring me up some so that I wouldn’t have to waste Kleenex: 3

Number of times I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to check to see if he was home yet, half pissed off because it’s my car, damn it and he’s out there gallivanting around with it, only to realize that he’s not: 1

Number of hours that I’ve spent cleaning the living room which I would say looks like a frat house except that would be an insult to frat houses everywhere: 0 —Ha, ha, sucker! I left the mess for you.

The Wedding Fiasco

This weekend’s wedding may be the most amusing family wedding in recent history. Let us count the ways it is already a fiasco:

1. My aunt and uncle are very concerned about doing this wedding right. Now, I guess to them, being prominent business people in a famous small Midwestern city, it matters. To the rest of us, not so much. And so they invited a bunch of us to a rehearsal dinner that it seems the groom’s parents neglected to actually have.

This should not matter. There’s a minister in the family and a minister at the church. Between the two of them, they can get the teams into a huddle and call the plays right before anyone walks down the aisle. Or there could be a rehearsal and we all go to McDonald’s or back to our hotels or whatever.

But, no, somehow my aunt and uncle have pulled a rehearsal dinner right out of their asses.

2. In part, this is to cover for the immense shame they seem to feel because my cousin and her fiance bought a house together and moved in together like six months ago. We all had to hear the elaborate explanation for why this was the most economically sound decision they could make and how, once they bought the house, it was unreasonable for my aunt and uncle to insist that he continue to live in his apartment.

Setting aside the obvious “Why do they get to tell him where he lives?” crap, the man’s my age. Sweet Jesus. If a thirty-one year old man wants to marry your daughter but does not want to fuck her, he is THE GAY!!!! Be relieved that they fuck. Be happy everyone knows. Christ.

3. Speaking of gay, apparently, my mom outted me to the whole family. Thanks Mom. Detective Mom discerned that I was thirty-one and not married, assumed that I was not eating babies at the dinner table and didn’t shit myself in public, and figured ‘well, shoot, some man ought to have snapped her up by now, what’s the problem?’ and then met the Professor a couple of times and put 2 and 1 together and got 4.

She didn’t want me to be uncomfortable at the wedding, so she “smoothed the way” for me.

Because, of course, there’s nothing smoother than having to spend a whole evening going “No, I’m not actually gay, I’m just socially inept.”

4. Which is fine, really, because the other choice was to bring the Man from GM, which was the plan. He was going to drive over from Detroit and accompany me. Yes, my parents have had me married off to him in their heads for fifteen years. Yes, nothing would make them happier than to see me dancing around with him and them telling all the cousins “Yes, he’s got a great job.” And, despite all that bullshit, I was still going to bring him anyway.

And then he came to visit.

Let us not revisit that awkward time.

But anyway, suffice to say, as much as I love him, if I see him again, I’m going to have to punch him in the face and, having never punched anyone in the face before, I need to develop my skills before then.