My sister-in-law, Jennifer, is joyfully getting married this weekend. All of us are participating in the wedding: Mary Mac is the flower girl, Chandler the ring bearer, and Chase is a junior groomsman. John and I are in the wedding party as well, with the distinct honor, I believe, as oldest bridesmaid and oldest groomsman in the history of mankind. Instead of carrying flowers, I will be carrying a pillbox and using a cane.
Thank you. I’ll be here all week.
Yesterday, around 5:30 in the afternoon, I tried on the lovely bridesmaid dress to make sure that the number of tomato sandwiches and ice cream bars eaten this summer had not adversely affected my ability to swath myself in turquoise chiffon.
The dress fit, so I also slipped on the strappy sandals with three-inch heels to get the full effect, practicing an elegant stride while hoping to overcome the unfortunate wobble reflected in the mirror. No luck. I still looked like a fancy dressed giraffe.
I was finishing my last wobble, when I heard Chandler yell from the front of the house, “MOOMMM, the pizza guy is here!”
Except I didn’t order a pizza.
Then Chase bellowed, “Moommmm, this guy want to talk to you!”
Using my keen deduction skills, I quickly summarized the situation as this: Chandler – who would have a long-winded, emphatic lecture punctuated with many hand gestures in his very near future - answered the knock at the front door and then allowed a strange man into the house. Apparently, summer brain made him forget about the potential of evil kidnappers lurking behind locked doors even though he has heard me speak of said kidnappers since he was a toddler.
My husband was not home, so I wobbled rapidly to the front of the house, in all of my strapless chiffon glory. My mind was whirling, wondering if I could use my new heels as a weapon and if my dress would stay modestly in place when I used my favorite Ninja move on the unsuspecting invader now in my home.
I arrived at the front door to find a man in his early twenties, satchel in hand, ready to sell an array of children’s books. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, incredulously eyeing the formal attire I had chosen for the afternoon.
“Hello,” I responded. “You caught me in the middle of mopping my kitchen floor.” Smirk, smirk.
Book boy did not think that I was funny.
“Well, I was wondering if you would be interested in hearing about some educational books I may have for your children,” he persisted.
“Do you have one that cautions children TO NEVER OPEN A DOOR TO A STRANGER WHEN THE CHILD’S MAMA IS TRYING ON CHIFFON?!” I delicately asked.
“Thanks for coming by but I don’t think that I am interested.” I continued.
My ten year old, Chase, watching the entire interaction by my side, waited patiently to offer his input. He slowly looked at the boy salesman, and then back at me, and then said, “Mom, are you trying to get a date for the prom?”
The red-faced salesman turned his back, walking briskly to his car, muttering something about middle-aged women who thought they were funny and smart alec ten year olds who thought they were even funnier.
The sales boy is just lucky I didn’t use my cane on him.