Back in August, a few of you got the late-night emergency text message reading, "CODE RED! STAT! STAT! My Mom got engaged!"
No, I was not drunk, nor high on hallucinogenic mushrooms. Although I really wish I had been (both).
Turns out, Mom is getting married.
The wedding is to be held on a riverboat, with dinner and dancing and champagne. Let's stop here for a minute. Now, anybody who has ever met my Mom's side of the family or heard my (totally true) tales of them immediately realized that this wedding was a bad idea as soon as they heard the word "riverboat." It does NOT make sense to take a bunch of drunk rednecks and put them on the river. ("But Haley," you say, "drunk rednecks on the river is your typical Saturday in Tennessee." TRUE DAT. However, there is a difference between a twenty-year old fishing boat spray-painted camo and loaded with cans of Natural Light puttering down the Hiwassee and a stuffy riverboat complete with linen napkins and champagne flutes docked in downtown Chattanooga.) I have no idea how many of her own relatives Mom intends to invite, but I suspect that my family numbers will drop by approximately 33% after a chunk of them (most of whom cannot swim) individually tumble into the water while looking for a place to piss after filling their bladders with the moonshine they snuck onto the boat in mason jars in their coat pockets.
Please note that losing half my family to a fatal wedding drowning would not upset me in the least, and MIGHT even get me on Dateline (yet again, my second-in-line lifetime wish).
Anyway, once you move beyond the particulars of the wedding party deathtrap, you get my mother and her intended, Chip, who have apparently learned to ballroom dance for the occasion. DOES THIS SOUND SAFE? Not just no, but HELL NO. My Mom can't walk across the room in a two-inch chunk heel with someone holding her hand for stabilization. Yet she plans to FOXTROT ON A RIVERBOAT? AWESOME. (For the record, I will indeed laugh at this if I am still sober enough to be conscious. I know what you're thinking--I could be one of the drunken fall-off-the-boaters. Sadly (for you, not for me) I am an extremely strong swimmer, even in icy November water, so PUT THAT IN YOUR FUCKING PIPE AND SMOKE IT, ASSHOLES.) You can rest assured that I plan to have EMS on standby to haul her ass off to the hospital and get her hip replaced, as necessary, seeing as how we all know how graceful Mom can be. (My daughter gets it from her Ya Ya.)
Let's not overlook the fact that this wedding will be blending Chip's Yankee-Family-From-Michigan and my Mom's Family of We-Ain't-Got-No-'Lectricity-In-Our-Trailer-Where-I-Married-My-Cousin. What will these northerners THINK when they meet us? I mean, seriously. Honey Boo Boo's family has to have a translator closed-captioning for the masses so that normal people can understand what the hell they say. Shouldn't that be a concern for us as we blend at this soiree? I FUCKING THINK SO. But does anybody ever listen to my GREAT IDEAS? Not really. Surprised, aren't you?
Aside from the logistics of it all, people keep asking me how I feel about the wedding. Who CARES how I feel about the wedding? What people SHOULD be asking is "HOW IN THE HOLY FUCK DID YOUR MOM FIND SOMEBODY TO PUT UP WITH HER?" The obvious answer, of course, is because she's MY mom. Everybody knows I'm awesome. But Chip barely knows me so that can't be the answer. What IS the answer? I don't know. What I DO know is that Zach and I are both eternally grateful to Mom for snagging herself a new future. MOM WILL NEVER COME LIVE WITH EITHER OF US. She's in Chip's hands now.
Hallelujah. Praise Jesus.
And that, my friends, is reason enough for a drink. Salut!