I’m Pretty Sure I’m Only 65 Percent Crazy

So on Saturday we went to a small reception to celebrate our nephew’s wedding. He got married in a beautiful ceremony in Colorado and his parents threw a party for those in Oklahoma that couldn’t attend.

Now, before marriage and kids, getting ready for an event wasn’t that complicated. I only had to worry about what I’m wearing and how I look. But now I have a husband and one teenage son left at home. If you’re in the same boat, you know what that means. It now falls on you to make sure EVERYBODY is ready to walk out the door in the appropriate attire.

Easier said than done.

It started with me asking The Husband Dude what he would be wearing.

THD: A tank top and shorts.

Me: You are?

THD: Yeah. Why? What are you wearing?

Me: A dress. I mean, not a formal, but a dress.

THD: It’s just a get-together, right?

Me: It’s a wedding reception. We got a real invitation and everything.

THD: *Blank stare*

I know he’s trying to figure out the correlation between receiving a real invitation and what he should be wearing. See, I have a theory that the level of invitation you receive dictates what you wear.

For example, a verbal invitation dictates casual dress.

A black matte three piece card with silver glittery embossing on it is probably going to elicit cocktail attire from me.

A beach theme invitation means coconut bra. No?

Well this invitation was not formal, but there were flourishes.

Flourishes.

Flourishes don’t mean a wife beater and shorts with holes in them.

Am I right?

THD: I guess I’ll wear my jeans and my black shirt. I’m riding the bike today.

Ok…this is another thing. In good weather months, we never drive anywhere as a family. THD rides his motorcycle and I have to drive Shane and myself in the car. Sometimes this irritates me. But then I remember our road trip last summer.

And I remember that by the time we made it from Tulsa to Abilene, he was ready to drive straight to the airport and fly home.

To be fair, I WAS being a bit of a nag. You know, saying dumb shit like, “Why are you running through a stop sign?!?” and “That was a pedestrian!”

I mean, who wouldn’t get pissed off about that?

I mean, I have no idea why I Googled “places to file for divorce in Fort Stockton”.

So, yeah, maybe a little transportation separation is healthy for our marriage.

Still, I can’t help but sometimes feel that he’s married to “Lady Blue” and I’m just the side chick.

I can’t help but think that Shemar Moore and Keaneu Reeves would NEVER do this to me.

Then again, Shemar and Keaneu would probably not put up with my level of batshit crazy, so maybe we’re even that way.

For the record, I’m only 65% crazy. The Husband Dude would tell you that number is probably more like 95% but this is my blog, and I’m in charge of the random percentages and statistics. Besides, I calculated it.

Each of my parents got some batshit crazy from their families. So, we’ll just say they each gave me 25% for a total of 50%. Now mind you, this was before I got married and had kids.

See, I have this theory that getting married automatically increases your crazy by 10%. It pretty much happens sometime between the cocktail hour and cutting the cake. That brings me up to 60%.

Then I got pregnant. That’ll increase you by a good 25% at least but some of that goes away after you give birth. So I kept 5% which brings me up to 65%. So see? I’m only 65% crazy!

But wait…I did forget to figure in the other stuff. Even though you lose some of the pregnancy crazy, there’s the lack-of-sleep-crazy, potty-training-crazy, do-your-fucking-homework-crazy, and my-kids-are-teenagers-and-know-everything-crazy.

The road trip last summer had to have added at least another 45%. So that brings us up to somewhere around 375%.

Never mind…the lowball estimate of 95% is ok by me.

And speaking of teenagers…not 10 minutes after the wardrobe discussion with The Husband Dude, Shane, our 15 year old, comes downstairs and I remind him to wear something nice.

Shane: Something nice?

Me: Not fancy. Just nice. Jeans are fine but wear a nice shirt, not a T-shirt.

Shane: Jeans? But it’s like 87 degrees outside.

Life father, like son.

I just spent 45 minutes painting a different look on my face, shoving my Girls into a torture device called a “halter bra” and shimmying into control top underwear that has pushed all the fat from my belly up under my armpits.

But y’all just keep bitching about having to wear Big Boy pants, m’kay?

As soon as we show up, I point out to Shane that the grooms are both wearing jeans and nice shirts. This seems to placate him.

But The Husband Dude, on the other hand, can’t wait to point out that my brother-in-law, the host, is wearing shorts.

I’m about to go on a diatribe about how it’s better to be safe than sorry.

 

I’m about to point out that his sister has laid out their mother’s good china on the dining room table and I myself would feel greatly under-dressed in casual attire.

But he is too busy eating straight out of the candy bowl instead of using the dainty little spoon his sister put there to scoop the candy out.

I’ve told him before that he eats like a caveman and he apparently wears it proudly like a badge. So I give him side-eye and he gives me side-eye back. Then he slips his arm around my waist and actually picks up a real piece of china.

This is marriage.

On the drive home, I’m following behind him. I hate watching him ride his motorcycle. It’s too nerve-wracking. I’m always worried some dumbass will hit him.

“Come Sail Away” by Styx comes on the radio and I start getting a little teary-eyed. I’m thinking about how he’s sometimes a caveman, but he’s MY caveman. And he gave me the mini-caveman sitting in the seat next to me, playing with his i-Phone.

And I’m also getting teary-eyed because he told me once that he wants this song played at his funeral. I can’t hear this song anymore without thinking about that.

Until that one part comes on. You know the part. It’s the musical interlude with the synthesizers that sounds like the backdrop to an acid-fueled trip to outer space.

That part of the song lasts for fucking ever. Seriously…when they actually pressed records, I bet that song took up half of one side.

Now I know why he wants it played at his funeral. That part annoys the shit out of me. It’s his last chance to get on my last nerve.

Well played, Caveman. Well played.

Congratulations and Mazel Tov, Kevin and Dan!