Oh, little brother! Can you feel it? Can you feel it coming on fast and quick, like a semi bearing down in the dead of night, on a rain-slicked highway with steam rising up, its horn blaring a warning from afar? BA-ROOO! BA-ROOOOO!
Oh, my goodness. What have you done?
“Do you know your brother’s wedding is just six weeks away?” asked my wife. I think I was eating ice cream and inhaled the spoon.
Oh, crap! Crap for him, not for me.
I don’t mean the institution of marriage itself. I mean the act of getting married. The hullabaloo that comes with it. The planning, the flowers, the food, the clothes, the family. If not for family, marriage would be a piece of cake. Why do you think wedding chapels in Vegas do so well? No family around, and you can go play blackjack afterwards.
More importantly, no mothers. And mine is coming this weekend for last minute preparations. She has big plans.
Oh, little brother!
My mother was General Patton in another life. He was reincarnated as a short Cuban lady who thinks she’s Scarlett O’Hara and treats the weddings of her two boys like the Allied conquest of Europe. “We will beat the Nazis and the Fascists with wreaths on every table … filled with oranges, strawberries and some lovely grape vines from my arbor. Now you maggots get to work.”
She directs. She orders. She bosses and explains until your teeth go numb and the wrinkles fall out of your pants. Then she explains again, just in case you missed it the first time, and tells you not only why you’re wrong, but why you’re wrong and should go soak your head in a bucket. And if you need further explanation, she’ll give it to you.
My mother could bring world leaders down to quivering knees, as much for her brusqueness as her ability to talk a mountain into jumping off a cliff.
“Anything, lady, just be quiet!”
Don’t feel sorry for my mother. She would never hear of it. She literally would never hear of it, because if you tried to tell her how you think her sons should be nicer, she would already be three conversations down the road and about to start into why she thinks dyes from India are making her sneeze.
But I feel for my brother. I went through it once before, and I am quite happy to be out of that seat now.
What will this weekend be like? Well, my mother wants to see the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner will be held so she can plan the decorations and arrangements. I can just picture as she calls aside the manager.
“Young man, is there any way to remove this wall here so we can have this lovely French cabinet I bought sit right where that bar is? It will just be delightful and set the mood. And while we’re at it, I don’t think the dark blue works in here at all, and I’m really picturing more of a cream. I would also like the building to face east. We’re going to have to cut skylights into the roof and what’s your feeling on farm animals in the restaurant? I’m picturing goats strolling through to create the perfect French country ambiance.”
It’s usually at these moments that people spontaneously combust. There’s no other way out.
There will be heated arguments between my mother and brother about the direction of critical things, like which way the napkins will be folded. My brother started drinking weeks ago to prepare for this weekend. And I kid you not about the napkins. My mother, schooled in the fineries of insanity, does things like this.
“Oh, Scott! That is so tacky. You never fold a napkin like that in November. That is a spring fold, and I raised you better than that! I’m so ashamed.”
Oh, little brother, what have you wrought? Well, better you than me.