Turns out that taking 6 major road trips, most of them out of state, in about a month’s period of time makes me very sleepy, behind on laundry, and least surprisingly: a slow writer. Whoops!
Where were we? I believe we’d just arrived back home from the Catholic Marketing Network show on a Thursday night (late, late at night) to discover that our air conditioning was still not fixed. Turns out, I am a Georgia girl after all. A wilting little flower who needs her cool, dehumidified air blasting from every direction lest I sweat through my clothes, gross everybody out, and whine everyone to death. Don’t get me wrong, I’m trying hard to offer up my suffering for the Holy Souls and I do pretty well with pain, exhaustion, and seemingly endless cleaning, but make me sweat when there’s nothing to dry it off and cool me down…and I’m a big old baby.
The AC had been out in our townhouse for the entire week with no windows having been open or fans being blown (we were fortunately gone, remember?) It was a sauna in there. And my husband, the only person on earth who hates humid heat more than (or even as much as) I do, was my hero. He rigged an old ac unit that we’d been trying to sell on craigslist all summer to blow directly at our pull-out couch where we slept for the rest of the weekend. Because his Friday morning phone call to the leasing office only elicited a weary, “We’ll get there when we get there and it probably won’t be today” type of response. (In his defense, he was shaking so hard with trying not to lose his well-earned temper with the couldn’t-care-less office staff that he had to just hang up to keep from yelling at them. He has more patience than I do.)
So we sweated out the weekend and probably learned some really valuable lessons about how much we’d like to spend as little time in purgatory as possible. Actually, I’m hoping that at least the 24 hours of that where the weather got well into the 90s will count towards our stints. Of course, this brings up the question of if my vocation is to get him into Heaven, should I be turning off the AC more frequently? Oh, I hope not.
To wrap up a rather boring and gross half of the story: He called the office again on Monday morning asking not if, but when TODAY our air conditioning that had been broken for over a week would be fixed. And this time it worked magic. He must have been speaking to the right person, because not only did they come to fix it right away, but they also fixed our alarm, our blinds, and will supposedly be giving us a new microwave touchpad that we did not ask for or complain about very soon. Actually, I kind of like our weird microwave. It has buttons for baked potatoes and popcorn. I don’t know why they want to fix it. Suffice it to say that he got all the things fixed just in time for us to pack our bags back up (still no unloading from the last time, just washing dirty clothes) and head back out on the road.
Leg three of our adventures took us back up past where we’d just been and all the way to New York. A college friend of my husband’s was getting married at a beautiful college chapel just north of the Bronx and it was the most beautiful weather for a wedding ever. I prefer to cover my head in the presence of Our Lord, so after much awkward shuffling trying to figure out whether it was, in fact, a Catholic chapel (we were trying to see if the Blessed Sacrament was reserved there–it was, but waaaay on the side and boy were the bride’s parents confused at my leaning around door frames looking for a tabernacle), I grabbed my spare hat from the car and we rolled in.
After a lovely wedding that we were grateful to have been a part of with only one pretty dramatic appearance of the bride’s ex-boyfriend from across the country who is still friends with my husband, we settled into what was the most delicious reception ever. The food was fancy, tasty, and was passed around on plates the entire time. Maybe it’s low-brow to admit this, but I’ve never partaken of anything so fancy-shmancy. We parked ourselves by the kitchen door so we could get first-dibs, of course.
The reason that I harp on the wonders of the food is that eventually I’ll have to tell you about the horror that was the MC for the reception. Yes, I said the MC, not the DJ. Because there was a separate DJ who played music that, while not at all my taste for either listening to or for dancing to at weddings or elsewhere, many people there seemed to enjoy. The gentleman with whom we took exception was, it turns out, only there to yell into his microphone every three minutes (if someone was giving a particularly sentimental toast) or every thirty seconds (if music was playing), “PUT YOUR HANDS UP! LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE HAPPY COUPLE! CLAP YOUR HANDS RIGHT NOW OR THEY’LL NEVER BELIEVE YOU LOVE THEM!” I mean it. He wanted us to clap our hands and yell, “Woohoo!” every. thirty. seconds. We just wanted to dance.
We love to dance. I am a very blessed woman who has a husband who loves, loves, loves to dance with me at weddings. I’m usually the one who needs a rest first. But you can’t really dance when some dude is screaming in your ear about how you need to let go of the handsome man you’re dancing with a CLAP! The last straw, however, was when said MC took it upon himself to really bring the party to the crowd by shoving through all of the guests on the dance floor while bouncing up and down screaming some more about clapping. And by shoving through the crowd, I mean rubbing himself up against any female in a pretty dress, myself unfortunately included several times. At long last (by which I mean after two rub-bys during the first half of a single song), we stepped outside to get away from the flashing lights madness and had ourselves a nice romantic dance by our lonesome (or is that lonesomes? I need a grammar nazi to help me out here.) And that’s how my husband refrained from punching the MC’s lights out for the rest of the reception.
Also, in a flash forward to real-time, I think I just discovered my new calling: golf. Or more specifically, hitting golf balls at the driving range while someone else bends over to replace my just-hit ball instead of me. We went for the first time last Saturday and it was one of the most fun and cathartic times I’ve had in a while. I guess I just really like hitting stuff for no apparent reason while a man in a big cage drives around and picks up after me. (Read into it what you will; I’m not sure there is a defense.)
Anyway, as it turns out, I’m pretty good at it! Or at least I’ve got great beginner’s luck. Now, I don’t understand what I was doing well enough to impress anyone with the distance or technical details of my golf-ball-hitting-glory, but my husband and the male friends we went with seemed pretty impressed. And just so you don’t think I’m bragging or anything, I royally stink at duck pin bowling (strange Maryland thing, the oddness of which deserves its own post,) tennis, watching football, braiding hair, and not burning things that I bake. Now it’s ok to say that I was pretty good at hitting the crap out of some measly golf balls, right? Right. I can’t wait to go hit some stuff and not get in trouble or have to clean up again. Spoken like a grown-up.