The HEM is Back

And just when you thought my Monster Days were over. This story has a twist though: It's not MY husband.

So, as you know, I'm headed down to my parent's house in Mississippi this weekend for my Pappaw's 90th birthday party. Pappaw has just recently been moved to a home and his health is rapidly degenerating. Pappaw is like my saving grace in the family because somehow amidst a whole bunch of pretentious women, he blossomed into what I want to call a Dirty Old Man, which is a fitting title, but somehow seems too negative for someone after whom you named your child. I mean Dirty Old Man like Sweet and Dirty, and only Dirty when it's funny and it involves nurses in the hospital where you are having part of your stomach removed and your two pretentious daughters are standing around with their heads in their hands, too mortified to even look up as you say to your 24-year-old nurse, "Are you gon' sleep here in the bed with me?"

I'm NOT talking about the kind of Dirty Old Man who gets dirty after he's had too much morphine for his knee replacement surgery (no, that's my dad) ... I'm talking about the kind of Dirty where you're asking for whiskey from the Baptist preacher who comes to visit you in the hospital because you know it embarrasses your daughters. Dirty like cantankerous and quirky and someone you'd dub "The Bald-Headed Hippy" when you're three. Dirty like someone who refuses to go to church in the Bible Belt, who won't eat anything but milkshakes and 'maters, and who cheers on his roommate at the home whenever he gets into fights with the man who only wears pajama bottoms and a "Support the Troops" t-shirt. Someone who shuffles around behind a walker with tennis balls on the legs, asking each little old lady resident, in turn, if they want to spend the night with him.

Just fun Dirty.

So my mom and her sister have this party planned (at the home) and a cake made by Elaine Sessums (pronounced EEE-lane) and my cousin (who lives in Cincinnati and has three kids and a husband (let's call him Satan just for funsies)) and I are making the trip down for the celebration.

My cousin is the kind of person who quit her job as a CPA as soon as she got pregnant and moved to the suburbs into one of those subdivisions that clears down all the trees and then replants non-native species and where the houses look so much alike that you get lost trying to find your way back outta there and onto the main street. They also own a Large Vehicle and attend a Large Church. The kind of church that puts orange cones on the street in front of their parking lot and has the deacons out there directing traffic for the 11 a.m. service.

Every year she dresses up her whole family in khakis and navy polo shirts and hires a professional photographer to follow them around a park while they play with their golden retriever. The kids play t-ball and take karate and have birthday parties for Jesus on December 24th. And this makes my mother think that I should also be doing this.

Because they have to drive DIRECTLY THROUGH NASHVILLE to get to the party, I invited them to break up the long trip and stay here for a night. I also asked if I could catch a ride since they have such a large vehicle and Satan wasn't planning to attend so there would be room. "Oh yes yes yes, what a great idea," she says, "the kids love air mattresses."

But then Satan decided that he should possibly attend this event since he has been avoiding a visit now for FOUR YEARS. Oh, another reason I think he's satan is because when I was 14 and he and my cousin were just dating, we were all out riding four wheelers in the cow pasture and he decided it would be fun to drive the one we were on (he was driving and I was holding onto to the mesh railing thingy in the back) into my dad's pine tree forest and then stop, turn around, and say, "When I was a kid I always used to be terrified that I'd drive out into a forest like this and find something really scary."

"Like what?" I said (sooo innocent, soooooo sweet, soooooooooo much eye make up).

"Like ...

A DEAD BODY" he says, and then chuckles.

Then they had a blush and bashful wedding, just like Steel Magnolias, complete with shooting birds out of trees, except not by her daddy, but by her brothers, Earl & Doug. I was a bridesmaid even though I look totally putrid in both blush and bashful. Pappaw was a groomsman.

So anyway, I sorta expected he was weird from the very beginning, but now he's Satan, and he's going to attend Pappaw's party, and because his job as an executive at a chandelier company is SO important, they have to make the trip all in one day and the kids can't come and play on my air mattress.

"OK, that's fine. So can I meet y'all out on the interstate and follow you down there so that if I have to stop and pee and JEB is asleep then I won't have to wake him up because I absolutely cannot hold my pee anymore because labor and delivery has destroyed my urinary tract?" I asked my cuz, when she called to report the change in plans.

"That sounds like a plan," she said, "but let me check with Satan to see if he's OK with it."

Oh, another thing about Satan ... he has one of those "I Love My Wife" bumper stickers on his company Taurus because he is a member of the Promise Keepers. (*SHIVER*)

The next day I got an email from her that said, "After talking it over with Satan, we have decided that we cannot possibly extend our trip by travelling with you. It would just be too much stress to put on our kids. I hope you understand. Adding even two hours to an 11-hour trip is more than they can handle."

I thought it must have a been a misunderstanding, since they have to drive DIRECTLY THROUGH NASHVILLE anyway, and how could anyone possibly do that to their only female first cousin? Well, after much pondering on this topic, I have finally decided that the only answer is that

The Devil Made Her Do It.

That's really fine. My feelings are just the teensiest bit hurt, but it's really not a big deal at all. And it's also not a big deal that your kids never sent me a thank you card for any of the following gifts I have sent:

• The BOOK I wrote them for Christmas in 2003 (entitled, Pokey-Mae-Whoopin'-Dasher-Pace: A Story About Dog Families with Hyphenated Last Names) -- you know, the one that I printed out on high-gloss, really thick card stock and then took to Kinko's to have bound;
• The Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card that Husband sent when your oldest son was obsessed with KGJ, which we could've sold on ebay for lots of money;
• The second BOOK that I wrote for your kids (entitled, I Like Cold Spaghetti: A Story about Human Families with Alternative Food Preferences).

Yes I completely understand.

What I DON'T understand is how it would be even humanly possible for me and The Goose to add two hours to your trip since he, unlike your kids, doesn't need to stop to shit and he, unlike your kids, doesn't need to stretch his legs, and he, unlike your kids, can entertain himself simply with a biter biscuit.

Another thing I DON'T understand is what promises, exactly, your husband is keeping ...

• A promise to be a jackass?
• A promise to convince you that it's OK if he's a jackass because he has an "I LOVE MY WIFE" bumper sticker on the Taurus?
• A promise to earn the nickname SATAN?
  

Yes, I understand perfectly. The next gift I send your kids will not be a story, it will be a self-help book entitled, "What to do when your Daddy's Nickname is Satan."

Thanks for the love, cuz, I'll see you this weekend. Happy Birthday Pappaw!