Murphy Rides Shotgun

I hate being late. I am notorious for getting work done at the last minute, or not completing things on time, but I really dislike being late for people and events. However I live with three other people to whom it does not seem to matter. They are always rushing out the door. And two minutes past the last minute. If it is a family event, I am often warming up the car reading a book while they are chaotically looking for things and tripping out the door.
Yesterday was just such an occasion. My wife is Italian, born in Italy. She is part of an extended family. Now, My family is large. I have a ton of first cousins, most of whom I know their names. Some of them are fairly close, but I have to admit some of them I have lost touch with. Not so with her family, third cousins, fourth removed are deep in the bosom of the family. Along with this familial web comes many milestones, baptisms, weddings, graduations, and anniversaries. We had to attend such a function yesterday, in Connecticut, three hours away from here.
Since I know what happens, and since the party began at 12:30 PM I told people to be ready at 9:00 AM. In my naivete, I assumed that the half-hour cushion would be sufficient, and things seemed to be going well. I had awakened early, made sure my son’s clothes were ready, showered, shaved. I even went out and filled the car with gas, bought Dramamine for my daughter, candy, and gum for the road. I was almost hopeful that, for the first time we might actually do it. Heck, we might actually leave early and be able to relax on the ride down. Now, Murphy and his law were constantly flitting in and out of my field of view, and I knew something would go wrong, but it seemed that whatever it was would be minor, and I had out witted Mr. Murphy this time. (I have never gotten a good view, so I am not absolutely sure Murphy is male, but I will go on that hunch).
The first hint of something wrong was when my wife came down the stairs carrying her dress. It looked beautiful, dressy, covered with a lace material. I knew it looked good, and it seemed fine to me but my wife is a perfectionist, to say the least. My daughter, who was already dressed and I thought stunningly, looked at her mother’s dress and said, “I am way too over-dressed if you are going to wear that!”
This should have set off five-alarm warning bells, and I did begin to feel the first rumbling of panic. But we were running ahead of schedule, and I knew the lovely daughter had a back-up dress so when she got it, and put it on, and looked just as fantastic as before I shrugged off the fears. I must digress here just to admit that the second dress appeared exactly as formal as the first. But I have learned a thing or two and didn’t voice this obviously ignorant opinion lest I be subject to the rolling of eyes and dismissive sneer that only a fifteen-year-old can inflict.
Meanwhile my son had showered, and donned his suit pants, and had taken the white shirt that I have ironed early and slipped it on. No sooner had one arm been enveloped by the crisp brilliant white sleeve than he grumbled. “These sleeves are way too long, I can’t wear this.” My jaw dropped. Surely this could not be my offspring, the fruit of my loins, the carrier of my genes. Here was the son of a man who had attended his sisters wedding in corduroy beige pants, a tan sport coat and an orange shirt with a bunny pattern, the firstborn of the man who had such a sartorial touch with rope belts, and uneven cut-off jeans that one of his college professors christened him ‘Oleg’ after the designer Oleg Cassini, I looked at him and he said. “I need another shirt.” I replied, but Brian, you will have your sleeves rolled up, it is going to be 95 today. I got the ‘What planet are you from?” look in return, and his mother reflected the look and said, “There is a pink shirt in his room that you can iron. “
Ok, I reassured myself, I can do that; it will only take five minutes. And it did so I smiled and handed him his perfectly ironed shirt with a smile even as I wondered why he wasn’t the one doing the ironing but was rather engrossed in a video game bare-chested, sockless, and unshaven. I pointed out to him that the most logical method would be to shave before donning the shirt. He looked at me with the amazed look of discovery that is only seen in the eyes of a scientist who has made a Nobel Prize breakthrough.
My wife meanwhile had brought he dress to the ironing board for ‘just a quick touch-up’ and I had gone upstairs to check on the lovely daughter. There was no great cause for concern; she asked me if the pair of earrings she was holding to her earlobes looked ok. I responded that Cleopatra herself would couldn’t have chosen better, and got the other planetary look from that quarter. But all was ok; at this rate we would still be out of the house between 9 and 9:30 and would be among the early arrivals.
Then I heard the scream. Screams are not a good thing in any situation, (well, maybe in one or two) but this was definitely not the scream of one lost in ecstasy. I ran down stairs and looked at my wife, standing over what could have been a fresh-killed corpse. She had been distracted and had pushed the iron through the lace ripping a three-inch gouge in it. I was dumbstruck. Murphy could be heard belly-laughing in the background. Here was one of his masterpieces. I looked at my poor distraught wife wordlessly. She looked up at me and muttered, “Maybe I can fix it.” I thought to myself, “Maybe we will just miss the milling around before the first course.”
My wife is inventive and resourceful but even she, after fifteen minutes of futile attempts with glue-gun, hemming tape, needle and thread and other assorted crafting tools, admitted defeat. And looked at me and asked, “Now what can I wear?” This is one of those wifely with no correct answer, like “does this make me look fat?” I shrugged mutely, knowing that I hadn’t a clue as to what the possibilities were. Like most husbands I only had a vague idea that my wife had some clothes I would consider ‘dressy’ and some I would consider ‘not so dressy’. She realized her idiocy in asking me rather than the wall and stormed upstairs.
I resigned myself to defeat and looked at the clock. If she could miraculously find a dress that suited her, and nothing else disastrous occurred, and I was able to fly down the highways at a steady eighty miles an hour we could get there in time to be the next to last stragglers.
(to be continued)