My last post failed to deal with how Collin interacts with my family. A regrettable oversight that will now be rectified!
[Warning: Some people don't like when I frankly discuss/make jokes about my parents being dead, because it is sad and/or it makes them feel awkward. Those people should read another blog right now! Maybe this one.]
Ok, now that the Delicate Daisies are distracted, let’s be real: Collin gets off easy on the whole in-laws front because my parents are dead. Sure, he had to pass muster with my siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and Grammy. But that’s child’s play compared to meeting parents, right? I mean, Ben Stiller didn’t star in a really unfunny movie called “Meet the Cousins,” right? (At least not yet.)
And my parents were, don’t get me wrong, totally awesome, but also kind of bizarre in ways that would make being their son-in-law a challenge.
For example, they taught me the very firm rule to call your elders “Mr. Whatever” or “Ms. Suchandsuch.” I’m still getting used to calling Collin’s parents by their first names, despite regular casual communication.
Collin likes to joke that he would have called my dad (Brian) and my mom (Marty), “B-Money” and “M-Dawg.”
He says he would have asked for their permission for my hand in marriage by saying, “Yo, B-Money, M-Dawg. I wanna hit that even when we’re old. You dig?”
I can imagine how this would have played out.
My mom would have laughed hysterically (along with the klutziness and the eczema, one trait I got from her is being what is politely called a “good audience”) and then probably smacked a copy of Sisterhood is Powerful onto his chest and warned him to read that before he tries proposing (got the feminism from her too).
My dad’s fingers would have started to twitch at “B-Money.” By “hit that” he’d have a cigarette lit. While my mom laughed and ranted to Collin about coverture, my dad would puff away while writing notes on the pad he always kept in his shirt pocket behind his pack of cigs.
My mom would have trailed off, noticing my dad’s silent focus. “Bri, honey, what are you doing?”
“A flat refusal felt too pedestrian, so I’m writing this kid a playlist of ’60s pop songs with the word ‘no’ in the lyrics. Was it the Human B-E-I-N-Z or B-E-I-N-G-Z?’”
“Hm, a stupid name. Maybe that will help get my point across to C-Killa over here.”
And I hope, at this point, Collin would have piped in with the only pop culture reference that could redeem him in my father’s eyes. “Dude! Have you ever seen Killer Klowns From Outer Space?”
My dad would look up from his list-making. He’d tap the ash his from his cigarette. There’d be the hint of a smile poking out from under his moustache. “I have. It’s on my list of terrible movies with great titles, right after The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies.”
Collin would pump his fist in the air and say,”Whaaaaat? Awesome!”
My dad would take a long drag, a good excuse for a thoughtful pause. And the he’d extinguish the cigarette, extend his hand, and warmly say, “Welcome to the family, Son!”