A Different Kind of Shotgun Wedding
Hola, Wild Boy friends and family, and welcome back again to la Casa de Testosterone and the adventures therein. It's been a busy week here in la Casa, full of opportunities for experts to tell me I'm a parental screw up. How's that, you ask? Well, I somehow managed to schedule the boys physicals on the same week as their parent teacher conferences. NOTHING is as nerve-racking as a yearly trip to the doctor so he can assess within fifteen minutes if you're on track as a parent or if your child is doomed for all eternity because they have a television in their room and drink more than six ounces of juice a day. Add to that the twenty minute sit down with the teacher, who has carefully written down notes and held aside some of your kid's work as "examples" of what they're talking about...all in all it's a week I typically finish out needing some whiskey to say the least. Oh, and on top of all of the extra appointments littered in the week it was also my week at work for a "surprise" annual fitness test. Let me tell you something right now - I'm 38 years old and I KNOW I'm shrinking every year, but nothing illustrates that more then seeing how tall the wall is we have to hop over with no preparation. Anyhow, you'll all be happy to know the Wild Boys and I passed everything and can go on with our lives, them with flu shot band aids and reminders not to yell out answers without raising a hand, me with sore muscles and mental reminders to do some damn push ups.
Although there's always plenty to say about a week with Gavin and Gabe, this week I think we're going to take a trip down memory lane. Thursday was the Cop and my fifteenth wedding anniversary. Some of you were there, and some of you are much newer to us as a couple, but I thought I'd spend a minute here describing what should have been crystal clear evidence that EVERYTHING we do together would be an adventure - our wedding.
The Cop and I were introduced by my training officer at the time, who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. I was just starting as a 911 dispatcher (that's right, I started my career as one of those musical voices bossing people around via radio), he was just starting as a beat cop. He almost didn't date me a second time because on our first date the waiter tried to take my mug before all the beer was gone and I got in said waiter's face for it, but nerves make a girl crazy. Anyhow, four months after meeting we were living in sin, six months after meeting we were engaged, and sixteen months after we met we arrived at the fateful day of our wedding.
Being as we were just starting out we were po'. That's when you're too broke to even afford the extra "or" at the end of it - and we were there. I spent months before the wedding in dispatch fielding 911 calls while stuffing and stamping invitations and party favors. Yes, I led people through CPR on the phone while trimming tulle and ribbons. I had a friend make my cake, another friend do my flowers, and managed to trim costs down pretty heartily. We hired a local DJ, had everything pretty well in place by the day of, and I really thought that as long as I didn't outright vomit from stress it would be gravy. The ceremony itself was beautiful, at least from my perspective. Yes, I limped a little because I broke a toe the night before. But I'm pretty sure that wasn't super obvious. We moved on to the reception, and that's where the fun really began.
We decided to have the reception at the hall next to the police department. Everyone on duty could stop in, and we could actually afford it. When we arrived, we were greeted by people milling around in silence. SILENCE. Where was the DJ? Good question. He showed up about 20 minutes after I did, and met the Cop and I outside sweating profusely with pupils the size of dimes. He had a tiny dilemma - he had been working for a radio station that let him go all of the sudden yesterday. My guess is he showed up there strung out on meth too. And although he had his equipment, ALL the music from our list was going to be "borrowed" from the station...
You'd think the Cop would have wanted him arrested. He might have. I didn't even give him a chance. Because hell hath no fury like a bride who JUST WANTS TO BE ON HER CRUISE TO THE MEXICAN RIVIERA ALREADY, who is limping around on a broken toe, and who knows she now has to be super nice to guests despite being "grab a Snickers" hangry. The DJ was informed in what I've been told sounded like the growl of a demon itself that he had 20 minutes to GET MY MUSIC, be back and have it playing before the guests sat to eat or I would personally escort him back to hell, where I'm pretty sure he thought I actually held a position of supreme authority. I'm also told he actually scaled the side of a building to get CD's at that point. Don't care, music: accomplished.
The music was finally playing, the guests and I had eaten, and things should have been within about an hour of wrapping up when we received a reminder of why you don't party by the police station. A gynecologist from the next county over pulled up outside in his Lexus SUV, wife in the passenger seat, kids in the back, and in the cargo area a large, injured but alive and definitely kicking deer he had hit with his vehicle. He grabbed a uniformed officer and demanded that she "take care of the injured deer." Well, that translates differently for doctors and cops, and the doctor was none too pleased when she drug the deer to an adjacent parking lot and shot it. An angry, huffy doctor attracted the attention of some of our wedding party (all cops), who quietly made sure he left in a hurry. But one of the groomsmen couldn't handle the temptation and thought of good meat going to waste, and drug the deer back to OUR parking lot where he field dressed it, in his rented tux.
Blood. Was. Everywhere.
Enough to where I had to have the cops find a hose and clean up the parking lot so people could leave without having to explain to their dry cleaners that they hadn't in fact been at a crime scene and weren't suspects in a homicide. They were just guests at a truly hillbilly wedding.
So yes, friends, when you think back to your wedding day and remember that the caterer brought the wrong silverware, or the candles in your centerpieces wouldn't stay lit, call me up and I'll make you feel better. Because my DJ was high and I'm pretty sure burglarized someone to make music happen, and a deer was killed and dressed out all at my reception. On the bright side, we got some sausage out of it. And we've lived hysterically ever after, because if you can't manage to laugh when things go that wrong you're pretty much doomed.
Now you know why the Wild Boys are who they are - pretty sure it was written in the stars from the get go with parents like us. Until next time - happy hunting from la Casa!
Although there's always plenty to say about a week with Gavin and Gabe, this week I think we're going to take a trip down memory lane. Thursday was the Cop and my fifteenth wedding anniversary. Some of you were there, and some of you are much newer to us as a couple, but I thought I'd spend a minute here describing what should have been crystal clear evidence that EVERYTHING we do together would be an adventure - our wedding.
The Cop and I were introduced by my training officer at the time, who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. I was just starting as a 911 dispatcher (that's right, I started my career as one of those musical voices bossing people around via radio), he was just starting as a beat cop. He almost didn't date me a second time because on our first date the waiter tried to take my mug before all the beer was gone and I got in said waiter's face for it, but nerves make a girl crazy. Anyhow, four months after meeting we were living in sin, six months after meeting we were engaged, and sixteen months after we met we arrived at the fateful day of our wedding.
Being as we were just starting out we were po'. That's when you're too broke to even afford the extra "or" at the end of it - and we were there. I spent months before the wedding in dispatch fielding 911 calls while stuffing and stamping invitations and party favors. Yes, I led people through CPR on the phone while trimming tulle and ribbons. I had a friend make my cake, another friend do my flowers, and managed to trim costs down pretty heartily. We hired a local DJ, had everything pretty well in place by the day of, and I really thought that as long as I didn't outright vomit from stress it would be gravy. The ceremony itself was beautiful, at least from my perspective. Yes, I limped a little because I broke a toe the night before. But I'm pretty sure that wasn't super obvious. We moved on to the reception, and that's where the fun really began.
We decided to have the reception at the hall next to the police department. Everyone on duty could stop in, and we could actually afford it. When we arrived, we were greeted by people milling around in silence. SILENCE. Where was the DJ? Good question. He showed up about 20 minutes after I did, and met the Cop and I outside sweating profusely with pupils the size of dimes. He had a tiny dilemma - he had been working for a radio station that let him go all of the sudden yesterday. My guess is he showed up there strung out on meth too. And although he had his equipment, ALL the music from our list was going to be "borrowed" from the station...
You'd think the Cop would have wanted him arrested. He might have. I didn't even give him a chance. Because hell hath no fury like a bride who JUST WANTS TO BE ON HER CRUISE TO THE MEXICAN RIVIERA ALREADY, who is limping around on a broken toe, and who knows she now has to be super nice to guests despite being "grab a Snickers" hangry. The DJ was informed in what I've been told sounded like the growl of a demon itself that he had 20 minutes to GET MY MUSIC, be back and have it playing before the guests sat to eat or I would personally escort him back to hell, where I'm pretty sure he thought I actually held a position of supreme authority. I'm also told he actually scaled the side of a building to get CD's at that point. Don't care, music: accomplished.
The music was finally playing, the guests and I had eaten, and things should have been within about an hour of wrapping up when we received a reminder of why you don't party by the police station. A gynecologist from the next county over pulled up outside in his Lexus SUV, wife in the passenger seat, kids in the back, and in the cargo area a large, injured but alive and definitely kicking deer he had hit with his vehicle. He grabbed a uniformed officer and demanded that she "take care of the injured deer." Well, that translates differently for doctors and cops, and the doctor was none too pleased when she drug the deer to an adjacent parking lot and shot it. An angry, huffy doctor attracted the attention of some of our wedding party (all cops), who quietly made sure he left in a hurry. But one of the groomsmen couldn't handle the temptation and thought of good meat going to waste, and drug the deer back to OUR parking lot where he field dressed it, in his rented tux.
Blood. Was. Everywhere.
Enough to where I had to have the cops find a hose and clean up the parking lot so people could leave without having to explain to their dry cleaners that they hadn't in fact been at a crime scene and weren't suspects in a homicide. They were just guests at a truly hillbilly wedding.
So yes, friends, when you think back to your wedding day and remember that the caterer brought the wrong silverware, or the candles in your centerpieces wouldn't stay lit, call me up and I'll make you feel better. Because my DJ was high and I'm pretty sure burglarized someone to make music happen, and a deer was killed and dressed out all at my reception. On the bright side, we got some sausage out of it. And we've lived hysterically ever after, because if you can't manage to laugh when things go that wrong you're pretty much doomed.
Now you know why the Wild Boys are who they are - pretty sure it was written in the stars from the get go with parents like us. Until next time - happy hunting from la Casa!
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