Ok. So I have been single for a bit. A SHORT bit I might add.
Since when does 2 months without someone to bring home to momma give cause for crazy family antics? Well. It seems that things are a little off in my family. Just a little.
Yeah, don't believe me? Well try explaining this away. My parents apparently believe that I was destined for the Channel 19 Weather Guy. In fact, they believe this rather loudly.
Oh. And I'm feeling rather cheeky today. So this article is in the style of a 3 day forecast.
Day One. Sunny and Mild
I'm at work. Well. Physically at work. It's not like I really work anyway, but that is beside the point. The phone rings. Outside call.
"Hello, Elizabeth speaking."
"Hi, my Elizabeth. Are you having a good day, today"
"Yes, mom. How are you?"
"Your father and I found someone for you." Oh. Great. Here it comes.
"Yes. The Channel 19 Weatherman. I think you should email him and tell him that you are single and beautiful…"
"Um… Excuse me?"
"Email him. I can find his email for you and- "
"Look mom. Um. I know that you mean well. But… I mean…really…"
"He's soooo cute!!! And funny just like you! You two will be perf- "
"Oh look I have a…meeting to get to," cutting her off. "Um. I love you bye"
I hear the "I love you" in return as a drop the phone into its cradle. Perfect. Now it starts.
Day Two. Possible rain.
At work. Phone rings.
"Hello, Elizabeth speaking."
"Hi, my Elizabeth. We saw the weatherman yesterday."
"Please tell me not at the supermarket."
"No. No. He was on television. And he did the funniest thing! He pretended that the floor was wet and he tripped!! Your father and I laughed and laughed. He is perfect for you.
He will fall in love with you the moment he sees you. I just know it. I can email him if you want. Why don't I just do that. We can find the email and I can write him a little note…"
"Look, mom… um. I don't want to date the weatherman."
"But he is perfect! He is just like the angels said you should date. He is big and…funny… and -"
My free hand reaches up to my forehead and squeezes in a lame attempt to ease the insanity coming through my ears. My eyes shut. "I'm sorry. What about angels?"
"St. Michael said you will meet a man that is a big, like Vincent D'Onofrio."
"Um. Can you do me a favor and grab the American Psychological Association DSM-IV? * It's red. Can you look up Personality Disorders for me…preferably one with 'Delusional' as a criteria. They're in the index…"
*The American Psychological Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual Fourth Edition (DSM-IV) is what we counselors use to diagnose you crazy people. It's got all of the disorders in it. Fun read, let me tell you. My mother recently stole that little red book from me to use at holiday dinners to diagnose other family members.
"I'm not crazy, Elizabeth. I just think the weatherman will be wonderful for you. Not like that other guy. At least the weatherman has a job."
Muffled shouting from the background of the receiver "ELIZABETH, DON'T MAKE FUN OF YOUR MOTHER!"
"Wait. Let me put your father on the line. HONEY PICK UP THE PHONE!"
Great. Now that I'm deaf, I can lounge back and let the real fun begin.
"Hi Elizabeth, it's your dad." (yeah thanks dad) "Your mother is just trying to help."
"Alright, I know"
"The weatherman's nice. We like him. Just don't make fun of your mother. She is just trying to help."
"Just don't make fun of her"
"OK! Look I have a meeting….bye, I love you."
Day Three. Torrential Downpour.
At work. Phone rings.
"Hello, Elizabeth speaking"
"Hi, my Elizabeth. Your father has something to say."
I rest my forehead to the desk. Someone please kill me. Really. Shoot me in the head.
"Hi Elizabeth. It's your dad." (Really? Wouldn't have known….)
"I just ordered you new tires for your SUV. They're from Finland"
"Oh, that's nice. Thank you" I see a small light of hope. Could this be it? Could this be the end of the weatherman crap?
"The weatherman is Finnish."
"It's a sign. God wants you to date the weatherman"
"Dad. No. It's not. The weatherman is not from Finland."
"Oh…. so you looked at him on their website"
"No. I just don't think he's Finnish."
Muffled shouting from the background "AND HE HAS NICE HANDS! TELL ELIZABETH HE HAS NICE HANDS! LIKE A PRIEST! I'D LIKE HER TO DATE SOMEONE WITH NICE HANDS!"
"Tell mom that having 'hands like a priest' is not something I use when I look at a guy to date."
"Elizabeth, don't make fun of your mother."
"It's a sign."
"And he has nice hands, like your mother said. You should email him"
"Look I have a meeting. I have to go."
"OK. I love you."
"Love you too. Bye." I raise my head off the desk. Yes. It was resting there for the entire duration of the phone call.
Ok. I'm sorry. But when did emailing blokes at random become sound dating advice. I mean sure he is on television. And he has a job, and obvious schooling to some degree. But really. I am 29 years old. I have no problem with dating.
I probably wouldn't have a problem speaking to the weatherman if I met him on the street. Well. Maybe not the street. But if I saw the cat at a coffee shop or whatever, I would be more than happy to say hi.
However, now that you throw angels and the nice people of Finland into the mix, and I'm not even going to start on the priest hands thing, I mean that's just plain kooky.
I have control over my life, right? I don't need my overly exuberant parents to decide for me whom I should or shouldn't date.
Why do I give these people power? And not just my parents (considering they were nice enough to give me life and all). Everybody. That's who. Everyone seems to have a stock holding in my life. And that's a damn lot of stock. I should really be getting paid.
But now these stock holders are trying to push me this way or that. Like I'm some sort of company product. Pushing and pulling. Hard. With cleats on. And I ain't budging on this. Not one bit.
I am 29 years old for crying out loud!
Ah... crying. That reminds me of another story.
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