When love means not smothering each other with a pillow at night.
For some strange reason, much of my life has been a complete anomaly. You know how divorce rates have skyrocketed and broken homes (ugly and outdated term, if you ask me…) are more common than ever? Well, somehow my parents have managed to put up with each other without turning to violence for over thirty years. THIRTY. And they actually seem (mostly) happy about it!
I have mad respect for them, the issues I’m sure they’ve gone through together, and the way they have worked to grow closer together over the years rather than further apart. Also, I respect that my mom was able to identify my dad’s long-term earning potential even back when they were poor twenty-somethings straight out of university. Mom? I hope I’ve done you proud. Let’s go for drinks on our husbands’ dime.
They really are an inspiration and have really helped me understand how relationships (married or not) are moving targets that need constant attention and care, rather than just unchanging roles meant to last a lifetime. Which means there’s still hope that I can transition the snow-shoveling responsibility over to the newf before it’s too late.
To celebrate their big occasion, the newf and I pulled ourselves together and threw a big party in their honour. That they paid for. Except it was still a good deed because even though we kept all the receipts for the stuff we bought, we haven’t submitted the expense claim thus making it a truly admirable exercise in generosity instead of a bunch of money-hungry gays applying a 15% mark-up to napkins and garden mulch. And it was all worth it because look how damn cute they are.
Mom looks shocked only because she just figured out that the newf and I are more than just friends.
Also – I don’t know what my Dad’s shirt is all about although I do approve of the nice white pants for a summer party. And if you need more reasons why my parents are the coolest, they both arrived on my dad’s motorcycle in full riding gear, allowing my mom to do a quick-change, switching into her dress that she had on underneath her leather coat, and losing her pants and boots standing in our driveway. I was genuinely nervous until I saw that the dress was on.
(If she wasn’t going to kill me just for posting the picture, she’ll definitely kill me after telling you all that she basically flashed my entire street her panties.)
Not to get any sappier on you than I already have, but I have to say I was awfully proud to have my house full with relatives that I see once every five years, all in their sixties and seventies, all over the moon about the fact that they’re getting to meet the newf because he makes me so happy. Except they don’t call him the newf because that deal I made with Satan seems to still be holding that keeps them from remembering/knowing that I have a blog no matter how many times my dad inappropriately includes it in strange and infrequent family newsletters which in my books, to be perfectly clear, is grounds for paternal termination.
Watch your ass, dad. One more mention of the blog and you won’t make it to the next anniversary.
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