Homonym humor

I am going to share my favorite sister and Mom story (with a little help from Dad), because today is her birthday.

Years before my sister Holly married she’d joined a singles’ service called In Your Wildest Dreams.  We dubbed it In Your Fiercest Nightmares.  She’d shown me profiles from prospective choices.  One guy answered the question What are you looking for? with “A female with moving parts.”  A photograph of a cowboy hugging a saddle looked like he’d lost his horse in the divorce.  In the least promising photo, the fellow resembled a serial killer.  Under About my dream date, he’d cut out letters from newspapers and magazines and composed them to spell out words.  “1.  Must be accustomed to tight quarters (maybe, trunks of cars, I thought).  2.  Must enjoy bonding.”  Or at least I think it said bonding.  There was a smudge on her copy — maybe it said bondage?

My sister lived out of state when she came across Prince Charming.  I boarded a plane to help with marriage preparations.  She’d made an appointment for one of those horrible premarital exams with stirrups and the whole humiliating bit.  She was so embarrassed.  But at least she’d never see that doctor again.

Her big day came with our immediate family crammed into the basement of her future in-laws.  Three early risers (and me, who was forced into it) scrambled, calling dibs on one minuscule bathroom.  The bride won.  She stepped from the shower, slipped on a robe, and momentarily left to locate a brush.  Our oversized dad stole into the bathroom and planted roots in it.

Her short hair required styling mousse.  She waited and, as was acceptable on her wedding day, whined.  “If I don’t get back in right now, my hair won’t turn out.”  She took a breath and sniveled again, “He’s going to ruin everything.”

I found the lone person to rectify the problem.  “Mom,” I pleaded, “can you please get the mousse out of the bathroom?”

She entered the small room and came out seconds later — empty-handed.

“Where’s the mousse?” I asked.

“He said he’d be out in ten minutes.”

I looked at her.  She’d smiled, donning blue pajamas with a drawstring waist.  When everyone was hip on the saying Better to look good than to feel good, Mom wore flat shoes with rubber soles and flannel shirts with pockets.  She only had two modes of operation.  She either spewed insights that assisted me in moving from one stage to another in my life or she didn’t have a hint.

Holly’s hairstyle turned out fine.  The long trip to the church ended uneventfully.  But, of course, that wasn’t the end.

The ministry in our faith consists of a “lay ministry,” meaning a mechanic or a lawyer might perform the ceremony.  In my sister’s case, however, it was the gynecologist.  We exchanged hidden glances, trying to hold back any looks fostering the notion, “Haven’t I met you somewhere before?”

Happy birthday, Sis.  Smile.  Age is better than the alternative.

Related posts:

1. Just like Grandma
2. He’s a peach
3. Rubbing shoulders with the Greatest Generation