W.M.D. – What’s Marna Doing?
While UN inspectors span the globe looking for weapons of mass destruction, I believe I’ve found something more dangerous that must be contained: family.
You can choose your friends and your weapons, but you can’t get around your family. In my small, extended family, I’m generally characterized as the whacky, risk-taking pioneer that marches to the beat of a different drummer. This weekend, my cousin proved that an unsupervised married man is scarier than misplaced uranium – or me.
Jethro (not his real name) gave me two hours notice he and a single Army buddy were coming into town to get away for a night and to whoop it up before his wife and kids came back from their east coast family visit.
“You are meeting us at Barney’s Beanery,” he demanded. “Or, do you have a date with a new victim?”
I could hear the eagerness to get off base, so I demanded he come directly to my house. It was obvious this was going to be a Captains Gone Wild night and I would be the designated driver.
The guys filled their evening with beer, pool, and flirting. I sipped my diet coke and realized I was too old to be in bars infested with 20-something wanna-be actresses wearing camisoles and bearing midriffs. Watching Jethro made me understand, once again, that even the most dedicated of husbands and fathers have to test their limits to make sure they still have “got it.” This gave me further validation: I’m so happy to be single.
I poured Jethro and his tired friend into my car and took them down Mulholland Drive for a scenic ride home with spectacular views of the Valley and city. Shortly after dodging a coyote on the windy road, Jethro requested roadside assistance and released what sounded like two gallons of beer on the side of the road. He was my Honda’s first puker – a claim I haven’t been able to make since the 1980’s. I gave him a bottle of water to rinse and spit and continued on home. Ten minutes from home, he grabbed his water bottle, and with Army precision decided he was going to puke into the bottle. I quickly crossed three lanes of traffic while he missed.
He was fully awake the rest of the way home in his Spaten-soaked clothes speckled with spatzel from dinner.
“Oh my god. I don’t believe this. Look at me,” he said.
Without hesitation, I reverted back to a retort I commonly used in the 1970’s. “I’m telling your mother.”