I volunteered to be the designated driver for my 90-year-old aunt and my husband as they celebrate their December birthdays. I have never been a designated driver because I like to drink but I am well-equipped for the job. I perform well in emergency situations. One time I emptied my whole college dorm when I woke up and discovered my bed was on fire. I pulled the alarm and refused to leave the building until every last coed was safely outside. Nobody was going to die in my fire. The firemen had to escort me out of the building and my picture was on the front page of my town newspaper.
Harleys are a big deal in the Midwest, nobody knows why. My little aunt identifies herself with this segment of the population and tonight she is wearing the orange Harley sweatshirt with 2004 LEAF RUN emblazoned on the back, short leather skirt and knee high black boots. She has sewn black sequins on her black leather cap. And check out that black and white zebra nail polish.
I pick up her up and she and my husband are giggling. They are looking forward to their tryst in the night, all the naughties they intend to commit and then I will be there to safely transport them home. My aunt has always had a huge crush on my husband, reminding me how sexy he is and "what kind eyes he has," can both exist in the same body? I remember ten years ago or so she and I were listening to a rock band down near the river marina and the lead singer was a young black man, comely and muscular and she whispered to me, "that man could park his shoes under my bed anytime." She told me about her lifelong crush on Harry Belafonte, all this from a little country girl living in a small farming village.
I slap my hand on the old time wooden bar and tell the bartender, "I do not care how much I beg or whine do not DO NOT serve me any alcohol." My aunt is all of 4'8" and with her knee high boots she looks like one of those strange John Lennon-drawn cartoons from Yellow Submarine. Her dentures are too large for her tiny mouth and she is all teeth and boots. I do water, diet Coke and finally n/a beer and then a pizza with meatball sized-chunks of sausage that will visit and revist me in the night to come.
"I'm the designated driver," I tell the red-faced loud-mouthed person next to me. "You're D D!" she shrieks in my ear. Yes, I'm Dee Dee, this woman does not need to know my real name. I glance at the clock for the 100th time this hour.
Harleys are a big deal in the Midwest, nobody knows why. My little aunt identifies herself with this segment of the population and tonight she is wearing the orange Harley sweatshirt with 2004 LEAF RUN emblazoned on the back, short leather skirt and knee high black boots. She has sewn black sequins on her black leather cap. And check out that black and white zebra nail polish.
I pick up her up and she and my husband are giggling. They are looking forward to their tryst in the night, all the naughties they intend to commit and then I will be there to safely transport them home. My aunt has always had a huge crush on my husband, reminding me how sexy he is and "what kind eyes he has," can both exist in the same body? I remember ten years ago or so she and I were listening to a rock band down near the river marina and the lead singer was a young black man, comely and muscular and she whispered to me, "that man could park his shoes under my bed anytime." She told me about her lifelong crush on Harry Belafonte, all this from a little country girl living in a small farming village.
I slap my hand on the old time wooden bar and tell the bartender, "I do not care how much I beg or whine do not DO NOT serve me any alcohol." My aunt is all of 4'8" and with her knee high boots she looks like one of those strange John Lennon-drawn cartoons from Yellow Submarine. Her dentures are too large for her tiny mouth and she is all teeth and boots. I do water, diet Coke and finally n/a beer and then a pizza with meatball sized-chunks of sausage that will visit and revist me in the night to come.
"I'm the designated driver," I tell the red-faced loud-mouthed person next to me. "You're D D!" she shrieks in my ear. Yes, I'm Dee Dee, this woman does not need to know my real name. I glance at the clock for the 100th time this hour.
1 comment:
I loathe the DD job. I love your aunt. Nice photo too....
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