Weekend Wanderer: One Wedding and Zero Funerals

By

weekend wanderer

You know how sometimes you find yourself in a situation and wonder how you got there? Is this, in fact, your beautiful house? Is this your beautiful wife?

Yes. I’m feeling some Talking Heads this weekend.

And welcome to my beautiful house, of which I am the sole architect.

It was supposed to be my parents’ beautiful house. They moved into an independent living facility I call the Temple of Doom.

My parents moved into the Temple of Doom on my birthday. I tried to tell them eight hours of lifting boxes was just too generous. Wouldn’t my siblings get jealous?

But they wouldn’t hear of it. Nothing but the best for their firstborn, you know?

And though my parents had spoiled me rotten that day, I wanted more.

I wanted a cup of tea from the Temple of Doom’s café.

I know, I know. I’m decadent and wanton. Depraved, even. But when you’ve spent a birthday deciding the best way to transport toilet brushes to your parents’ new home, you may as well be Marie Antoinette insisting the breadless peasants eat cake.

And now that you know how spoiled I am, I can tell you my solution for the toilet brushes was to throw them away. I could never put brushes used for scrubbing toilets in my car then ride in my car again. I would only think of the toilet germs left behind.

Anyway, the lady working the café counter — a Temple of Doom resident — wasn’t sure how to make tea.

So I offered to make the tea myself.

The director of the Temple of Doom found me there, behind the counter, making tea like I was Flo telling Mel to kiss my grits.

“You’ve made yourself at home!” he said. “Great!”

Wait. Home? I wasn’t the one living at the Temple of Doom.

Except I kind of live at the Temple of Doom.

I spend a lot of time there. You would too if you knew my dad. Today, he abruptly told my mom I was mad at her.

I wasn’t, of course, but that got me yelled at because why would I be mad at my mother? What, exactly, was wrong with me? And why was I laughing so hard?

Who doesn’t want to hang with a guy capable of that?

I also spend time at the Temple of Doom because, like one out of every five Pennsylvania residents, I am a caregiver. I have been called to the Temple of Doom to fix an Apple watch (it wasn’t charged), fix a computer (it wasn’t plugged in), and fix my dad (I do my best).

Spending a lot of time at the Temple of Doom means I know a lot of people at the Temple of Doom.

“I’ll sign you in, Wendi!” the office manager calls during one of my regular visits. “Is your husband back from the cabin yet?”

When I found my parents’ neighbor, Mildred, decorating her doorway last week, I thought it only polite to ask how she was faring after her recent hospitalization. In no time at all, I was signing papers to be her power of attorney.

Then there’s the men’s coffee club. They know whose kid I am.

And, of course, that I’m Mildred’s power of attorney.

It follows, then, that when my cousin decided to get married at the Temple of Doom, I — the de facto resident — was drafted to help.

Finding a wedding venue in 2022 isn’t easy. My cousin — determined to have my parents attend the ceremony — was particularly hamstrung because my dad can’t travel far.

I’m not sure which one of us realized nothing is closer to the Temple of Doom than the Temple of Doom, but once we did, I was in business as the Temple of Doom wedding planner.

Is there a better wedding venue than a place with this week’s deceased residents sitting in framed photos on the lobby piano?

Well, yes, according to the Temple of Doom director. Literally any venue in the world would be preferable to the Temple of Doom. That wedding has the potential to introduce enough COVID to kill half the residents.

The piano isn’t big enough for that many pictures.

There’s not enough parking, and Saturday happy hour starts at four. You can’t interfere with Saturday happy hour. Have you ever watched the church scene in Kingsman: Secret Service?

Google it. I’ll wait.

That’s how the Temple of Doom residents get when happy hour is delayed, the Sunday movie is canceled, or some innocent newbie parks in their spot. Blood is shed.

And before you ask, yes. I have a parking spot at the Temple of Doom. It’s unofficial, but I’m working on that.

Do I spend too much time at the Temple of Doom? The Talking Heads would have me ask, “Am I right? Am I wrong?”

I prefer the next line. “My God, what have I done?”

Because the Temple of Doom is my beautiful house.

So stay out of my parking spot.

Connect With Your Community

Subscribe for stories that matter!

"*" indicates required fields

Hidden
BT Yes
This field is for validation purposes and should be left unchanged.
Advertisement