Y BABY sis-
t e r visited the other day and
tossed all of our dead plants.
The nerve, right? It wasn’t as
though they’d been dead long,
only a year. Most prominent
was the hanging basket of
micro-daisies on the porch.
From the street, they looked
like a giant wad of river
muck.
The flowers died so slowly, so
incrementally, that we hadn’t
even known they’d turned
mucky. Same thing is probably
happening with my mustache.
Guess that’s how life — and
death — go sometimes.
We were grateful for my sis-
ter’s fresh pair of eyes. Who
knows what else she tossed?
But suddenly I can’t find my
prized Lola Falana albums.
Stuff like this happens. When
Posh and I were first married,
she came home and found that
my visiting mother had re-
arranged our tiny apartment.
“Looks great, Mom!” I said
when I saw the couch over here
and the table over there. Evi-
dently that was not a unani-
mous opinion.
These days, my sis is my
mom. Keeper of the family,
rearranger of our lives.
By the way, we added anoth-
er kid to the household. My
niece Amy, 29, busted a knee
skiing and is recuperating with
us, in the house of dead plants
and missing Lola Falana al-
bums.
It’s challenging, even tempo-
rarily. In the fridge, there’s a
container of orange juice that
might have turned to wine. And
forget Marie Kondo’s theories
on clutter. My son and I prefer
that lived-in look.
My new book, soon out:
“Clutter: How to Turn Your
Nice House Into a Cozy Little
Dump.”
“You should ditch the couch,”
my sister scolded.
“What’s wrong with the
couch?”
“It’s dead too,” she said.
While she was here helping
her California-transplant
daughter, my sister bonded
with our pet wolf, going for long
walks where she discovered
that White Fang is something of
a local celeb — strikingly beau-
tiful, with eyes of Dodger blue.
Mostly, it’s the way the wolf
walks down the boulevard,
a red-carpet strut. Chest
forward. Butt like windshield
wipers. I swear, the stuff
she learns from reality televi-
sion.
“She likes baby strollers,” my
sister noted.
“She likes everything,” I said.
It’s a busy time for us. Our
tenant looks and looks for new
apartments, and you know how
tricky that can be in Los Ange-les — the cruddiest places for an
arm and a (broken) leg.
I keep telling her, “Stay as
long as you like,” but I see how
that plays with her sense of
self-worth. “I don’t even want to
stay today!” I’m sure she’s
thinking that, but she’s too
sweet to voice it.
The boy and I are a sitcom:
“One and a Half Men.” Our
personal trainer is a wolf, and
our orange juice is wine. On a
good day, the bedrooms have
smelled like Shaq’s socks.
The other day, the wolf got
loose and my niece was the only
one home. She hobbled after
the escapee as the wolf pranceddown the street with a see-ya-
later expression. My niece
thought she had lost our pre-
cious pet.
Which is sort of laughable.
The neighborhood mobili-
zed, as neighborhoods do, and
soon White Fang was back in
custody. She slept the rest of
the day, having captured and
swallowed more than 100 squir-
rels and at least one lawn
mower.
Then the invites started
pouring in. All our friends’ kids
are marrying this year: Connor,
Melanie, Brittany, Andrew, even
an Emily or two. I might even
marry, if I can find someoneacerbic enough to replace the
beautiful Posh.
So far, that’s proved elusive.
My best prospect is the
gorgeous and charming
Angie Dickinson, who once
dated Frank Sinatra in
preparation for one day surviv-
ing me.
Evidently, my lovely and
patient older daughter, also
gorgeous and charming, is
marrying soon too. I keep writ-
ing checks to her. It’s sort of a
ransom situation. If I don’t
write the checks, she won’t
marry. If I do, she’s gone. It’s
extortion — financial and spir-
itual.
Can’t help but notice the
invite reads “the honour of your
presence.” Evidently they’ve
joined Britain’s royal family.
Then my daughter sent this
form for Pastor Chuck to sign,
giving her free agency from our
beloved Presbyterian church so
she could join the Roman Cath-
olics, her fiancé’s preferred
team.
“Wait, what?” I asked.
“Just have him sign it, Dad,”
she said, as if tracking down a
dapper, hobnobbing Presbyte-
rian pastor is ever easy. (I finally
found him in his office, playing
pool on his phone.)
Easy come, easy go. All I did
was raise her. Now I must pay to
give her away. I watch all the
bridal shows on Bravo, and they
never mention how dads are
constantly duped like this.
Guess nothing stays the
same forever ... plants, couches,
daughters.
Look, can’t a few things stay
the same? Can’t puppies stay
puppies, and can’t I coach
youth soccer forever?
Can’t Vin Scully never go
away? In that commercial, can’t
poor Cheryl still have her pre-
cious she-shed?
We should all get 10 people or
situations that can never
change.
I’ll start with my daughters:
Thing 1 and Thing 2.
Please don’t go. I’ll pay you.[email protected]MISTY-EYED AT
WEDDINGS
EVERYONE’S PAIRING UP, INCLUDING MY OLDER DAUGHTER
BY CHRIS ERSKINEM
THE MIDDLE AGESLATIMES.COM WSCE F3
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