Sunday, July 19, 2009

meet the fockers

Talk about making progress on the dating scene. Talk about reaching a mating milestone. I’m finally dating someone who is worthy of making the biggest, most potentially painful and certainly scary sacrifice for. Yep, I decided a while ago that G Spot is someone who is worthy of introducing to my fockers.

It all went down this weekend up at the cottage. Not only did the meet and greet have to happen north of the comforts of city living, the poor guy had to endure 3 days of it. What a trooper. However much I liked him before, it’s definitely been enhanced now. Sexy.

The weeks leading up to the meeting of the fockers were anxious ones for my mother. Poor June (the wanna-be wedding planner), she’s been dying to meet G Spot for weeks, if not months. She wanted to learn as much about his background as possible before meeting him, as both she and my father have the uncanny ability to say just the wrong thing at just the wrong moment. When she wanted to know about his background, I mentioned that he had a German heritage. Hearing this, June instantly needed to know if he, or anyone in his family, is a Nazi. The reason? Because most of their friends are Jewish. Seriously – this is a discussion that we had at the dinner table a couple of weeks ago…….. When I asked how she would like him to address her, she said she wanted him to call her Mrs. Cleaver-Blogshaw, not June, as she prefers formal introductions. I forced the issue to see if we could make it more casual by using first names, but she wouldn’t make any concessions other than giving him permission to call my father “Pappa.” ???!!! Whatever.

So, it went well. My parents seem to be bigger fans of him than they are of me, which at this point is okay. Of course, June couldn’t resist telling embarrassing stories of my younger years, but that is standard and I’m pretty sure that even normal parents do that. My mother managed to restrain herself from making wedding plans and my father did not beg G Spot to make me an honest woman and to take me off the Blogshaw family payroll. Compared to the meeting of the real Fockers, this was pretty tame - no one was insulted, home renovations weren’t sabotaged, babies weren’t taught to swear and small dogs weren’t flushed down the toilet. However, there is always next weekend……

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