Hi, Everyone, Reagan Summerside here talking about families and there are no families on this here planet closer than Southern families and that includes the Summersides. We’re all different for sure...
Mamma and KiKi were sisters. At birth the muses tangoed over auntie’s crib turning her into Savannah’s dance diva and they wrapped mamma in a blanket with little elephants resulting in this campaign and me getting the name Reagan.
but we’re there for each other when it counts like now when Mamma’s running for office!
“People are going to hate me if I do this,” I said to Auntie KiKi. “They’re going to cuss a blue streak and call me names and tell me to mind my own blankety-blank business and then slam the phone in my ear.”
“Oh for crying in a bucket, Reagan.” KiKi shoved a computer printout at me. “Time to put on your iron-clad bloomers and dial the numbers on this here sheet. It’s your very own mamma everyone in this room is trying to get elected to city council.
The last thing on earth I want to do is make campaign calls but I will because it’s for Mamma. I keep reminding myself this is the woman who single-handedly raised me after Daddy went boar hunting with the good old boys proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that guns and Johnny Walker Red are indeed a mighty poor mix.
Mamma and Auntie KiKi have always been there for me not rubbing it in when I divorced Hollis Beaumont the Third when they both told me from the get-go he was a horse’s patoot.
Usually I let them have their way because they are my elders and the fact that they don’t listen to me any more than I listen to them but on occasion I put my foot down and get my way.
I studied Mamma and Auntie KiKi and Bruce Willis, a huge wave a thankfulness that we were still here in this kitchen sucking air pouring over me. “We need a group hug,” I blurted.
“Honey,” KiKi said in her best auntie voice. “This isn’t California, we’re Republicans. We’re more a kiss on the forehead you’ll be fine as a fiddlekind of family then we just move on with life.”
I folded my arms across my too tight green warm-up suit and held my ground.
And then there’s my wedding...
…you’re walking me down the aisle, BW is the ring bearer, Mamma is officiating and we’re having pot roast and mac and cheese for dinner. You got to admit that’s better than rubber chicken. And of course the best part is I’m marrying the best guy ever.
Okay, so you know my family and now I want to know about yours. When was the last time you did something for them when you reeeeeally didn’t want to? Dog sit? Kid sit? Throw a party for obnoxious Uncle Harry?