I was mortified that we may have gotten off to a wrong, perhaps irreparable, start based on the first time we met. Brad and I had INTENDED to take Renee to a quaint little inn nestled among the majestic trees of our state park, overlooking a roaring waterfall. The restaurant menu named their gastronomic delicacies after obscure members of royal families from 14th century Europe. Unfortunately, a delayed arrival had us scrambling to make alternate plans and we instead took Renee to a bowling alley with an embarrassingly limited wine list. We know. She asked. "I think we might have a bottle of red wine somewhere," the confused waitress told my new (soon to be "former") friend. Obviously the wings and beef on weck redeemed us.
"Don't worry. I've got this," my husband whispered as I watched my burgeoning friendship go down in flames. "Renee," Brad said winningly, "How would you like to sample the best ice cream in the county?" Oh no!
Oh yes.
Off we trooped, next door...to the neighboring gas station. Which...NO LIE...has the best ice cream in the county but, oh my stars and garters, is not where you take a visiting dignitary. Thanking us graciously, Renee left shortly after and I was certain that I would never see her again.
But that just goes to show that you can't judge a book by their French-tipped nails.
The annual Black Lake fishing trip was several weeks ago. It is QUITE the event. The lodgings are to die for...meaning you absolutely want to DIE when you find out that you're going to be crammed in a stuffy two bedroom cabin with anywhere from five to ten people at a time. Did I mention the ONE bathroom with the throne in such close proximity to the sink that you can easily multitask if you are confident that you won't confuse your toothbrushing hand with your other hand? Oh. And did I mention you are there to fish? Seriously fish.
And Renee decided to come.
Well...I never saw THAT coming!
Unfortunately, because of work obligations, I was unable to join our little fishing expedition until the final week-end. Obviously, I was heart-broken. I invited Renee to join my daughter Sydney and I on our annual excursion to near-by Boldt Castle on Saturday. And even though I am sure she was having SO much fun fishing, she consented!
distance, and direction. Hedging her bets, Renee notified her next of kin, cancelled her salon appointments, packed enough food for four days, and devoted an hour of earnest prayer for our safe travel before we embarked on our grand adventure.
"Where are we?" she asked when, 17 minutes later, we pulled into a parking spot. "We're here!" Sydney informed her cheerfully. "I thought you guys said it was a two hour drive," Renee said, confused. "Around-about," we shrugged, hopping out of the truck. After a great internal debate, Renee decided to unload the forty pounds of food from her bag to better enjoy our walking tour. This would later turn out to be a grave mistake.
First, like a disheveled band of refugees accompanied by a Disney princess, we waited in a miles-long ticket line for a ridiculous amount of time. Blinded and dehydrated by the sun, we finally made it the front to learn that we were in the WRONG line. Sydney and I shrugged and headed over to the correct line. Renee was beginning to lose faith in us...fast.
We made it over to the little island with little incident (if you don't count Sydney's inadvertent groping of a woman behind her..."I thought you were my mother," Syd explained. "Is that how you touch your mother?" the woman wondered. Oh...and also my and Sydney's frank fascination of the required safety talk on the two minute boat ride. With rapt attention, we watch how to put on and clip our life jackets like it's Les Mis. When the poor guy concludes the lecture that he speeds though two hundred times a day, we lead a rousing round of applause and demand an encore. Renee left us at this point to sit with the lady that Sydney had molested.).
Sydney and I began our self-guided tour of Boldt Castle with confidence, making a bee-line for the small theater that provides an informative background on the history of the castle and sufficient white noise to lull us to sleep from the exhausting boat ride over. We were confronted with a small line so we contented ourselves with contemplating the art work festooning the walls. We wowed Renee with our observations and interpretations of each sweeping brush stroke. Indignant at one point, I called Sydney and Renee's attention to the garish behavior of some disrespectful castle guest. "Look," I said, disgusted, "Someone smeared an M&M on this painting." I made a move to flick it off when Sydney, with superhuman speed and strength, suddenly seized my hand. "Mom, that's NOT an M&M...it's a part of the canvas!" We glanced surreptitiously about for the castle guards or cameras. Whew. It was almost time to take a nap...I mean...watch the educational documentary. "I wish it was an M&M," Sydney sighed, "I'm getting hungry." I was quick to reassure my companions. "I have two warm string cheeses in my pocket," I graciously explained, "and a package of fruit gummies. We'll have a picnic on the castle grounds." It was at this time that Renee realized she had no cell coverage and was trapped with us.
When we weren't busy sleeping, Sydney and I were busy heckling the movie. While the rest of the audience swooned over the tragic romance of the abandoned castle, Sydney and I were calling for a congressional hearing to unearth what George was actually up to. Our savage, cynical hearts refused to accept the idea of a man so in love with his wife that he would re-shape an island and build her a flippin' castle. "Wake up, people!" I told the spellbound audience. "You know he was making up for something,"
Renee was done by this time. "What is that charming little architectural wonder?" she said, taking over our little tour and heading down the hill. "You mean the ice cream concession?" I asked. There was still lots of the castle left to explore. Not to mention the power station. And then we were going to divide two almost-liquefied string cheeses three ways. We would save the fruit gummies for the end of the tour. "I wonder if they sell coffee?" Renee continued. Uh-oh. Now she had Sydney's undivided attention. I was losing my tour group. "They had coffee where we got off the boat," Sydney suggested. Tour over.
Disappointed, I approached the counter. "I would like some agua," I said cheerfully, "That means water." "I know what it means," the counter girl frowned, missing the idea that I was trying to impress her with my linguistic acrobatics here on the northern border. She was NOT impressed. But she hadn't met Renee yet. My friend ordered her coffee and then sought further clarification. "What kind of milk do you have?" Renee asked, moving the paper napkin dispenser aside and avoiding a ketchup stain. Our server stared at her. So did Sydney and I. "We have milk for coffee," our hostess stammered. Renee was about to create an international incident. I stepped forward to interpret. "She wants to know if you have soy milk or maybe almond milk," I repressed a shudder from even having to say the words. "We have coffee for milk," the girl repeated resolutely, the remainder of her sentence not needing to be said. Because it was clear. Because we are in AMERICA!
This was it, surely. Renee was never going to want to hang out with me again. And I couldn't blame her. I lacked the sophistication of someone who consumed milk that didn't originate from a cow. I didn't drink wine...I just whined. She is well-traveled and wise. I presume she uses expensive moisturizer. I bet she has NEVER eaten Nutella out of the jar with a spoon.
But I underestimated Renee because, by the end of the evening, despite all of our snafus, despite the fact that we had embarrassed her publicly and starved her unnecessarily, she had wrestled a campfire together, taught us to make s'mores like a socialite, and gamely put on the Black Lake sweatpants that we bought her so we could all be "twinning!" She may not ever want to learn to gut a fish, but she's certainly not lacking any of her own ("We do NOT gut fish," my husband said, reading my blog in disgust, "We fillet them." I shrugged. "Poetic license."). Renee is not afraid to step out of her comfort zone or afraid to invite someone to inhabit her's.
I'm happy.
I made a friend.
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