My brother is in some kind fancy pants club with school. My brother isn’t really the fancy pants type. Last night my brother came to dinner in a brand new suit. His fancy pants club was initiating new members at 8:30. It’s apparently all very formal. Like I said, my brother isn’t really the formal, serious initiation type. He wasn’t thrilled to be leaving dinner early. My brother wanted to describe his fellow club members to my grandfather in order clarify his lack of excitement.
“I don’t know, they’re kind of…,” he said. He looked at his girlfriend for help for a grandfather-appropriate word. “Tools?” he said under his breath to her, my mother, and me.
And then my mother rose to the occasion. In her slight Dutch accent, with a very innocent look on her face, she loudly suggested “DOUCHEBAGS?”
My mother does not cuss. She would not let us say shut up or hate when we were little. Instead we had to opt for strongly dislike. As in I spent my high school years strongly disliking my father. (I’ve since overcome that feeling.)
But, right there in Ambrosia during the Thursday night dinner rush, my mother proclaimed the type of people in my brother’s club to be DOUCHEBAGS. You guys, I wish I had recorded it for you.
And I can now die a happy woman because I’ve heard it all.