Ok. First Blog. I admit, I’m nervous. What do I put out there first? Poignant thought? Embarrassing story? A recent adventure? Well, here goes nothing. I figure, in order to know the Schlelly dynamic you have to know what makes each Schlelly a Schlelly. As a global nomad, moving frequently while growing up taught me to rely on family. My brother, my only sibling, was often my only companion. In many ways we are completely different, and in many ways we are exactly the same. One thing we share, stories of our more embarrassing moments in life.
In 2004 my brother and I traveled to attend our cousin’s wedding with our parents and extended family. The first night we arrived we joined the bride’s family at their house, enjoyed Jambalaya, and met and caught up with family. The next night we went to my cousin’s father’s house for the rehearsal dinner. Everyone attending the wedding was invited in order to take advantage of time with family and friends. Luckily my brother and I were able to keep each other company, the party was huge and neither of us is great at small talk with strangers. We were the first to sit down at our assigned table but soon a couple joined us. The couple introduced themselves and asked how we knew the bride and groom. We explained we were cousins with the groom and the woman explained she was a long time friend of the bride’s mother. My brother, trying to improve his sociability, proceeded to ask the woman, “Are you a hooker?” The woman and her husband stared drop-jawed at my brother. So many ideas were running through my mind, not the least of which was why in the world is my brother asking this woman if she’s a hooker? Based on the stares, he proceeded to ask the question again, slower and more drawn out, the way people rephrase something for someone who doesn’t speak the same language. “Aaare yoouu aaa hooooker?” The stares only grew stronger and the jaws dropped a bit further. I noticed the husband’s stare was starting to turn into anger, the type of anger that appears to imply a fist and a head are soon to become intimately acquainted. This process was happening quickly but it felt like it was all in slow motion, the same way my brother’s mind appeared to be working. My brother put his hands together and started moving them in alternating directions. He stuttered as he said, “a h-h-hooker… you know h-h-hooking…h-h-hooking rugs…” A look of realization and relief came over the woman’s face and she put her hand to her temple and realized what my brother was referring to. She said, “No, no, I don’t hook rugs”, she sighed and glanced at her husband who still looked confused but fortunately also less angry. Apparently my brother talked to another cousin’s husband the first night we arrived and was told about the bride’s mother’s passion for the art of hand hooking rugs. She had hooked the image of a claddagh ring in a rug for them to stand on during their wedding ceremony to celebrate their Irish heritage. She regularly meets with a group of women who all share the same rug hooking passion. They even have t-shirts they wear around town telling people to support their local hookers. Evidently the double entendre meaning of the shirt was not immediately apparent to my brother.
One of those classic family moments we remember so fondly.