In which we have Doris' not-service, not-funeral gig

We are back from the funeral and we are exhausted.

However, I have to say that Sly was nice - or at least, he was not mean - to me. I don't think asking me where his urine bottle was by saying, "Aren't you the official urine-bottle holder?" was meant to be a compliment, but whatever.

And Ted was nice. In his speech, he said that his wife and Doris had fallen in love from the instant they met 21 years ago, etc, etc.

I looked across the room at Stephanie and smiled. Clearly, we were not the Good Daughters in Law.

I asked Primo later if TW's knew how much Sly and Doris criticized her behind her back. She ate all the pickled herring, she doesn't know how to load a dishwasher, she served them roast goose and it was disgusting, she drinks too much (glass houses). Primo doesn't know.

About 20 friends and neighbors showed up, which was a more than respectable showing considering that all Primo did was place an obituary ("They took out the Oxford commas I had used!" he fumed about the paper and the obituary) and tell one of the neighbors. It was truly touching to see that many people at the service.

I also noticed in the slide show that although there were photos of Isabel and of Stephanie, both ex-DILs, there was not one of me. I mentioned it to Primo.

"What? Oh no! Are you offended? You should be offended."

I am not. I don't care. I know where I stand.

Primo and I had to drive an hour to pick Sly up and then go an hour back to the funeral home, Then we had to repeat the process to return him to the rehab center. The day did not start well - we left 30 minutes after we had intended. We were delayed because we had left the door to the garage open and didn't know if the cats had gotten out, so had to do a recon to find the cats first. They were inside.

Then, as Primo backed out, we heard a thump. We saw a deluge of brown liquid on the driver-side windshield.

Primo's coffee.

In all his life, this was the one time he left the coffee on top of the car.

There was drama. There was tension. And then there was no coffee, which was the saddest part.

We drove the hour to the rehab center. Got Sly in the car. Drove to the funeral home. Got Sly out of the car. Set up the food that Stephanie had picked up. Changed into our funeral clothes. (Because we were not going to drive an hour each way in dress-up clothes in the June Florida heat.)

Ted's wife appeared, the favored one.

"I wanted Sly to die first," I told her, "so that Doris could have a few years of peace. A few years with friends, living in assisted living, meeting people for coffee and talking about books, maybe getting her hair done and getting a pedicure."

"Pedicure?" TW scoffed. "That was not her."

Way to miss the point, TW. But you made yours: You knew Doris better than I did.

She did know Doris better. That's fine. I didn't care. I guess Doris never wrote her a nasty letter. I shrugged, said, "I'm getting something to drink."

I don't need to fight that battle. I was trying to express sympathy for Doris, not start a war.

We took Sly back to rehab. He told Primo he didn't want everyone to go there and have dinner with him, which was what I had anticipated.

When Ted had made his grand pronouncement last night, I said, "Your dad will be exhausted after the funeral! This is a bad idea!"

Wait - I thought I had written about this.

Jack had arranged a Fathers Day dinner at his house. He had invited all of us, but it was mostly for his kids.

Last night, at about 10 p.m, Ted emailed an announcement to Primo and Jack that everyone would gather at the nursing home in Sly's room for dinner.

Jack protested - he already had made plans!

Ted informed him that Ted was changing the plan. Jack was ticked. But you know - Ted. Ted has decided he is In Charge.

My comment was that I suspected that the last thing Sly would want - this is an 81 year old man who has just had surgery and has had a few infections and problems since - would be a bunch of people in his room after an already-long day.

And of course I was right.

Sometimes there is great relief in being right, although we still had to take Sly back. I would have been happy to abdicate that responsibility to someone else.

Primo and I spent some time with Sly in his room, then drove back with the Bag du Jour of Urine-Soaked Clothes. It sat next to the urn containing Doris' ashes. Poor Doris. Even in death, Sly has to dominate.