The Bachelorettes

Drinks on the patio. Something on the grill. A Netflix movie to be determined later, like a low draft choice thrown in at the last minute.

The marquee at the local high school says “HAPPY SUMMER,” the simplest of requests.

At the risk of sounding insipid, which I often do, seeking out a happy summer isn’t the craziest idea, even in these fracky times.

For instance, I might take Suzanne to the drive-in and chase her around the car till she’s winded. Her right foot’s in a boot these days, so if you’re putting serious money on this little foot race…

FYI, while descending some stairs, she missed the last one – sfuuuutzing as she fell, which is very unlike her – all that sfuuuutzing.

I mean, if Tiffany made women…

Now, Suzanne’s right foot is in a boot, which she wore to Jeff and Lydia’s wedding last weekend, with some sort of gold lame jacket she picked up at a discount store in New York.

Stunning.

Suzanne also has that thing I look for most in a woman: comic timing. A sly irreverence is handy too.

So, I really look forward to chasing Suzanne around the car at the drive-in. Hope she wears that new jacket, which has epaulets and dangling little ropes, like the first duke of Bronte. Honestly, just makes you want to stand and salute.

With any luck, they’ll be playing a ‘70s biker flick at the drive-in. Or something from the Billy Jack conspectus.

That’s what played the last time I was at the 53 Drive-In in Arlington Heights, Ill. AKA, “God’s Country.” AKA, the greatest drive-in movie complex of all time (five screens, clean restrooms).

As you know, the French make wine and the Poles make candles. What do Midwesterners make? They make hanky-panky at drive-in movie theaters on sticky summer nights.

At least they once did. Who knows what goes on back there these days? Probably nothing. Maybe everything.

We will find out for sure in August, when we return to the Middle West for Rapunzel’s wedding (suggested attire: Cubs jerseys, battling helmets, war paint).

Even as we speak, they are bringing in extra kegs of PBR, and big casks of corn-belt hootch – all the stuff that usually gets ornery men through very tough times.

Well, same thing works for weddings. And this will be an enormous event, unlike anything Chicago has ever seen.

The wedding invitation arrived the other day — nice stock, twisty font. Quite elegant, though I told Rapunzel that a small photo of the bride’s father is always a nice touch in a wedding invite, since he mostly picks up the check.

She kind of blew me off, since: 1) She’s a daughter 2) She was still recovering from her bachelorette party in Austin a few days earlier.

They were like sailors on shore leave down there in Texas: Quinn, Taylor, Abby, Amanda, Lucia, Amy, Olivia, Lauren, Marissa…the whole lot of them in cowboy boots, a first for many of these LA girls, I’m sure.

At one point, they lifted Rapunzel over their heads and she body-surfed across the crowded dance floor.  Tell me, has a father ever been prouder?

For the record, Rapunzel was raised in a family of strict Mennonite farmers, where morality and simple living were the goals. “How can we better people?” I’d ask every night at supper.

I mean, can you imagine Posh tinker-belling around a Texas saloon like that? No is the only answer.

Down in Texas, there were also scavenger hunts and tequila tastings, plus pool bashes with sweaty cowboys tending bar.

Quick question for the group: Why can’t cowboys keep their shirts on? Is it the heat? The intense workload? And what’s with the Canola?

At one point, the governor of Texas issued some sort of bachelorette proclamation, threatening to export them by bus, as he is wont to do.

That stop them? Apparently not.

In any case, Rapunzel returned to Los Angeles hoarse and horsey. Sine voce, as the Romans would describe it. She also seemed sensitive to bright lights and loud noises.

Is that a hangover? Wouldn’t know. I spend most nights singing canticles by candlelight.

In any case, let’s appreciate all the love that circles us like a moon these days. First, Jeff and Lydia’s fairy-tale wedding. Next, Rapunzel and her fiancé, Truck. Then a niece (Carrie) and another niece (Amy).

Here come the brides!

Indeed, I may be dead before I run out of these flowery weddings. Yet one thing is for sure…

“A summer night is like a perfection of thought,” a poet once said.

So’s a wedding.

Didya hear the lovely and patient older daughter turned 40? Seems impossible. If you missed it, here it is. Love ya, kiddo.

For books or past columns, please go to ChrisErskineLA.com. Email the columnist at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com