First time meeting the parents

To celebrate the sequel to "Meet the Parents" being released this Christmas, I thought it best to meet the new girlfriend's parents. I'm not sure they felt the same way, though.

It wasn't a glamorous first meeting, just lunch at an Irish restaurant in nearby Palos Hills. But that was enough to warrant buying a new shirt.

"Are you sure shorts will be OK?" I asked.

"Totally. My dad's in tennis shoes and jeans. You'll be fine."

But still, I felt the need to compensate for my choice of shorts and white T-shirt, even if it was from an Irish bar in San Francisco where I had my first ever Guinness draught.

Her family is very Irish, so initially, I thought the Celtic symbol would impress them. Not so much.

I darted into a store and found a nice, collared shirt, didn't try it on and headed back on the road.

Katie didn't give me many behavioral instructions. At least, not until we were in the parking lot inches away from the restaurant's front doors.

"Just make sure you address both my father and grandfather as 'doctor,' she told me. "They expect that and have rightly earned the title, especially when being address by my friends."

"Interesting," I said. "Your dad teaches neuroanatomy and mine's a produce manager. Yours is in charge of the brain and mine's in charge of squash. Excellent."

After taking a deep breath and all but swallowing my tongue, we entered. I scanned the place, looking for a table featuring at least two doctor-type gentlemen who were indirectly responsible for my cold sweat and new shirt.

In addition to the gentlemen were Katie's mother and her Aunt Karen. They were all just finishing lunch.

"What's up, doc?" I said to her father. "Just kidding. I've always wanted to say that."

I then address him as advised.

"No, please. Call me Dan. That's the doctor over there," he said, pointing toward his father, a retired surgeon.

"What is his area of expertise?" Katie's grandfather asked her while nodding toward me.

"He's a comedian," she told him.

Nobody said a word, and I just applied more ketchup to my fries.

"Oh, I see. Did you study communications at Northwestern?" he then asked me.

"No sir, but I have talked with some people from Seattle."

After lunch we headed over to another relative's house, Uncle Roger's, located on the Cog Hill Country Club, host to the PGA's Western Open.

The home was more of an estate, and keeping with the Irish theme, there was a full bar in the basement larger than some I've played in.

Upstairs was an opportunity to look at her parents' pictures from a three-week trip through Europe.

It's safe to say many people quickly get bored with other people's vacation pictures. But I dared not and took great interest in the places I had previously only seen on television or read in books.

What's more, I was seated in between Katie's mother and father after having just met them an hour before.

Pressure? Awkwardness? Nah. OK, maybe a little.

"There are only two statues of David, and we got to see them both," her father said as he flipped to each.

"That's awesome," I commented. "But who's David, and where's his underwear?"

Eventually, they stumbled across some pictures I recognized, including the Pope, the Eiffel Tower and Michelangelo.

"Now that's very cool;" he was one of the Ninja Turtles, right?

Throughout the visit, her father and Uncle Roger broke into Irish dialect, telling jokes and stories like a leprechaun. Or Michael Flately.

It wouldn't have been an Irish get-together without some drinking of course. And why not do so with some Corona? I didn't ask questions at this point.

"Do you want another one?" Katie asked as she headed down to the bar.

Before I could reply, her mother offered me the rest of hers.

What was I to do? I had just met this woman, and she wanted me to finish her slightly warm drink? If I said no, she may've taken offense to it.

But if I drank it, she may've thought I was a drunk.

I opted to finish it and graciously thanked her.

They had tickets to the Red Sox-White Sox game later that night, so things began to wind down.

"I don't care what time we get there," her mom said. "Baseball's so slow and boring. We'll leave before the seventh hopefully."

My passion for baseball in question, I had to find a structure on which to lean. I clutched my heart in disbelief. A tear trickled down my cheek, and my breathing intensified.

Katie reassured me that she didn't feel as her mother did, and the paramedics were thanked for their efforts.

I think I passed the test. Now just wait until they come to my mother's for dinner.

Scott Deininger's a standup comedian from Shorewood. His work can be found via his Web site, www.ShaveYourHead.com

9/26/04