So there it was, the morning of the funeral and Lola announced she wasn’t going.

“That sorry son-of-a-bitch left half of everything to those miserable bitch daughters of his — let them bury his moldy ass. I’m not going,” was the answer I got when I asked if she had something picked out to wear.

After about 30 minutes of that, Lola suddenly acquiesced and said she was going to go after all — if I would take her to Meijer for a new pair of shoes.

“Meijer? But mom, it’s less than three hours until the funeral and you need to…you know…”

“Sober up?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

“Either you take me to Meijer for new shoes or you can tell the yellow belly twins why I’m not there. Your choice, Dirk.”

That was a no-brainer — off to Meijer it was.

And may I just say mad props to Lola because she totally sold the whole “I want new shoes” deal because I was truly surprised when I caught up with her after stopping off for a tea at the Starbucks inside the front door and discovered her making her way to the check-outs with this in her cart:

“Mom…”

“Dirk, don’t start with the fucking lectures. This is my day and I’m going to do it up right.”

Now if I’ve learned anything in my 42 years, it’s never argue with Lola — especially when she’s got the hooch in her.

“I thought you wanted shoes…?”

“Yeah, you can be kind of stupid — hard to believe you’re my kid sometimes.”

Back at the house, Lola whipped off her top, popped open a cold one, and settled back in her recliner.

“I’ma sit here, watch my story, and get fucked up,” she announced between swigs.

Realizing I was getting nowhere fast and steadfastly resolved I was NOT going to Old Boy’s send-off solo, I tried a new approach. “Lovely. Well, you stay here and get shit-faced. I’m going to go take a shower and get ready for the freak show. You suckered DuShawn and I into being pall-bearers and we’re going to honor that.”

When I returned 45 minutes later, I was dressed in black slacks, a white button up shirt, and black Sketchers. Leave it to Lola to notice the newest additions to my wardrobe.

“Where’s you get that fucking tie and belt? I’ve never seen you wear either one.”

Without thinking, I answered. “Oh, Tristan loaned them to me…”

“Who the fuck is ‘Tristan’…?” Lola asked.

Fuck.

Now was obviously NOT the time to talk to Lola about The Fella.

“A friend.”

“Uh-huh. Is this ‘Tristan’ gonna be at the funeral?”

I saw my window of opportunity and went for it. “Might be. Can’t say for sure….”

“Jesus Christ — you are not gonna go gaying up the fucking church! I’ll never hear the end of that shit, especially from those bitch daughters of his! I’m going to go throw on some clothes. You get my fucking car out of the garage and crank up the A/C.”

20 minutes later, we were picking up DuShawn and Patrice and heading for the church.

The Lola Show was about to begin.