STRANGER THAN FICTION: EXPERIENCED WOMAN OFFERS ADVICE TO YOUNG BRIDE

It seems like only yesterday little Lisha was pretending to perform a wedding ceremony between Barbie and Ken. Now she's getting married.

It looked like the usual stack of mail.

Phone bill. Computer bill. Save the whales. Record club bill. Save 30 percent at Tire Kingdom. Credit card bill. (Yikes!) Check. (Whoopee!)

But at the bottom was a surprise -- a wedding invitation from my cousin Lisha. It featured a black-and-white photo of a little girl about to receive a colorized red rose from a little boy. And it told me my cousin is about to marry a guy named Greg.

What a downer.

No, it isn't that she's getting married. And it isn't that she succeeded in getting her wedding invitations mailed out while mine were incinerated after The Other Half canceled our first planned wedding. And it isn't that she'll be married in Our Lady of Loretto Chapel while I was married in Our Government of Cape County Courthouse Park.

It's that her marriage is making me feel old.

The last time I saw Lisha, she was at that stuffed-animal, Barbie, Saturday-morning-cartoon stage. Her brothers and I went riding around the neighborhood on bikes to get away from Lisha and my sisters -- the big babies.

Sure, photos came over the years and proved that Lisha was turning into an absolutely gorgeous woman. But it wasn't the same as getting this hard-hitting evidence that she is an adult. A 22-year-old adult, by my calculations.

So, now that I'm feeling like an old married woman, I think it's high time I passed a little advice on to my younger relative.

Dearie, one day you will look over at Greg -- probably as you're driving along in the car -- and think, "I've married an idiot." And he'll think the same thing about you.

After just three years, Mr. Half and I are to that point. It's always in the backs of our minds, but the thought rears its ugly head most when we're driving.

Take our recent trip to the New Orleans Museum of Art. It was Friday and only 2 p.m., but the traffic was already horrible. A native later explained that "Friday is the day New Orleans people go out for a drink with lunch and never go back to work."

Mr. Half was driving. I was navigating. Unfortunately, off-ramps that existed on the map didn't exist in reality, so what should have been a 20-minute trip from our hotel to the museum was an hour trip. But finally, FINALLY, we saw the New Orleans Museum of Art sign in the distance.

"Hey! There it is!" said Mr. Half, pointing to the sign. I folded the map -- my job as navigator was over.

Then he drove right past the sign and the turn it indicated.

"What are you doing?!?!" I shouted. "You were the one who pointed out the *&%$#@*& sign!"

"I didn't know I was supposed to turn there."

"Well, Sweetums," I said through clenched teeth. "That's usually what an arrow means!"

That experience gave me irrefutable evidence that The Other Half is an idiot.

Fast forward to our return trip to the motel, where the map once again showed a phantom exit. (The same New Orleans native also explained, "That's why we drink so much. To find our way around this city.")

My job was to find an alternate route. I was confidently barking out directions to Mr. Half when I looked up. We were heading in the exact opposite direction of the hotel. And we were in a neighborhood that was so bad even the doghouses had alarm systems.

And that provided irrefutable evidence to Mr. Half that I'm an idiot.

So, dear cousin, here's my advice to you:

You'll know you're the brains in the family. And Greg will know he's the brains in the family. But as long as you both keep your mouths shut and let the other person keep living in his/her fantasyland, you'll be married forever.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.