Fuck the Bouquet, Fuck It In the Ear: A LiveJournal MiniSeries
Part I
My older cousin finally tied the knot and I looked forward to her wedding with about as much enthusiasm as a forced catherization by a three hundred pound inmate named Shakes.
The only things suppressing my knee-jerk reaction to flee situations like this are: free alcohol and the knowledge I'd only have to do this one more time in my entire life.
Ten minutes after arriving at the gated country club (and driving past multiple golf carts which appeared to be full of grand dragons turned retired politicians) I found myself standing in front of relatives whom I haven't seen in twenty years.
And like a German train schedule, the comments about my size were austere and expeditious.
Relative One: "Look how tall you are!*
Relative Two: "Wow, you're big." Turning to my mother, "She's a big girl!"**
We all have those moments when we wish we could harness the power of time travel or at least stop time long enough to formulate the ideal comeback to comments which normally stop us in our tracks.
Well I've only recently discovered bulimia.
My doctor wouldn't let me keep my tapeworm.
Anything other than "Nice to see you too."
I spent the remainder of the ceremony plotting my escape and staring at the five men playing golf fifty feet behind the bridesmaids. I wondered, if a stray golf ball hit the minister in the back of the head during the vow exchange, was it a sign of a long and successful marriage?
* I'm not even that tall.
** "Big" in my family refers to any female over five foot three and more than a size four dress. I'm a size 10/12 which according to my aunt means I qualify for GreenPeace protection from overzealous Japanese fisherman.
Part II
Approximately forty minutes after the bar switched from "cash" to "open" I was working through my third vodka collins and dropping mushroom chunks on my mom's shoe.
"Wow, these little fuckers are tasty."
Working through her first glass of the house red, my mom's cheeks began to resemble freshly picked radishes, and evidently not hearing my compliment on the appetizers being circulated by a team of waiters outfitted in black tie and ennui, she smiled and asked me how I liked her hair.
Still recovering from my cousin's choice of Kelly Clarkson* as ceremonial exit music, I looked around the banquet hall increasingly convinced I had been switched at birth and was in dire need of the Lifetime TV movie-of-the-week development department's number.
* Seriously.
My older cousin finally tied the knot and I looked forward to her wedding with about as much enthusiasm as a forced catherization by a three hundred pound inmate named Shakes.
The only things suppressing my knee-jerk reaction to flee situations like this are: free alcohol and the knowledge I'd only have to do this one more time in my entire life.
Ten minutes after arriving at the gated country club (and driving past multiple golf carts which appeared to be full of grand dragons turned retired politicians) I found myself standing in front of relatives whom I haven't seen in twenty years.
And like a German train schedule, the comments about my size were austere and expeditious.
Relative One: "Look how tall you are!*
Relative Two: "Wow, you're big." Turning to my mother, "She's a big girl!"**
We all have those moments when we wish we could harness the power of time travel or at least stop time long enough to formulate the ideal comeback to comments which normally stop us in our tracks.
Well I've only recently discovered bulimia.
My doctor wouldn't let me keep my tapeworm.
Anything other than "Nice to see you too."
I spent the remainder of the ceremony plotting my escape and staring at the five men playing golf fifty feet behind the bridesmaids. I wondered, if a stray golf ball hit the minister in the back of the head during the vow exchange, was it a sign of a long and successful marriage?
* I'm not even that tall.
** "Big" in my family refers to any female over five foot three and more than a size four dress. I'm a size 10/12 which according to my aunt means I qualify for GreenPeace protection from overzealous Japanese fisherman.
Part II
Approximately forty minutes after the bar switched from "cash" to "open" I was working through my third vodka collins and dropping mushroom chunks on my mom's shoe.
"Wow, these little fuckers are tasty."
Working through her first glass of the house red, my mom's cheeks began to resemble freshly picked radishes, and evidently not hearing my compliment on the appetizers being circulated by a team of waiters outfitted in black tie and ennui, she smiled and asked me how I liked her hair.
Still recovering from my cousin's choice of Kelly Clarkson* as ceremonial exit music, I looked around the banquet hall increasingly convinced I had been switched at birth and was in dire need of the Lifetime TV movie-of-the-week development department's number.
* Seriously.