with all apologies to billy idol, it really was a white-trash wedding.
how do i know it was a white-trash wedding? for starters, the happy couple included their love child in ceremony as the older child from a first marriage go-round pushed the love child down the aisle in his stroller.
the junior bridesmaid, who couldn't be more than 10 years old, had bleached blonde hair and thick 1-inch roots. my amazement subsided after another guest pointed out who the poor child's mother was ... the maid-of-honor with the tattoos who prefers an all-over, bottle blond two shades lighter than what she used on her daughter.
the best man needed to be reminded to put his tux jacket on repeatedly through out the day. ditto for the rental shoes of another usher.
the wine was served from a carafe and not a bottle, a sure sign that it originated from a box. and judging from the taste, a very likely conclusion. but since my taste in beer runs a bit deeper than bottled miller lite, i decided to stick to the wine-in-a-box instead.
(yes, i wholeheartedly admit to being a beer-snob. i just believe that as soon as a person can afford a better beer than "beast ice" or pabst blue ribbon that you should refrain from drinking them. ordering one after a certain age doesn't imply "young, broke and cool", it only screams "aging-wannabe-hipster".)
hmmm, what else?
oh, yes! the cake. the cake had more plastic than actual food in its presentation. i'm still not sure what those black dots were supposed to be on the many plastic pillars that separated the thin layers of cake. honestly, i don't think i want to know, either.
but those dots may have been the only black things at this wedding. we had the worst dj. this dj was so bad, even the bridal party wasn't out there dancing. as any bridesmaid knows, it is an unspoken part of the assignment is to get out there on the dance floor. your presence out there encourages other guests to shake their booty. but not at this party. those girls weren't having it as they sucked down their miller lite in a bottle.
but who could blame them? when the dj's music selections are country, country and more fcuking country, it's hard to get your groove thing on. seated at my table for the entire night, i did meet a new bitching partner, who at one point exclaimed, "i have fiddy-cent on my ipod in the car, please let me get it for the dj!" alas, there was to be no black music at this shin-dig. no rump-shakin', either.
only boot-skootin' boogie and the old macarena. for crissakes, who still plays the old macarena? dear goddess, make it stop.
sorry, it gets worse. did i forget to mention i was seated next to my nemesis, my mother-in-law for most of the night? who didn't say one friggin' word to me? my sister-in-law happens to be on her current shit-list and she gets more interaction than i did, but then again, the conversations between them were directed towards my one-month-old niece.
the only time she stopped sitting next to me sullenly was to play chaperone to my niece as she was handed off from one-baby-hungry woman to the next. literally, the sight of my niece created a frenzy among the women of childbearing years. you could expect less activity after dropping chum in shark-filled waters.
let's summarize: no dancing, no good music, no good alcohol and high-levels of estrogen circling the room. what a waste of a great dress! i wore a fantastic chocolate brown silk halter dress and feeling very marilyn-monroe-ish in it with my plumped out curves. but the piece de resistance? brand new, steve madden FMS (fcuk-me-shoes) in matching brown silk with a very high heel.
well, at least the shoes didn't go to waste.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
this much i know is true
this much i know is true -- i will never win the daughter-in-law of the year award.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
digesting the skinny person within
there is no greater foe to a chubby chick than a mutherfcuking camera.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
weathervein
you can never really imagine how much time you actually spend sitting on your ass until you need to be aware of such things.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours.
that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours. that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
insta-friends
one of the best female bonding experiences can often be expressed in one word - bridesmaid.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
bread and cheese for the soul
how often does the saying "be careful what you wish for" actually friggin come true?
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
Monday, September 11, 2006
as visions of patios danced in my head
everyone has those family members that they see maybe once a year and think of even less. sure, admittedly, they can sometimes be the scarier swim club members of your gene pool but deep down, you know they are still family. no matter how much chlorine you try to dump in the pool.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.