"I'm Allergic to Stupid Shit."*
*Katt Williams
And it was a baaaaaad weekend to have that particular affliction, let me tell you.
First of all, can I just send a shout-out to all you brides-to-be and offer you this tidbit of advice--there is a limit to the number of wedding photos you can display in your home. The majority of said photos will be replaced with baby photos within a few years, anyway, so save everyone the time and trouble of spending a whole fucking day being photographed in stupid poses in every corner of the fucking city. You do not need "getting ready" photos of the groomsmen. A bunch of dudes in boxers does not a wedding album make. Especially if said groomsmen are married, and their involvement in Your Big Day causes their wives to be alone and awkward throughout the first hour post-ceremony because you need MORE photos. Rest assured, if this is the case, the wives will hate your ass before you cut the damn cake.
I was delighted and overjoyed to see my husband in his penguin suit greeting me at the door when I entered the courtyard. I was not so delighted to see the only other familiar face enter shortly after I arrived--a man I have not seen in some 16-odd years.
I was an 18-year-old alcoholic psychopath on a desperate mission to find love. He was a 38-year-old minor radio celebrity in my hometown. We were doing a show together at a local dinner theatre. He had recently divorced his first wife, and was, I'm sure, in the throes of a mid-life crisis--a condition which likely contributed to his lack of sound judgment in responding to the advances of a recent high school graduate. He had some "issues," most likely stemming from guilt over being old enough to be my father, and this resulted in my (being 18, mind you) penning him a 2-page letter that basically said, "gee, sorry you can't get it up, but that shouldn't stop us from trying again, because I'm crazy and madly in love with you and need you to be a substitute for my emotionally unavailable daddy."
Um...yeah.
Suffice to say that letter became the very large verbiose elephant in whatever room we occupied together from that point on. I left town a few months later. By the time I moved back to the area, he had, I was told, married a big-city tv news reporter and fallen off the radar.
That is, until Saturday evening. Apparently, he's the first cousin of the groom's mother. This is the part where "It's a Small World After All" starts playing in the distance and I make a beeline for the (open, well-stocked) bar.
Yes, I handled the situation like any normal, well-adjusted, adult female would have--I got shit-faced, sloppy-ass drunk and avoided him like a bad case of herpes.
It wasn't the fact we had a history that made me so uncomfortable. It was the fact that particular history accompanies several years' worth of drama and mistakes of grandiose proportions I would just as soon never be confronted with again. Like one of those family gatherings where your mother says "hey, remember that time you did that," but lasting for several hours and being significantly more humiliating.
The good news is, although I'm still dehydrated, the whole stupid event is finally over. And now we have 5 days left to put all our shit in boxes and move it the fuck out. I'll be somewhat surprized if we have anything left to move by this weekend, because I'm reaching the point where things are looking a lot more disposable.
Oh, and a word to all parents--when you're having a babysitter come over, and your husband says "hide your dildo," heed his warning. Because the following afternoon, you might watch with horror as your 5 year old walks out of his room carrying your handcuffs (they were a gift) that he obviously took from The Naughty Drawer and state, "I showed these to Caitlyn last night!" and then refuse to fess up to what other things he may have shown her.
Which is why I will never, ever star in home-made porn. I'm stupid, but not that stupid.
And it was a baaaaaad weekend to have that particular affliction, let me tell you.
First of all, can I just send a shout-out to all you brides-to-be and offer you this tidbit of advice--there is a limit to the number of wedding photos you can display in your home. The majority of said photos will be replaced with baby photos within a few years, anyway, so save everyone the time and trouble of spending a whole fucking day being photographed in stupid poses in every corner of the fucking city. You do not need "getting ready" photos of the groomsmen. A bunch of dudes in boxers does not a wedding album make. Especially if said groomsmen are married, and their involvement in Your Big Day causes their wives to be alone and awkward throughout the first hour post-ceremony because you need MORE photos. Rest assured, if this is the case, the wives will hate your ass before you cut the damn cake.
I was delighted and overjoyed to see my husband in his penguin suit greeting me at the door when I entered the courtyard. I was not so delighted to see the only other familiar face enter shortly after I arrived--a man I have not seen in some 16-odd years.
I was an 18-year-old alcoholic psychopath on a desperate mission to find love. He was a 38-year-old minor radio celebrity in my hometown. We were doing a show together at a local dinner theatre. He had recently divorced his first wife, and was, I'm sure, in the throes of a mid-life crisis--a condition which likely contributed to his lack of sound judgment in responding to the advances of a recent high school graduate. He had some "issues," most likely stemming from guilt over being old enough to be my father, and this resulted in my (being 18, mind you) penning him a 2-page letter that basically said, "gee, sorry you can't get it up, but that shouldn't stop us from trying again, because I'm crazy and madly in love with you and need you to be a substitute for my emotionally unavailable daddy."
Um...yeah.
Suffice to say that letter became the very large verbiose elephant in whatever room we occupied together from that point on. I left town a few months later. By the time I moved back to the area, he had, I was told, married a big-city tv news reporter and fallen off the radar.
That is, until Saturday evening. Apparently, he's the first cousin of the groom's mother. This is the part where "It's a Small World After All" starts playing in the distance and I make a beeline for the (open, well-stocked) bar.
Yes, I handled the situation like any normal, well-adjusted, adult female would have--I got shit-faced, sloppy-ass drunk and avoided him like a bad case of herpes.
It wasn't the fact we had a history that made me so uncomfortable. It was the fact that particular history accompanies several years' worth of drama and mistakes of grandiose proportions I would just as soon never be confronted with again. Like one of those family gatherings where your mother says "hey, remember that time you did that," but lasting for several hours and being significantly more humiliating.
The good news is, although I'm still dehydrated, the whole stupid event is finally over. And now we have 5 days left to put all our shit in boxes and move it the fuck out. I'll be somewhat surprized if we have anything left to move by this weekend, because I'm reaching the point where things are looking a lot more disposable.
Oh, and a word to all parents--when you're having a babysitter come over, and your husband says "hide your dildo," heed his warning. Because the following afternoon, you might watch with horror as your 5 year old walks out of his room carrying your handcuffs (they were a gift) that he obviously took from The Naughty Drawer and state, "I showed these to Caitlyn last night!" and then refuse to fess up to what other things he may have shown her.
Which is why I will never, ever star in home-made porn. I'm stupid, but not that stupid.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:13 AM
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