Home alone and distraught by current affairs, Bettie finds
solace in the pages of her diary – and one or two sips of vintage vino.
Let’s not beat about the bushels, diary, old chum, I’m
zozzled. Wallpapered. I’m higher than a giraffe’s toupee. I’m tighter than an
A-cup bra on a Double-D tit… Yep, that’s right, I’m drunk. And I’d like to get
a few things off my chest before I sober up.
The reason for this little state of affairs – or at least
the catalysticlysm for it – is that I’ve been invited to a wedding. Not, you
may at first think reason for declaring war on one’s liver, but in my book the
merest mention of nuptial commingling sends
me screaming to the drinks cabinet. Why? Well, it all comes down to two pints:
(1) it usually involves hauling my sorry ass back to Akron,
Ohio, and,
(2) I keep expecting my dead father will show up.
Now, everybody who’s nobody knows that I’m more than a
little thin-skinned in the Daddy department, as during my formative years, he
cheated on my real mother with my fake one and then – one day! – Mommie Dearest
was found poisoned by a herbal infusion from her spell book. The official
report was ‘Malleus Maleficarum Aforethought’, which roughly translates as
death by witchcraft. Personally, I think the USS Invincible dunnit.
Real dad and fake mum
were married soon after, and Muffy graced us with her not inconsiderable
presence soon after that. I moved out to grannie’s round about the time Daddy
started his next affair. Then he vanished. The official report was missing
presumed dead, but I know the she dunn-that, too.
At this point, the USS
Invincible went stark raving mad and Muffy had her incarcerated “for the good of humanity.” I say it was
murderous guilt that drove her over the edge. Or maybe she’s not as mad as she
seems and it’s all a front. So you don’t have to imagine how I feel to be
living with a suspected felon wanted in at least four or five different
languages. Sorry, countries.
Hmm, I should’ve known this confession was on the cards when
I got home and found a bottle of nicely chilled Chablis under each arm.
Now Muffy’s daughter is getting hitched and obviously no
tasteless expense is being spared. I’ve only met her fiancé once, but they are a frickin’ unsufferable couple. My only
salvation is the hope that they die before the event. Or I do.
Oh, and another thing worth mentioning: the good Dr.
Dinkelïcker’s schmuck therapy is not going well. Take, by way of a great example,
our first session where all three of us spent over two hours hunting for my
stepmother’s revolutionary invisible hearing aid. Apparently, she’d put it down
and now couldn’t find it. Eventually when we got started, his treatment
consisted largely of connecting her to various bleeping machines and whistling
Dixie.
OK, I admit, I might be a little biased here, as personally
I think therapists are about as effective as most beauty wonder cures: i.e. a complete
and utter waste of time and money. I mean, take anti-wrinkle cream. How can
that ever work? If it did, women wouldn’t have any fingerprints.
“Aren’t I late for my spot on What’s My Line?” she said, as even she tired the lengthy analysis.
“Oh, only by about sixty years,” I answered.
When things were finally over, the quack gave me his
verdict. Here, for posterity, is exactly how that went:
“In my professional opinion,” Dinkelïcker started, “your
mother–”
“Stepmother,” I corrected.
“Your stepmother is a very melodramatic woman who adores
misery.”
“And – let me get this straight – we’re paying you for these
revelations?”
“She also thinks she’s Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“Genius. How much?”
“$500 every hour.”
“Then, in my non-professional opinion, she’s not the only
one who’s batshit bonkers here.”
