Altar Egos

A less-than-celebratory Bettie joins half the population of Akron, Ohio as they gather for the outrageously excessive wedding of her stepsister’s daughter.

Today’s weather: Sunny with a chance of suicide.

As the lovely Baz from Ballasalla’s haunted hairdressers once said, “One’s path through life is never as straight as you first imagine.” And right now, after the happy couple have risen into the blood-orange Akron skies in the only inflatable structure that’s bigger than they are, I can totally see his point. Who would have thought that after packing my bags to escape the only place in the US that has more Goodyears than a perky Pollyanna, I’d be back here in full-on festive flag-waving for the marriage of this – and, if my stepsister’s wedding planner had her way, any – millennium. 

Now, don’t expect me to dwell on each and every excruciatingly tasteless and ludicrously expensive detail, diary, as I have every intention that one day in my dotage I’ll re-read these pages, and have no wish to experience the event a second time. Suffice to say that unsurprisingly each and every single member of my family wanted their fifteen minutes of fame, but had overlooked the fact that today had twenty-four hours in it like all the rest of ’em. So let’s just hit the highlights.

Hmm… the best way to describe everything that happened from dawn hair and makeup to squeezing Bunnie through the double doors of the chapel in three words? Frock and Rolls.

Next came the all-inclusive Catholic service, a ceremony so lengthy that  several of the elder members of the clan were resuscitated by medics before the Hail Mary firework finalé. Special mention goes to the Feckswithins, who set a world wedding first with their mid-sermon Bible reading of the Whore of Babylon passage from the Book of Revelation.

“Come ye and I will show you the judgment of the great mother of harlots with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication…”

Nice.

Then, it was all off in an armada of horse and carts to the reception at Muffy and Theodore’s palatial wilderness lodge, which was, I think you’ll find, best described by Better Homes And Gardens’ fifteen-page article, ‘Zillionaire Mansions That Cost More Than You’ll Make In A Lifetime’ as ‘the Taj Mahal of Cuyahoga Valley’.

Sheesh, it’s no coincidence Akron’s the meth capital of America, I can tell you. Seven hours of this, and I was about ready to slam needles into both armpits.

Arriving at the three-story balloon-tunnel entrance, I next had to guide my entourage through the double dangers of the meet-and-greet – “My word, Teddy! You’re alive!” – and the tossing of the bride’s bouquet – “Aw, butter-fingers!” – we – finally! – got to a bar.

“Oh, aren’t they a wonderful couple?” gushed Muffy in full mascara waterfall.

“Of what?” I replied.

“How’s mother?” she countered, changing the subject for far thinner ice.

“The phrase that springs to mind is ‘bag for life’.

“How about your accommodation?”

“Fine.”

Though to be honest, it’s anything but. Obviously with a circus troupe of twenty-eight, I told Hubby #3 to find somewhere cheap, but only Big Frank would consider the Akron Happy-Happy Joy-Joy Hostel. So now we’re vacationing in a dormitory-style shack where the all-Asian staff don’t know the word ‘Coca-Cola’ but can say ‘You like massage rub-rub” in twenty-seven languages.

The wedding breakfast – a stupid term as it was now frickin’ dusk – was another disaster as I got seated next to my incontinent aunt, Pissie Chrissie, who’s never survived a meal without voiding her bladder, and her two ravished daughters. If you think I meant to write ‘ravishing’ there, I’ll take it you’ve never met them. There are actually three in total, but the youngest’s so ugly she has to eat in her room with a sack on her head. And people wonder why the stork has never paid a visit to my personal gooseberry bush...

For my sins, I just tried to keep my head down and focus on my Crêpe Suzette, rather than thoughts of the honeymoon and how it’s gonna redefine forever the term ‘bumping uglies’. And I was doing well until I noticed a group of Muffy’s golfing friends pawing over Mona’s handwoven sacks of sugar-coated almonds.

“Are they recycled?”

“Well…” started Mona.

“Considering they’re knitted from crotch hair gathered from used Brazillian wax strips,” I interjected, “I think the term you’re searching for is pre-loved.”

The resulting mass-panic bitch stampede was, I thought, easily going to win the Biggest Shock of the Evening Award, but I’ve been wrong before. And it turned out tonight was no exception. In the run-up to this travesty of taste, I was worried half to death that my Missing-Presumed-Dead daddy would show up. I shouldn’t have wasted my time. Because, just around then was when my actually dead mother walked in…

Tour De Farce

Bettie and her entourage get off to a less than flying start as they head to the Dominican Republic for the first leg of their whirlwind trip

Y’know, diary, after sitting on another plane for untold hours waiting to get airborne, terrorism is definitely on my list of things to do today. But – always look on the bright side – I’m not suffering here alone. That’s because the final herd of friends, family, servants, hangers-on and loonies includes myself, Big Frank, my stepmother, the USS Invincible, her live-in therapist, Dr. Helmut Dinkelïcker, his insufferable wife, Helga, my maid, Mona, my success coach, Jerinda Rawls Kingston-Royce, and 39-4-Ever’s entire customer support team – who are owed so much cold hard cash, the plan is to lure them into the woods later on and leave them there.

Not really sure about this morning’s holdup, but after listening to Big Frank achieve his Ph.D. in Being A Complete And Utter Nuisance as he taps, sings along to Air Las Américas welcome music, sniffs, snorts, blows air from one nostril while holding down the other, stamps his feet, shuffles, whacks down his seat into the laps of the passengers behind him, pokes the people up front through their seat backs, coughs, sneezes and a whole catalogue of other annoying habits, I’m about ready to hijack the plane and fly it myself.

Then, as we finally taxi down the runway, some hag in 25C decides it’s time in her life for a series of violent spasms and drops dead. So, it’s all back to the departure lounge…

No, wait. She’s alive! They’ve found a slight pulse… It’s her digital watch… No, it’s a pulse! The paramedics have arrived and are trying to bring her around… Ah, Dinkelïcker’s announced he’s a doctor… He’s scrubbing up. They’ve started open heart surgery… It’s an international incident… They think they’ll be able to save one of her legs… She’s down! She’s up! Now, she’s down… They’re carrying her out on a slab… The crew are all holding a candlelight vigil. The captain’s crying. It’s very moving. And now that the police, ambulance and fire crews are all gone, for security reasons we can’t leave with the old trout’s bags in the hold… so it’s hang around a while longer as they sort through two-thousand pieces of luggage.

Finally, we arrived at Santa Domingo International, and, ditched the groupies as Big Frank and I sped off to the convention shack. Already horrendously late, I hardly sped up proceedings. As, after reading the show byline of ‘Where you’ll find everything you want, and more!’, I wanted that in writing.

Another month. Another continent. Another conference. They do blur after a while.

An hour later, as Hubby #3 mixed and mingled, I was bored out of my bouffanted little mind. Still, I wouldn’t say the cross border debate was heated, but I ended up holding the coats for the delegates who went outside to finish their ‘discussions’. Still, at least I made a mint betting on the outcome. Big Frank was so proud.

Later at the evening function I kinda drew the short straw in the seating plan lottery as I got stuck next to this dumpy fella who said he’s someone big on the small screen. Has web craps apparently, though I hastily declined from going to his laptop to view them. No sign of my blond paramour, but I did see one of the top software execs parading about his new beloved. I think she’s what you’d call a trophy wife, but I’m just judging that by the shape of her head. Though on the whole, it wasn’t her head everyone was looking at and I couldn’t help thinking, “Boy, do I have to get me some of those!”

Though it’s fair to say we’re all defined by our enemies, in my opinion, one should never get blasé about one’s knockers…

Fat Chance

Beleaguered Bettie finds she’s scheduled for another spin on life’s big wheel of misfortune – and this time she’s got company.

The Isle of Man in the Fall. Could be any time of year. Round here, the only way to tell is by checking out the fake foliage in the shopping malls. This season, it’s yellow and red oak leaves and pumpkin Barry Gibbs. Tasteful. Still, it has to be said that in my opinion, the Bee Gees are definitely up there with John Lennon. Well, two of them anyway.

Here at 39-4-Ever Ground Zero, life is not just not going to plan, it is now inventing new ways of conspiring against me. Hmm, just read that back and think I’m sounding even more paranoid than usual. Here, diary, my old friend, is why: Before the last Autumn leaf lies dead and withered on the frozen ground, me and mine have two events to attend.

The first is the Fourth Annual Caribbean Gaming Show & Conference – and, let me tell you right here and now, there’s only one word in that needlessly lengthy title that actually matters a hoot. It’s in Santo Domingo, and while the brochure goes to great length why they chose the Dominican Republic for their latest jolly, anyone looking out the hotel window could answer you that!

The other event is my stepsister’s daughter’s wedding. If you are one of the four people on the entire planet not invited, Bunnie and her fiancé, Warren (I kid you not) are getting married – and as sister of the mother of the bride on her dead father’s side, I’m being roped in to do everything it seems except cut the cake. Now, not more than five frickin’ minutes go by without Muffy ringing with another Herculean task for me to accomplish. Her latest was to request that anything included in the five-hundred-fifty wedding favors had to be certified both nut-free and vegan. Apparently, bride and groom are both looking after their waistlines which, judging by their combined bulk, must take quite some serious food management. Darling Bunnie is in the size category doctor’s term ‘fricking huge’ and the only time we met, her future hubby’s in the same boat. Though obviously with two of them onboard, that’d have to be a pretty enormous ocean-going vessel.

“I bought a dress that’s four sizes too small,” Muffy commented in our latest cross-Atlantic wedding planning conference call. “So until the big day, I’m eating only enough to avoid actual death.”

Jeez O’Pete’s, am I the only sane person left on the planet? Of course, anyone who knows me, also knows that I don’t do diets. And anyhow, even if I did, my weight program wouldn’t involve complex protein/carb formulas or slugging back a cup of cold wee every morning. No, mine would be simple and consist of two easy-to-follow steps:

(1) Eat less

(2) Exercise more

Then: repeat (1) & (2) ad infinitum, while the multi-billion dollar diet industry collapses into its own calorie-controlled ruins.

“And the next agenda item I need a teensy bit of help with,” the Muffster said, “is seating plans.”

And it was round about then that I had to break it to little Miss Obsessive-Compulsive that I wasn’t coming alone.

“Of course not,” Muffy chimed. “Obviously you’re bringing Mother.”

“I was thinking of my husband.”

“Oh, yes! Of course your hubby will be joining you–”

“And my maid, Mona,” I added, as I’d promised her a place in exchange for her extensive help in the lead-up.

“Everyone needs a little helper–”

“And if your mother’s coming, so’s her therapist.”

“Oh, yes. Helmut says she’s at a delicate stage in her treatment.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, it’s his life quest to bring relief to troubled minds.”

“Pity he couldn’t have started with mine. And his wife. Oh, and my success coach. Apparently I’m at a delicate stage in my development, too.”

“So that’s…  seven of you.”

“Twenty-eight. There’s also the 39-4-Ever customer care team. Big Frank owes them eighty-two man years in unpaid overtime and it’s either this or they all retire tomorrow.”

“…!”

You know, diary, whoever said that silence is golden never knew the half of it.

Turning Prophet

Caught up in the dramas of the imminent family wedding, Bettie turns her hand to fortune-telling, but fails to predict an important date in her personal calendar.

Aw, crap, diary! What a pain in the proverbial patookus. Today is the anniversary of me and Big Frank tying the knot… and boy, is it one hell of a tie that binds. And I forgot it. While I was knee-deep in drafting my Bride’s Mother’s Sister’s speech, Hubby #3 sidled up and handed over a badly wrapped gift that turned out to be a Buy-One-Get-One-Free Tattoo Gift Pack. Now, I know that it’s usually traditional for the husband to forget such auspicious dates and the wife to point this out until Doomsday, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now…

For a start, my latest project of papering over the virtual cracks at 39-4-Ever.com, the world’s largest online casino for women with more chins than Lotto wins, is to expand my talents into the spirit world. I’ve now been pressganged into standing in for the laid-off Mystic Tracy, making me the resident psychic’s sidekick. Still, with grannie being an infamous swamp sorceress, it’s fair to say there’s always been a bit of hocuspocus in our gene pool. She used to conjure up all kinds of rubbish and it’s the same thing here, except I predict when they’ll meet their Mr Right. And when I’m wrong I just blame Ma Bell for the bad connection. Y’see, it’s amazing how sensitive these mystical cosmic messengers can be. Especially with a hangover. Actually, Hubby #3 could get a monkey to do this job, and probably would if only he could find one with a pinchable bottom.

Too bad Tracy’s Magic 8-Ball couldn’t have clued me in to our first anniversary. Or that, to make it up to him, giving Big Frank his pick of fine dining establishments on this backward rock meant we’d be off to his favorite – Pavarotti’s Pasta & Pizzeria – which is about as Italian as the Pope.

Greeted by the most miserable waitress in Christendom, we were manoeuvred to a gingham and parmesan-covered table and handed the laminated menu. The daily specials looked anything but, so I was already reaching for the drinks list. Because, in my extensive experience, I’ve long since reached that point where the wine is far more important than the food.

Predictably, Hubby #3 went for his usual; a pizza-with-everything they call ‘The Three Tenors,’ which at first is a mystery until the bill arrives and you see it costs thirty frickin’ pounds. Already troughing into his primo, he announced that the pancetta wasn’t fit for a pig. “No problem,” I said, “I’m sure if you ask nicely they can fix you some that is.”

There was a pleasing pause as our entres arrived – his 28-inches of death by carbs and my vino. When he announced, between bites, “I want to talk about your affairs,” I almost choked on my Chardonnay. Thankfully, he just meant my recent expense account purchases, but I countered with the line, “The only thing I cheat on is my taxes.” Which ended that little tête-à-tête.

“Are you done with that?” he next asked pointing at my uneaten breadsticks, to which I replied that, considering it was our anniversary, couldn’t he for once just surprise me with a compliment. He thought for a minute, looking me up and down, then said, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen… wearing that dress.”

Sheesh, if men were from Mars, women would be down at NASA sabotaging their exploration missions. It’s at times like these that Wanda, my NYC girlfriend, would advise me to “Ditch, don’t bitch,” but while marriage may not be grand, I’ve learned that divorce is a hundred grand – of crap. But, still, diary, if Big Frank doesn’t start going easier on the partially hydrogenated high fructose fat syrup, I’m gonna be hunting for darling Hubby #4 sooner than I thought.