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…
