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.
