Tantrum Warehouse
Tact Free Since 2003

Day Three

2003-10-15
Goddamn Cubs. I hope they rip this kid limb from limb today in Chicago. If we have a Yankees/Marlins World Series they might as well stop showing it on TV. Because what a bunch of fucking boring bullshit. And Pudge? Try that taunting bullshit at me. I know Fox edits it all and I don’t care. I also know you outweigh me and are a professional athlete and don’t care. Stay out of dark alleys in Seattle. That is all I am saying.

On to Day Three. If you missed Day One or Day Two reading them now might save you a lot of confusion. Or maybe not. It’s hard to say.

Let me tell you that after more than forty hours with no sleep a full night’s rest is the nectar of the gods. Honestly, I could have just lazed around for the entire day. But J kept nagging about how we had come down there to do things. And we had places to go, crazy relatives to gawk at. Off we went.

We were supposed to be at Nanny Betty’s for breakfast. Unfortunately, these are old people. They get up early, they breakfast early. And we missed it. We had no clock in our motel room and there was no way in Hell I was requesting a wake up call. So we overslept. By the time we got over there Grandma was on her first nap of the day and Nanny was off running errands. Can you say SCORE? We bolted out of there like we had been shot from a cannon.

We were off to buy Danny and his bride-to-be a wedding gift. They were registered at Bed-Bath-And-Beyond and Sears. SEARS. Do I even need to talk about their wedding now? Can you picture it already? Since I refuse to buy anyone a plunger or a chainsaw for a wedding gift (shut up already, I know Sears has other crap but that was what was on their list) we went to Bed-Bath-And-Beyond. I always let J choose the gifts for his family but we do have to use the man-gift-shopping-handicap. I have to get the registry, read the list, tell him what is in our price range and what has already been purchased. Because registries are my husband’s Kryptonite. He forgets how to read, he can’t tell what has been bought, and he doesn’t understand what anything is. He becomes a big fat whiny baby. So he chooses the one man thing on the list (because most of it was pink towels and as-seen-on-TV bow-makers) Mr. Beer. Personally, it looked like a dumb gift to me. But what do I care? I don’t know these people. And maybe it is their lifelong dream to make shitty beer in a plastic keg in their garage. I mean, it was on the list. We also got the BBAB gal to wrap it for us since neither of us can wrap gifts worth a shit.

Then we had to go pick up Jbro at his other grandmother’s house. Jbro and J have the same Jmom but different dads. Jbro’s dad (lets go with Loony, the eighth freaky dwarf) and Jmom lived together but never got married. I don’t really understand how Jmom didn’t get custody of Jbro but she doesn’t have it and Loony has raised him into a serious piece of trash. He is a sweet boy but he has no manners, no social skills and always stares at my breasts in a very unbrotherly fashion. We aren’t Amish here Jbro, even if you bump off my husband I don’t have to marry your scary ass.

Loony is really scary to be honest. He is violent, drug-addicted and lives in the mountains like the Una-Bomber. He has a wife and a few more kids now. They aren’t allowed to go to the doctor (even though one of the girls was born with her liver on the outside of her body) and the only reason they can go to school is the state finally figured out that he wasn’t really home schooling them. Jbro reads at like a fifth grade level. He used the word ain’t in a term paper. Loony takes heroin, grows his own pot (when J was a kid one of his chores was to weed the weed) and hasn’t had a job in twenty years. He made J have a mullet until he was in third grade and then got in a fistfight with Jdad when he took him for a haircut. Those of you from California—your tax dollars at work since he is one welfare and disability.

Ironically, Loony’s parents have serious money. They used to treat J like crap when he was a kid because he wasn’t their real grandchild. I don’t really understand taking something like that out on a kid. But this weekend they were fawning all over him. I guess he looks pretty damn good compared to the dirty, drug-addicted future and ex cons that are really related to them.

We pick up Jbro and immediately our car starts to smell. Last time he came to visit us he was 15 and SWORE that he didn’t need anti-perspirant. Even though he sweated like a hog and left perspiration rings all over my furniture. His dad probably told him that anti-perspirant is how the CIA tracks you down and infiltrates your brain or something. Well he is 18 now and still stinks. Also, he knows everything. Even the shit he plainly does not know. Like he knows that we drive a Chevy Impala. WHAT? News to me. And did you know that it is “easy” and “guaranteed” to get a full-ride scholarship to a university? Even when you can’t read, do math at a second-grade level and have the social skills of an albino anteater? Well apparently that is what Jbro’s future plans are. As a white male in California. Why should reality enter into this picture at all?

During this car-ride we figure out that the ratty and dirty jeans and old falling-apart Vans he is wearing are the “good clothes” that he brought for the wedding. First, no. Second, no. Third, HELL NO. They smell. They look terrible. Christ. Why did we even have to talk about it?

But J and I don’t have the money to outfit the little Neanderthal so we take him to Nanny’s. Where Jmom, Nanny and Grandma WIG about the clothes issue. He really does look and smell like crap here. He also pulled this stunt (or rather his dad did, I am sure if he owned something appropriate he would have brought it) at our wedding. J’s aunt bought him a new outfit, which his dad made him, throw out when he got home. It was “too fancy” and “would get ruined” though I am sure that it didn’t get ruined being thrown in the garbage.

We leave them to sort it out so we can go shower and get ready for the wedding. And also watch the baseball game. I picked out our wedding outfits and to be honest I wasn’t sure what was appropriate. But it was a five o’clock wedding. So to me, that is a sport coat and tie for J and I chose a chiffon blouse and dress pants for me. I was worried about the pants thing to be honest. I am from Iowa. Women do not wear pants to dressy events. But I don’t really like dresses and I thought it might be ok. I think we look pretty damn good actually. J looks HOT in his jacket and tie (as always).

We get to the wedding, which is being held in a senior center in this little dirt town. Nanny claimed the best line of the weekend when she told us it was being held in the “dead pecker club.” The best part was since she is a grandmother (and mine don’t talk that way) I thought for a minute that might be the real name. But no, it was basically the gym of a senior community center—all cinderblock and cheap linoleum and next to the police station. ROMANTIC.

At first, I thought we must be in the wrong place. Because there was this crush of people outside that could not possibly be attending a wedding. There were too many people wearing jeans—some of them overalls. I saw a kid with a shaved head who was holding up his black jeans (I am sure they were his dressy ones) with a confederate flag belt buckle the size of a hubcap. I saw a girl wearing Dickies work pants with a halter-top. I saw more ill fitting strapless dresses that I knew existed. Actually, at least those gals tried. But if you are more than an A cup, wear a bra! Especially when your dress is WAY too tight and bunches up in the back. If you were wearing a bra you might not have been so embarrassed when you raised your arm later and your boobs came popping out. We saw men in cowboy boots and muddy jeans. We saw kids running around with their shirts off.

TRASH.

We get into the building and they haven’t even finished decorating yet. Ten minutes before the ceremony and there are people running around with crepe paper. They used butcher paper as an aisle cloth. The alter looked like it was going to tip over as it was made out of a wire garden arch covered in paper flowers and a card table. No tablecloth.

And the wedding was formal. The groom and groomsmen were wearing tuxes with tails. The bridesmaids were wearing full-length gowns. The bride had a train. And people were dressed like it was a damn barn-raising.

Oh but the bridesmaid’s dresses, man those were ass. First of all, homemade. Which if you are talented at sewing is an excellent idea. But whoever made these was not talented. Second, poorly fitted. These gals were (cough) larger. The dresses didn’t fit them at all, not only was the mermaid design not flattering to the larger girls but they were too big in places and skintight in others. Third, cheap fabric. You could see their cellulite through the fabric. Fourth, falling apart. Every single one of them had places on the dresses where you could see that the stitches had popped out and some one had hand sewn them shut. Fifth, ROYAL BLUE. SHINY ROYAL BLUE. Damn. Did she want them to look ugly because that color is hard to wear? Especially shiny.

And the little flower girl. Two-piece dress was much too large on top so that it was falling off of her, but it was also too short—exposing her stomach. The skirt had an elastic waist that was too large and it fell down at least once that I saw. It was a disturbing dress to see on a child to begin with but fitting that way just made it disgusting.

The bride and groom were both larger people. In fact, Nanny turned to me during the ceremony and said, “I’m glad I don’t have to feed them.” Damn. Love her! They also both looked like they were going to pass out. So the minister kept trying to relax them, unfortunately, her idea of how to relax them was to tell inappropriate jokes and make it very easy to miss them saying their vows.

I suppose it’s just good that they got married.

They had a dinner afterwards. The groom’s sister Patricia had a meltdown and cried (stamping her feet) because people were sitting in the wrong seats. She should have been watching the bridal party. Because man did those kids get SMASHED and fast. One bridesmaid stood up and yelled, “I finished the first bottle!” before most people were even seated. I had noticed this gal earlier because she had blond hair with black roots down to her ears. Note to anyone interested, if you are in a special event like a wedding get your goddamn roots done you lazy cow! The DJ’s were drunk at this point (they tapped the kegs during the ceremony) and decided to get in line for the buffet rather than dismiss tables for it one by one like they were supposed to.

After dinner they had dancing. This is when we noticed that Nanny had left. I guess she couldn’t take it anymore. The bride and groom are fans of country music, which is just fine. However, choosing songs about dead mothers and girlfriends you didn’t marry seem like strange choices for dances at your wedding. Especially since your mother is alive and I cannot imagine that you ever got another girl to date you. They had a money-dance. Which is my least-favorite wedding tradition. I think that people give enough money with their presents and it is tacky to do it in a dance. I understand that it is traditional in some parts of the country but I am guessing that it is not in this part of California. Because most of the guests didn’t understand what was happening. There was a line for the groom but not for the bride. And oddly, lots of men in the groom’s line and women in the bride’s line. They kept doing song after song but I am guessing that they collected about fifty bucks. I think I saw one woman give Danny some change. Jmom looked at me and said, “You are supposed to pay to dance with him? I don’t think I would dance with him if he came over and asked me.” Man, that was this guy’s aunt.

We slipped out shortly after that. We were both a little stunned.

I guess I will leave what happened after that for another time.

But white trash weddings, could ya’ll serve something besides Coors light and Boone’s farm. Like water? I mean, do we really want children under seven smashed out of their minds like that?

7:09 a.m. :: comment ::
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