In which I type in capital letters a lot

Ah, weddings. So much planning, so much stress, so many many details, for ten minutes worth of "Do you? Do you? I now pronounce you husband and wife".

It makes me glad I never, ever have to get married again.

Wednesday night, my phone exploded with THE DRAMA OF THE DRESS! L, the bride, had hired a dress maker (a trained dressmaker, mind you, not some random person off Craigslist) to make her dream dress. A gorgeous Edwardian cream colored gown with a ruched bodice and a slight train.

What she got? THREE DAYS before the wedding? After weeks of calling and a very lawyerly phone call on the part of the lawyer groom? A misaligned bodice, a skirt whose lining seams were not centered with the over skirts seam and buttons that fell off. FELL OFF. Not even counting into the equation that there were straight pins sewn into the seams, random bits sewn in to disguise a poorly cut neck line and ORANGE MARKER visible on the back. Luckily, CK was on her way and managed to save the dress (blood, sweat and tears were involved) and L looked lovely.

But the damage was done and L, who is a wee bit (read VERY) high strung was already well on the way to freak-out town.

Which is how the photographer almost got stabbed to death with cocktail toothpicks.

Here's a tip, photographers, when the bride is standing in 40* weather, anxious to get the day over with already, telling her to "Just shake out that stress! Come on, just wiggle it free with me! Now, look longingly for your lover..." is a sure fire way to lose a limb. Or all of them.

About that time, I got a text saying "If you are joking about having Xanax in your purse, I'm going to KILL YOU".

Really, though, who would joke about THAT?

Just as L's eye began to twitch, we arrived at the site and I spared several of my precious and within a half an hour she began to calm down. Flowers the wrong color? Eh. The hem of the dress filthy because the veranda hadn't been swept? Eh. People running late? Eh. The minister forgets the part where they exchanged the rings? Ha ha! So funny! Not enough chairs? Pass the bacon-wrapped shrimp!

Can I just tell y'all? If you're sitting there wondering what to get your cousin Francine for her wedding next week? The answer is XANAX.

The wedding was lovely and short (the way I like them) and the bar was well stocked (EXACTLY the way I like them) and at the end of the evening? When everyone was tipsy and half dead from dancing? They passed out teeny-little grilled cheese sandwiches.

Seriously! How brilliant is that? Who doesn't like grilled cheese!

So, I guess, really, this story has two points. 1) Xanax is the magical Tic-Tac of happiness and 2)Grilled cheese is the best party ending canape EVER.

Oh. Three points.

If your kid is leaking snot like the Exxon Valdez of mucus, FOR FUCKS SAKE DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE and then sit next to me. Or I will stab you. Even if your baby looks exactly like a wee-little Charlie Brown and charmingly shouts HULLO! in the most adorably random impression of Grommit. No free pass will be awarded based on crooked ears and three teeth. None. Snot trumps all get out of jail tiny Chuck Taylor's.

Wordless Thursday, because I thought it was Wednsday; subtitled, "he's not black, he's my brother"

(That's Gram with him)(pre- whiskey shooters)(and pre many glasses of wine) (also, he is my brother and he is black. Although, I like to say he's "just dirty") (futhermore M makes him do the "Carlton Dance" from Fresh Prince. For obvious reasons.) (lastly, I know, I know, there are words. Suck it.)

Classiest. Wedding. EVAH.

Morning, Chickens!

I hope you all had a lovely Balentimes Day, with lots of candy and roses and sensual massages (aside, I like to say is MASS-ahge like Austin Powers) followed by hours of doin' the dirty if only because I did not. My darling husband is at home recovering from having his guts rearranged and was up for nothing more than moaning for his next dose of Percocet and Jello.

While that WAS wicked fun, I opted to still make my weekly journey to embarrass myself at bowling. Why do I submit myself to a three hours a week of looking like an uncoordinated, possibly blind walrus? Because there is beer and boys that flirt with me, obviously.

Not to let the day pass unmarked, because COME ONE it's was the most romantical day of the year, I performed a wedding right there on lane 8.

Doesn't the groom look THRILLED?

My dear friend Baby Mama is such a lucky girl, isn't she?

And the wedding cake?

MMM, Krispie Kremes......

PS. Tomorrow we'll be discussing the Imaginary Book Club selection"Songs for the Missing" so be prepared to interject your opinion. Or any opinion that you might have gleaned from reading other peoples opinion. Or, you know, spouting off about something not at all related, which you know I love.

PPS. Also, anyone who would like to suggest the new IBC selection, have THAT ready too. KLUBYABAI.

And let's not ever do it again.

So, after MUCH ado and about 52,981 macaroons (color coordinated, of course) stuffed into bags and tied off with (color coordinated) ribbons and three (color coordinated, hand lettered and hand stamped) tags, my sister CK will evermore be known as CB.

Wasn't she a lovely bride?

JUST KIDDING.

But not about the lovely bride part. She designed her own dress and held her hair in place with an astounding 93 hair pins.

That's our Daddy, by the way, not the Groom. This is the Groom.

There was many hilarious moments, like when half the bridal party almost missed the rehearsal dinner thanks to traffic from Manhattan. But they all showed up. Which is good, because there was an open bar!

and the most delicious canoli's EVAH

That's my sister KL and her twin D. D is on the right. The resemblance is spooky, huh?

There was a sedate, but lovely bachelorette party (the banana hammock dance didn't happen until the morning of the wedding.) on the Spirit of New York.

Clearly, we were WAY under dressed compared to this guy

And there were mani/pedi's

With all the sisters and Mom (front) and Gram (taking up the rear and reading celeb gossip magazines....and sister LW who may or may not be having a massage chair induced orgasm in the center)

There was LOTS of food

And even MORE drinks

Because there was an OPEN BAR. And you know who has two thumbs and loves an open bar? THIS GIRL. And her Gram. Who drank ELEVEN glasses of wine and did TWO shots of whiskey. And didn't even have a hang over the next morning. That's skill right there, people. WICKED skill. You kids can learn from an 80 year old, (AHEM, KL who had a hang over the next day...rookie).

There were even SNIPERS! I mean, uh, PIPERS. In kilts.


There were about 9 bazillion (I'm not even exaggerating) pictures posed for

But all in all, a good time was had by all. A good exhausting time.

A good, exhausting, drunken, inside joke filled time.

Calvin's Secret isn't the same as Victoria's.

This year is a big year for weddings. I’ll be officiating at my first ceremony in two weeks and I’m pretty nervous that at some point in the service, probably between “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” and “do you take this man”, I’m going to blurt out “FUCK FUCK FUCKEDY FUCK FUCK”. Because I keep thinking “don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck” which of course means, I’m going to say fuck. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. I either turn into the bastard child of a thesaurus and an English Lit professor or I let my true colors out and turn into someone Britney Spears would be embarrassed to know.

I doubt that “I’m country, y’all” will appease the bride very much though.

Three weeks after I do my best impression of a Reverend is sister CK’s wedding in NYC. The experience should be a laugh a minute since the Sugar Plum Nightmares ™ are bringing a WHOLE LOT of whiskey. Because that’s what we do.

Two weeks after THAT my boss is getting hitched. In an effort to fit into his suit, he’s given up chew and beer. To keep his wedding night fresh, they’ve gone abstinent. Yes, he told me that. He tells me a lot of things. For example he told me that his lovely fiancé sleeps in the nude. THEN he tells me that he doesn’t sleep in the nude. Because he worries that at some point, on some night, he will scratch his booty and leave a skid mark on the wife’s gorgeous 2000 thread count cotton sheets.

WTF?

This is not a scenario that ever would have entered into my mind. Seriously. Skid marks on the sheets? So, I do what I always do and run this story by the boys that I know. Sure enough, every single one of them conceded that it was reasonable to be concerned about that occurrence and to always sleep in skivvies.

Then, there is the boy that we’re going to call Mike (because it’s a nice, generic name), and Mike, well, Mikey is the dire warning that all boys would prefer not to be.

“This one time” he tells me “I picked up a chick at a bar. And she was HOT. Smoking hot. Banging bod, great rack, kinda dumb, but good at pool and a she could down some beers. So we’re at the bar, drinking, eating bar food, hanging out and then we go back to her place, right? We um, well, um, anyway and then I’m naked and she’s naked and she’s asleep on my arm, right? And then my stomach starts to rumble and I know I’m going to fart and I don’t want to fart, but you know, I HAVE to, so I do, only it’s NOT a fart, it’s a shart. So I’m laying there, with her on my arm and my asscheeks full of shit trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of there. Because I can’t just roll over, you know, because then the shit will squish out, but I can’t wake her up either, because you know, then she’ll know I shit myself, so I’m doing this wiggle move (does the wiggle move to demonstrate) trying not to shift the shit or wake her up (still doing wiggle move) and finally I free myself, but then I can’t figure out how to stand up with out sitting up, and anyway, I got shit on her bed. So I wiped my ass, got dressed and got the hell out of there”

I thought he looked familiar.

Too Much Togetherness

Among the odder traits of my family is the fact that we don’t go anywhere alone. Chances are if one of us is coming to visit you so are the rest. Especially if there is a party involved.

My sister CK lives as far away from home as she can get with out actually leaving the country. Smart girl, that one. I don’t live quite that far from the rest of them, but far enough that it requires a trip to the airport.

Airports HATE ME. Once, I spent three days in the airport in Manchester, NH waiting out a hurricane and snow storm and a plane with hydraulic issues. It was NOT cool. This trip was somewhat less dramatic; though, of course, my plane was delayed five times and wound up landing 3 hours late. I consider anything less than 6 hours late on time when I’m flying.

The reason for the trip was CK’s “surprise” bridal shower. I say “surprise” because she’s known about it for months. We’ve got big mouths, us Murphy Girls.

So, there we are, descending on NYC in the midst of a heat wave. 90+ degrees and nearly 80% humidity. It was fucking oppressive. I thought I was going to literally melt into the pavement. Of course, every time someone asked where I was from, they’d follow it up with “Oh, well you must be loving this heat!” Uh, NO. See, the thing is, in Phoenix, when it’s that fucking hot, when it’s exactly as hot and wet as the inside of a sauna, we have the good sense to STAY INSIDE where there is this amazing new invention called AIR CONDITIONING. We do not wander the streets, we do not ride crowded public transportation and we definitely don’t plan out door events for 1:30 in the afternoon.

My family on the other hand is fucking INSANE. Which is why it seemed like a good idea to ride the subway from Queens to Manhattan to shop on Saturday. You know, because being crammed up against 50,000 tourists in SoHo is just like a big sweaty orgy, but with Assistant Coach purses and people selling random shit stolen from unattended laundry rooms out of suitcases on the street. And who doesn’t like orgies?

The thing about traveling with my mother, grandmother and sisters is that I wind up spending LOTS AND LOTS of “quality” time with them. And you know what? I remember why I live far away. Just kidding. Kind of. I love my family. In small doses. Small doses that involve medicinal drinking. To this end, I packed six flasks in my luggage. What? They weren’t ALL for me. One was for my Gramma.

Saturday night, after a simulated Bataan Death March through the Union Square area we had dinner with sister’s future in laws out on Long Island. They’re absolutely bat shit crazy, the kind of crazy which makes my family look like the a happy hybrid of the Cleavers and the Walton and the kind of crazy that makes you begin to wonder if the bride and groom shouldn’t strongly consider moving to a foreign country where people live in mud huts and you have to ride a flatulent quadripedial animal 16hrs through wilderness to visit them. This is all I’m going to say about them though, because crazy or not they’re my sisters family. KL and I spent the evening sneaking to the kitchen to top off the “ice” in our diet cokes. And by “ice” I mean “Crown Royale”.

When we were finally paroled, KL & I dropped Mom & Gram at sister CF’s apartment in Sunnyside and headed for the bar.

For those of you unfamiliar with Queens, Sunnyside is possessed of a large number of Irish immigrants. Which is awesome, because the Irish love to drink. And WE love to drink. It’s a match made in alcoholic heaven.

KL and I hit Maggie Mays downed a couple of doubles and decided to head back up 40th so that when we did finally reach “drunk” from our current state of “happy” we were at least in a fairly straight line from the apartment. This is how we wound up in Dillon’s.

Can I just say, I love random, dimly lit, smoky, dubiously inhabited bars like Dillon’s?

I order us another round and we slide into a booth that happens to have a deck of cards. We play cards rather loudly and with no resemblance to any actual game, but with a level of hilarity that drew the attention of a number of other bar goers. Including a rather handsy guy in scrubs who insisted on kissing me repeatedly about the hands, arms and cheeks while gazing adoringly at KL. It wasn’t long before we were joined by an Irish Guy, who while not fresh off the boat, still spoke with a brogue you could cut with a knife. He was quite drunk as well and decided that since we wouldn’t join him for a joint that he’d impress us with his card sharking. So we pick a card, any card, he shuffles, does whatever it is the trick entails and begins to show us cards, “is this your card?” he asks and we say no, so he asks again, still no, a third time and hits the card, so we say yes. With out even skipping a beat he moves on to the next card, which, shockingly, was not our card. The trick completely screwed at this point he yells “Ah, feck it! Gib me a beer!” and we return to our random game that requires cheating, lying, slapping one another and more cheating.

At three forty five, three double C&C’s and a pair of black & tans into the night we stumble (literally) back to apartment.

This meant we were still drunk when my mother cheerfully woke us up at 7:30 the next morning.

You know what? Riding in the back of a Versa to Long Island, when it’s 98* and you’re still drunk? NOT A GOOD IDEA. Also, New Yorkers are VERY LOUD talkers.

We made it through the shower, initiated a few new Sugar Plum Nightmares and headed back to the boroughs at about 5p.m. Now, the problem with THAT is we had no fucking clue where we were so we took some random combination of freeways that involved only abbreviated designations like “BQE” and “LIE” wound up lost in a rather seedy looking section of Queens. How we got there, I have no idea because I’d dozed off (or, um, passed out from knocking off 10 or so glasses of rum punch in the previous 4 hours) in the back seat and didn’t awake until I heard my mother saying “If you don’t stop yelling at me, I’m going to get out and leave you here!”

Which she did.

This was inconvenient because she was driving.

Eventually, she did come back for us though and a very nice guy from the Bronx whose neck tattoos were all very tasteful got us pointed in the right direction.

It only took about 68 more turns and an hour of deciding if we were going north, south or straight to hell and we made it back to the apartment safe and sound.

KL & I decided the only sensible solution was to get the hell out of there, which we promptly did. Back on the Subway of Heat Prostration and back into Manhattan to CK’s apartment to play WII for a few hours and we were counting ourselves lucky to have made it this far with out committing some sort of matricide involving strychnine and diet Coke.

By the time midnight rolls around we’re back on the subway getting hit on by an interesting variety of extremely forward men; including one who was sorely disappointed that we didn’t wish to consider a trip back to his apartment.

Monday morning dawns the same temperature & humidity as the inside a pot of soup and I’m pretty sure that if I have to spend one more minute with these people I’m going to have to stab myself in the neck with a fork. I mean seriously, I was THERE WHEN THAT STORY HAPPENED you don’t have to tell it to me again and NO I do not talk to whatever random person whose mother you happened to see on the bus any longer, I didn’t know and don’t care that Susie So&So from Sunday school just had her fifth baby and IF YOU MAKE THAT NOISE ONE MORE TIME I WILL GO LICK THE THIRD RAIL, I SWEAR TO THE LORD BABY JESUS, AMEN.

Another trip down Canal street, in & out of way too many shoe stores, $20 in random crap emblazoned with the Yellow Rat Bastard logo and I’m very, very grateful to be in a dubious cab that smells like ass and is running so close to empty in the gas tank that it’s a miracle we make it all the way to the airport with out having to push the car the last few miles.

Into a flying cattle car, wedged up against a kid who shit himself somewhere over Oklahoma and six extremely bumpy hours of breathing through my mouth and I’m home to enjoy the 100* night air.

But it’s a dry heat.

By this morning, a mere 36 hours after leaving them, I find I miss them and can’t wait for our next family vacation.

Which is arguably evidence of mental illness on my part.

Kodak Moment

My husband sent me on a mission to find this picture

last night, and while I was looking for it, I was killing myself laughing and then, I was sad. Because there was nothing quite like the thrill of picking up your roll of film from the drugstore, opening that packet right there and flipping through snapshots to find out if they came out as well as you hoped they would.

Not to mention the joy you feel when you find a photo like this
while you dig through the desk looking for last years property tax statement.

Or one like this

tucked into an old book to make you remember the smell of salt on your skin.

It makes me sad that technology will mean that M can just delete pictures like this
or this

to prevent them from being used against her later the way that I fully intend to use these pictures. (That's my sister EyeTest, I mean Kassie rocking the pink sweat-suit)

As I sat in the middle of my living room floor pulling out album after album I found myself remembering the time my twin & I "climbed" a mountain


(she dresses WAY better now) and how crazy and carefree we all were

how a summer day didn't mean being cooped up in an office


it meant getting high in the park.

I suddenly had a nearly overwhelming longing for another baby when I saw just how cute M was

BUT then I remembered she was a freakin' BRAT she was for about the first 13 years



a brat with a FIERCE sense of fashion, though

Just as I was finishing up, resolving to dig out my giant manual winding Canon from the closet I opened one last roll of film.

There was M's 7th birthday party. Twelve little girls and this guy

rocking out in my living room with a karaoke machine, the Josie & The Pussycat's CD and 36 inflatable fish. I smiled as I remembered how completely happy everyone was that day. Not one squabble, the birthday girl radiant with the idea that we would take her to a movie at 10pm that night, that she would get pizza for dinner, that everything she asked for she got. I look at the one picture of myself from that day, six silk flowers in my hair, I'm making a face at the camera, but you can see that I'm happy, that the day could not have been happier, more perfect.

My heart sank though, because I knew what was coming next. I kept flipping though that stack of pictures, marveling at how young you can look, how innocent. I traced my finger over M's smooth forehead and then flipped the picture. There was her birthday cake, only the candles visible in the over-dark photo. I should have looked away, should have stopped there, stuffing the rest of the pictures back into the envelope.

I didn't; instead closing my eyes and laying that photo face down I sucked in my breath as I looked at the next picture, taken just two days later.

M's little face swollen and bloody as she lays hooked to tubes and machines, her blankie tucked beneath her comatose arm.

And I was grateful for the ability to delete pictures you don't want to ever see again.

Why I am going to Hell, reason 9,652

So my beloved Sister is getting married in September. She's very laid back and describes her wedding colors as "comfortable green". Yes, vague, I know. But nice. Because some of us (me) do not look good in all shades of green so we've got the option to find a color that suits us.

She's also allowed each of the bridesmaids to find their own style dress, shoes of their choice, etc. Basically, she's a bridal consultants nightmare. She even made a "floral designer" sputter with indignation when she said, "Oh, I don't care, whatever's easiest". EASIEST? Has this girl NEVER been to a wedding? There is NO easiest when it comes to wedding, there is only "How many hoops can I make my friends jump through before someone strangles me with their butt-bow?".

So, in an effort to make her wedding as dramatic as possible her mother-in-law texts her everyday to nag her about what shoes the bridesmaids will be wearing. *I* am wearing red patten peep toe platforms. With sparkles and *maybe* a slot in the toe bed for cash. Just saying.
But this isn't about my shoes. This is about the damn dress. So y'all remember when I was searching all over hells half acre for this dress in green?

Yeah, well it doesn't exist. Anywhere. So I figured if I couldn't have the dress I wanted I'd do my very best impression of a Long Island Princess in this dress instead;

Cute right? So I find the color that looks best with the dresses already been ordered and march my happy ass into the nearest David Bridal to order it. Except you need to have ordered in 23 weeks in advance. I (rudely) point out the color just became AVAILABLE less than a week before. They do not care. I order this dress instead in the picturesque color of fern;



IT will be here in mid August.

I'm pretty pleased with myself thinking that I'm all done with that horrible, mind sucking place BUT NO. I have to go order M's JR bridesmaid dress. SIGH.

So back I go. I wait in line for 25 minutes while the ONE sales girl working the front has a long involved discussion about canapes and shrimp boats and the virtue of the color "serenity" over "smoke" when at LONG FUCKING LAST it is my turn.

The following conversation ensues;

BridalGirl - Is the um, like, BRIDE registered here?
Me - No. But I should be in your system. I ordered a dress on Saturday
(side note; see how I am being MOSTLY polite?)
BG - You, like, need ANOTHER dress?
Me - It's not for me. It's for my daughter
BG - OH, I was like OMG, Who needs TWO dresses, even I don't, um, LOVE weddings that like much
Me - Me either. My 13 year old does though
BG - LIKE OMG, you look like so YOUNG to have a teenager!
Me - I gave birth when I was 10

(uncomfortable silence)
(nervous laughter)
(uncomfortable silence)

What? Like you wouldn't have done the same thing!

In Which I Am Helpful

In the coming year I will be part of at least three weddings. In the ten thousand years that I have been married, there have been so many changes to what is and what is not cool/accepted/done/considered bat shit crazy that I am having a really good time enjoying the spectacle. Also, because I'm not paying for it, I have no problem suggesting things like this

I know. Awesome, right? And the Disneyland Dream Wedding package that it comes with is only $45,000! A bargain.

What? Too Much? Fine.

I am also enjoying the search for dresses. Not my own personal search for this dress though.

Looking for this dress is proving to be a gigantic pain in my wobbly ass. But I digress, and if I digress much further down this rant, I may start to foam at that mouth and gnash my teeth and rend my hair from my scalp, which sounds both painful and unattractive.

So really, what I am saying is that I enjoy finding and sending out suggestions like this one;

Pretty freaking hot. I mean who doesn't want to look like Gay C3PO made their dress? No one who's cool, that's who. I would look simply freakin' smashing in that dress. Delightful and not at all like a partially deflated Mylar balloon. And it's CLASSY. Am I right? I know.

So yesterday while I waited for M to finish her insufferably long meeting, I entertained myself flipping through the bridal magazines at WalMart, including the very entertaining "500 Fabulous Wedding Hair Designs!" not hair styles, chickens, HAIR DESIGNS. Let me tell you, it did not disappoint. I'm thinking that this one is probably my favorite

If for no other reason then she looks like she snatched the wig off of an aging and drunken French Hooker. The runners up though are equally fabulous.

You have so many wonderful options for your big day! Big Ridiculous Hair Thing? Check! Random tendrils that make you look like you ran all the way here from the best-mans hotel room? Check! Clairs clearance "rhinestone" necklace artfully off centered and pink foam curlers ringlets half combed out to cover your Van Halen neck tattoo that you got in South Padre during spring break 1989? Check!

But maybe affixing things to your head isn't your thing? Maybe you're having a theme wedding? Like, say; Trailer Park Barbies Mermaid Stripper Dream Wedding. If that's what you're planning then I would say that this look is for you.

Too much garish makeup, home perm, odd tendril bangs, "pearl" ribbons? Check, check, check and CHECK. It's got everything. It's lovely in a Miss Boise 1989 kind of way. It says, "I slept with the entire set of Grooms Men and I don't care who knows! Except if you could NOT mention it to Trailer Park Ken that would be so, like, TOTALLY fab of you! I will totally hook you up with some Chesterfried next time you stop in the Feed n' Go!" And that? That's a good look on EVERYONE.