Monday, April 30, 2012

Here Comes the Groom

I didn't actually die or stop blogging, but life intervened a bit.

A big fucking bit.

After seventy-nine errands, some care and feeding of the cripple and a few parties, the...uh...parties are about to commence. Wednesday I get my mendhi did, Thursday I get my nails did and Friday I get my family did.

And on Saturday, my - GULP - brother gets his marriage did.

 <=  I guess he's not this guy anymore.

I can't put him in a box and keep him for myself any longer - though honestly he started fighting back around 1982.

I seem to be feeling a bit weepy - damn period.

Except that's a crock because I had it last week.

Neil's getting married.

In a lavish Hindu-American ceremony with two dances, two buffets and two bazillion* sequins. On the downside, there will be around 380 people there and I'll be the fat bridesmaid in the bedazzled harem outfit. On the upside, I'm already married so fuck it - watch me shake that white belly on the dance floor. On the downside, er...don't watch. You don't wanna see that.

*Not exaggerating. Didn't count, but I'm certain my guess is - if anything - an underestimate.

So this Saturday...under the brightest full moon to happen in 2012...on a Mexican holiday...the Indian princess shall marry the Norwegi-Scanda-Germa-Navian.

I wouldn't miss this chaos for the world.

Even though I'm a teensy weensy bit selfishly sad over The End Of An Era, I'm so excited for my brother to marry Reena - and after it's over, I get a NEW SISTER! (Who, incidentally, can write prescriptions.)

Sunday, April 8, 2012

The Easter Whore

Married not even a year, and I've been reduced to a common hooker.

In 1994 I had several piercings and too much free time. My boyfriend's dad thought I was a bad influence on his hardworking son and deduced that I was a prostitute because I spent my time hanging out on the corner of a busy intersection in Eden Prairie, MN.

It was true.

I did spend my time at the high-traffic juncture...because my BOYFRIEND-SLASH-POT-DEALER worked at the gas station on the corner and we liked to smoke up in the coolers while he stocked soda.

I always figured his dad thought I was a hooker because I wore dark eye makeup at the time but I guess he was prophetic. Nearly twenty years later, that asshat is right.

I am a prostitute.

After a long week that included 72 hours of gastrointestinal distress, Mama Bird and I hosted Reena's bridal shower yesterday and by the end of the day I was tired. We had some adult beverages with my brother and his betrothed last night after the party. Good times were had by all but today I'm wiped out and mildly dehydrated.

"Will you go to the gas station and get me a Diet Coke, babe?" I smiled sweetly at my husband.

"No way." He didn't even break eye contact with his video game.

I played the card after almost no hesitation. "We can screw when you get back."

PS3 off.

Shoes on.

God bless the day of rest in celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ...and Diet Coke.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Dancin' Fool

Every time we're out - on the porch, at the store, in a restaurant - my husband dances. He has about three moves: The Seizure, the Humpty and the Titty Shake.


That's what I said.

The Titty Shake.

It's one of his signature moves.

Most of the time I ignore his dancing because it's best not to pay attention to small children throwing tantrums, but tonight was the Titty Shake that broke the camel's back.

"Knock it off!" I snarled. "You don't have to act like a jackass every time we're outside."

"I don't," he snapped.

"You don't?"

"No," he sniffed. "I act like a jackass inside, too."

"You act li-wait! Whaaa??"


I had nothing more to add to the argument, he was right.

He does act like a jackass inside, too.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

My Mamagotchi

I believe one of the selling points of the Tamagotchi virtual pet is that it's just like a real pet - if you neglect to feed and water it, it dies.

Same with my Mamagotchi. She needs regular care and feeding, a walk around the block and the occasional shower. She's two weeks post-op and I haven't killed her yet - virtually or for realsies.

Seeing her cooped up and struggling brings back the horror of my own surgery in 2008...and the shame that quickly follows when recalling how mean I was to my Mom nurse. I'd like to say that the pain simply made me crazy, but in reality I may just be an asshole.

Mamagotchi hasn't yelled at me once and she's very grateful when I come over to fill her water dish.

Today she goes in to have her stitches and staples removed and they're going to recast her leg. We're praying for a walking cast, but just because Jesus walks on water doesn't mean Mamagotchi can walk on an ankle that's broken in three places.

So Plan B is to decorate her cast with henna tattoos, wrap the sari around her wheelchair and push her crippled ass down the aisle.

At least this way we don't need to worry about her dancing on tables at the wedding. I hate when she does that.

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