Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Love Stinks (J. Giles Band)

I haven't put my fingers to the keyboard in a while. Partially because my jet setting has left me too drained to write, although blogs about my jet setting would be more exciting than the crap I am about to spew. It's been a good year. I have met some wonderful people who really believe in me. I know I am blessed, yet at the same time I feel as if a meat cleaver is going to land on my head at any minute.

Two weeks ago I was in West Hollywood in an important office with some people. I was scared. It's kind of funny. A year ago I was dating a psychotic Iraq War Vet and had a landlord who was tormenting me with the legal system. My relationship went south after my ex lied, and then my landlord began hassling me in court every other week. His male lawyers stood too close, and put their hands on my shoulders without my permission. It's a man thing in order to make women feel small. Or rather it's the gateway to rape culture. He's a man, this is his world, now it's time to let you know who's boss, bitch.

These guys weren't successful, as I showed them I wasn't afraid. Needless to say, they weren't prepared for that. Granted, I was in a relationship with a dude who was seeing snipers who weren't there. That's scary. These idiots probably couldn't seal the deal with their wives. I googled the one for fun. He's been married 3 times. He parades his current wife around like a trophy. Please, she's a participation ribbon. A guy I delivered a telegram to three months ago was 50 and had a 25 year old wifie who had jugs out to the wazoo. That's a trophy.

However, these goons were tying me up in court as my landlord was trying to burn my apartment down. Needless to say, I had to move and then there was the cancer scare.....

In between, I had my ex's former girlfriend.....a crackhead who claims to be a drug counselor (while still smoking crack) hassling me online. The breeding lump has 5 kids to 4 different men and is the poster girl for welfare abuse. His psycho sister also stirred the pot. Basically, what wasn't happening to me.

After all this, I was still scared to meet those peeps in LA. Now that's the funniest joke I have ever written. No, the stuff I walked out of was scary. Waking up and seeing your boyfriend taking canned goods out of the cabinets because he believes Isis is coming. That's scary. Not being able to breathe in your apartment. That's scary. The possibility you might have cancer. Really fucking scary. Not a bunch of dudes at a table. Especially men. Not scary.

The older I get the more I believe men could not possibly respect women fully. They will always look at you as a sex object or some form of stupid. Or some form of sex slave. Or a possible substitute for a blow up doll with a pulse. But as an intellectual.....never. This is why we need a woman president.

I also believe men are sex crazed goons who only think with their penis and are never fully capable of loving a woman. Maybe it's because my last relationship was the final nail in the coffin of a heart that was already dead, or maybe because I have stumbled upon the truth. Most people are selfish and are incapable of being true partners. That is yet another reason the divorce rate is so high.

I always knew men were a bunch of selfish cretins, but after the ending of my last relationship I knew it for sure. My ex is a fucking liar and still continues to spread shit about me, none of it which is even remotely true. And then when he left the picture, his idiot friends all tried to slide right into his place. I hate myself.........but not enough to be your whore fuck you very much.

As if that wasn't enough, when any dude I encountered heard about why I ended things he did everything he could to smear my ex and assure me that I was better off with him. Yes, he who was trying to stealth his way into my life. He who was secretly, covertly interviewing for the job opening in between my legs. Yes he who was qualified simply because he had a penis. It was disgusting.

There was a part of me that wanted to strip myself naked, paint "FUCK ME" on my chest, and let them all take a turn just to get them to go away. Not only could they take a turn, but we could all be disappointed at the same time. And I would make them feel as trashy as they made me feel. But then I figured their company already disappointed me, my job was half done. Alas.......

My experience with men has taught me they all hate when you talk about an ex but they can talk about the last place they stuck their dick all they want. There can only be one and it's them. One set of rules for them and another for you, sweetness. They all believe they are sex Gods......to give you a second of satisfaction. They all have a motive and that's to get you in bed and basically ruin your life. They are all self-centered in this motive. They all have larceny in their hearts. ALL. If a dude was honest about this when he met me I would give him a whirl. When I tell the truth I am bitter. Eh, bitter is a buzz word for honest.

Did I mention they all also want to secretly use you to make an old wife/girlfriend jealous and they all LIE!!!!!!!! Oh and in between they are looking for a hooker and a mother in the same body.

Lest we not forget they LOOOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEE it when a woman gets jealous. And they say they don't care, they just wanna mess around. Yet they become all possessive like a boyfriend and then when you find someone you care about, they become a bigger twat than you could ever be.

I dunno. I worked on an exciting project yesterday. It was awesome. It's for kids and will allow me to do a lot of good in the world. I should be blogging about that but instead had to get this bile out of my system.

My sister also got married and I went to the RNC. I should be blogging about that but the thing about adventures is they leave you tired.

My next blog will be about my adventures.

This blog is about my manhate. God does it feel good to be back, internet.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

The Birth of Donald J. Tramp

This time last year I began a bipolar journey that would restore the heart that was somewhat lost. The truth was, the last several years have been good exposure wise. I got on several television shows very quickly. Not to mention I was in the rotation of a national show as a talking head. A film I was in was nominated for a big independent award. I was getting press around the world. My DVD was on Finnish TV and I was garnering a cult following. And then I felt on top of the world in that manic sense and then life happened.

Next thing I knew I was at the hands of a maniac landlord who would tell me that he wouldn’t stop until he saw me homeless. He didn’t care I was being eaten alive by bed bugs and could barely breathe because of the mold in my apartment. He didn’t care I still paid rent on time. He wanted to torment me until I left and did so using the legal system. 

I still remember calling my mentor after one of my many court dates. Tired and waiting for the police because my landlord had been seen pacing my street in a psychotic state, I felt like I couldn’t do this anymore. Earlier that day, knowing I had been in court, he  broke into into my apartment turning on my stove that frequently leaked poisonous gas. He had also gone through my things hoping to find evidence to use against me, specifically my underwear drawer. When I had gotten home, a cloud of smoke filled my apartment and I couldn't breathe. It seemed this man would stop at nothing to torment me.

I was scared that this man might well kill me. To make matters worse, I was all alone with no one to protect me. He knew this, and therefore I was easy prey. 

Panicked, I called my mentor who heard all about my landlord issues day in and day out. He said, “This is all getting in the way of your objective.” And the he gently advised me to move. An hour later the NYPD would do so in not so many words. 

Fast forward five days, I was moving under duress. I was leaving behind not only nearly a decade of memories, but also a lot of hurt. There was the heartbreak of a relationship gone wrong with a partner who lied. There was also the painful revelations of who my friends were and weren’t as things unfolded. And there was also the horrendous lesson that after a breakup there are the women friends who stir the pot lying about cheating on his end that might or might not have occurred, as well as the vulture male friends who regard you as fresh meat now that your male is out of the picture. I was just one big, gaping, walking open wound. Hey, when it rains it pours and this is what they call a shit storm. 

Then there was the cancer scare. Yes, me shaking. The nurses asking me what was wrong. Me telling them I fear cancer. Them not denying my fear. My mortality flashing before my eyes……

I didn’t have cancer, but that on top of everything else made it difficult to pick myself up off the floor. Sure, I was being profiled in magazines all over the world, but facebook success doesn’t mean real life success.

Now I felt I was all alone in Queens. There were a lot of unsure nights where I cried myself to sleep. Despite avoiding eviction I felt like a failure because for ten years I worked to maintain that apartment and had still lost it. I also had cut a lot of people out so while I wanted to make new friends, I was afraid to let people in. I am a very loyal person, and when you stab me I bleed. Friends are the foundation of my life, and with this gone I felt crippled.

As if my heart was not already pulverized from a failed romance that ended because of deceit, but also because of friends who were wolves and sheep’s clothing. Then there were the hyena’s who arrived to chop on my dying bones. Yes, the advice machines giving their two cents. These were so-called friends and family members who had an abundance of opinions about why I got myself in the housing mess I was in, why I got my heart broken, and how I was on the no where express. Many of these folks didn’t have their own lives together and their sides of the street were damn messy, so instead of tending to their own house they were telling me how to clean mine.

Wait…….I was nearly technically homeless there for a minute. Hack joke. Needless to say, some of them didn’t make the cut either. Now I was beginning to see some of them were relishing in the fact I was failing, and might have been jealous of my life all along.

I also felt burned out because I had worked at Madonna speed for sometime, and now was living like someone who had squandered her life being lazy. It seemed the harder I worked the less I got. Depressed was an understatement. Picking myself off the floor became damn near impossible, especially when the anxiety attacks that left me without the ability to speak returned. My nerves were shot, and getting onstage became a task. I was unfocused when I got up, my sets would do the job because I was a pro. However, they were uninspired and were nothing fantastic. They were not the work I do when I am focused.

Screw it. I am good at what I do. That’s why I get the attention I do. I said it. Shoot me. Make me a legend.

Still, the anxiety began eating me to the point where I was experiencing irrational stage fright, hoping there was no audience so I wouldn’t have to perform. It made no sense. I had always gotten so much energy from a packed house. And then going out of my house became work.

When I was younger I controlled these anxiety attacks by drinking heavily and eating lots of sugar. Both aren’t long term solutions and backfire in case you are wondering. Either way, it appeared I lost my swagger and mojo. Most nights were spent reading and watching Lifetime Movies when I wasn’t discussing UFO’s with my housemate.

I contemplated quitting comedy for good. But then I had a strange dream. It was during a sick day when I had to take Nyquil because I was too feverish to sleep. A familiar looking clown appeared. He was pushing the spotlight with a broom. With a wry smile he said, “Don’t even think about quitting kid. It won’t let you.”

The dream was a tad frightening and a tad hopeful. Still, I woke up feeling tripped out with goosebumps.  Then I realized where I knew that clown from. It was Emmett Kelly. This was a Wayne’s World Jim Morrison Indian in the Desert moment. Yeah, it could have been a sign or it could have been the Nyquil. I had also seen a poster of him earlier that day. Drugs do weird things to the mind……especially the dreams.

I was even surprised I dreamed, because I didn’t do that so much since my life was falling apart. A week later though it was revealed the clown was right. It wasn’t gonna let me quit. The universe had other plans.

It was after a weekend at a comedy club in Connecticut, an event that deserves a blog all its own. I totally ate it onstage in a way I hadn’t in sometime. It was in the middle of no where, and I didn’t expect to do well. I was a last minute replacement. Stepping offstage I was apathetic. I knew I sucked. It had sucked less than I had expected so I was almost happy. With all that went on in my life I was amazed I even was able to complete a sentence.

Most club owners would have shown me the door but I got lucky. Someday the whole story will get a blog of it’s own, but I encountered a club owner who gave me the smack in the head I needed. A veteran headliner who has performed around the world, and is a regular in Vegas, he had everything I wanted. Needless to say, he gave me the mixture of tough love and guidance that I needed at that very moment.

Needless to say the following night was a different story. The stage fright was gone and for the first time in forever I felt like myself. I felt like I could do this. I also knew that while I had come a long way there was still much work to be done, and there would be no substitution for it. I also had to stop being so angry about the events of months past and get my head back in the game. The secret was to embrace comedy like I had once upon a time, when I was so high strung it felt like the littlest stimuli on this planet would kill me.

And just so you know, since that moment that stupid temporary acute stage fright stopped rearing it's ugly head. 

I was neurotic and life was difficult. Being onstage was somehow easy. I needed to get back to that happy, safe place. That person who knew that if she didn’t get onstage, she was busting out of her skin so badly that she might die. Not this idiot who had been on TV a few times that thought she was a comedy genius. No, not that moron. Please……

I began watching videos of old ventriloquists, brushing up on my technique. It occurred to me that all the attention I had gotten made me really lazy. I wanted to go to the next level. I wanted to  be inspired again.

Around that time my mentor suggested Donald J. Tramp as an act. We both are history nuts and love politics. While I thought it was creative at first I balked. This was current event stuff and the time window would be short. I wasn’t a current events comic. But we talked and I began to soften. Why not? I wasn’t Madame Cleo. I didn’t have all the damn answers. And no, you can’t call now.
After much debate, not only did I cave but I was more inspired than ever. Not only did I want to do this, I was rabid on the phone with my mentor who I sometimes do think is afraid of me.

Soon Donald, or Donny as I have began calling him, was ordered from Scotland from a company called Pictures to Puppets. The reason for this being a great many puppet makers in America are evangelical Christians, and Trump supporters. Plus these days you are never truly sure of how or where anyone leans.

When Donny came in the mail, I began to practice religiously. I also began watching videos of old ventriloquists I admired to brush up on my technique. If I was going to go to the next level, I wanted to do it correctly. Gone were the cheap swear jokes and bad club humor of the old days and in was a new and improved kind of style. I liked it, I wanted it.

I got a second wind when it came to comedy, and almost like I was a 20 year old kid I began chasing stage time like a junkie chases a bag of dope. I was going anywhere and everywhere to get onstage, not caring how I would get home. Being a veteran of the NY Scene, there is a certain jadedness and bitterness that goes with open mics. It’s when as a semi-established comedian you roll your eyes when a newbie gets up and tells really bad race and rape jokes. It’s the memory of why you used to want to slit your wrists out of fear and loathing.

Yet this time I don’t fear that. I don’t feel the insecurity I did as a youngster, fearing I would never get on television. I don’t feel the insecurity I do as an oldster, now that I have been on television that my credits and press will magically disappear. I am someone honing and shaping a new act the best she can. It’s going to the batting cages. Bottom line, there is no substitution for the work.

Donny and I have been coming along nicely. Getting back onstage like I was back before I was almost anyone has been kind of trippy in a lot of ways, too. There are a lot of bad habits there. For instance, I have gotten so used to firing jokes I forgot how to talk to an audience. And when I talk to my audience I get what I want, a laugh. And when I am saying the joke like I am telling it for the first time instead of just looking for the laugh, I get the laugh. Sometimes even an applause break. When I slow down, the laughs come too. When I don’t let my audience see me sweat, eventually they do laugh.

Yeah, I am still working on it. But day by day, set by set, it gets better.

I am also re-discovering the standup community, too. At one mic someone recognized me from one of my many TV appearances and we shot the breeze about it. Teasingly, these young guy comics told me if they were my fiancé, they would have never made me choose. And actually, if a girl chose puppets over them they would respect the crap outta her. It made me feel like I had gained a bunch of accidental baby brothers.

I am also making new female friends in comedy, a network I never had before. When I was younger it felt like we were all lobsters in a boiling pot. Now I don’t feel that. Maybe they have changed or maybe my energy has changed.

Either way, Donald J. Tramp and I have been featured in papers in Germany and Iceland. We got into Clyde Fitch and The Huffington Post. Our videos have over a thousand hits each. I am also on the rotating cast of two national television shows. It’s funny because I feel like this is the most action I have had in America in years.

Still, the biggest victory isn’t all that. Rather, it’s that I love comedy again. So what I cut a lot of stupid people out of my life? I am replacing them with better people. People who love the same things I do and care about the same things. People who aren’t stirring the pot. Sometimes we have to go through it to get through it.

As it was all hitting the fan, a kid comic said to me, “You are about to get fucking funny.”

I thought he was an idiot who hadn’t lived. No, he was right. I am getting fucking funny. And it’s about to get funnier in this bitch. I am hardly defeated. Actually, I am rocking and rolling. It’s just the beginning for this little ventriloquist and her politically charged partner, Donald J. Tramp.

We are letting the world know that something is wrong that Donald Trump is on the ticket on laugh at a time. We are stopping racism and sexism one laugh at a time. We are defeating the evil one laugh at a time. 

I have always wanted to combine my love for activism with my love for comedy. A veteran comic once told me this, "When times are tough you look for God......but you also look for the punchline." 

I think it's safe to say I have found both, and we are both running to the nearest micophone, to the moon, to history, and to infinity

To Be Continued........

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Send Me To The Republican National Convention

Donald J Tramp and I have been getting a lot of attention. We got turned away from the Today Show for being "too political," and were even escorted out by muscle guards. Not to mention we also got turned down by a theatre in North Dakota where the white, Christian, male, gun totting producer not only was offended by the concept of Donald J. Tramp, but ended his rejection with, "I will pray for you!"

So Donald J. Tramp and I want to go to Cleveland, Ohio. We want to go to the Republican National Convention. However, it's expensive and we need your help. Every little bit counts.

Hopefully, Mr. Tramp will be able to meet Mr. Trump and they will have a meaningful conversation. Either way, I have some filmmakers interested in doing a documentary on my journey. We shall see how this pans out. Please help a little girl and her puppet.


Monday, May 2, 2016

The Best of the Best

In the past several days, I have received some hate notes on social media whether it be instagram, twitter, or facebook. Here are some of the greatest:

"Liberal trash." Neil Stocker. Pensacola, FL.

"Stupid liberal bitch." Kathy Smith Falcon, GA.

"So The Bible teaches you to make fun of people you don't like?! You an an Anti-American and Anti-Christian LOSER!" GodMomof3 Mobile, AL

"This is coming from a woman who shoves her hand up her puppet's butt for money. Move over for the Trump Train." Women4TrumpinIowa (And then she blocked me like a courageous citizen starting a flame war).

"Taking a look at your wall, you are nothing but stupid trash with a puppet. Because of you we will be forced to bend over for China. #RapedbyChina." MrTrump Beatty, Nevada

"Is this supposed to be comedy? Seriously, this is not funny and disrespectful to our next president." DonDonDon Texas

"Stupid cunt. You stop being a stupid cunt because you are about to be Trumped." Catmandu (Probably soon to be in club fed)

The notes keep coming. Stay tuned. Until then watch my video

Friday, April 29, 2016

“The Today Show” 86’d a Real Dummy

A brief moment in media censorship history: Last week, Donald J. Tramp, my political puppet partner, and I were kicked out of the plaza at “The Today Show..” Apparently a stuffed fictional candidate is now “a political statement.”
As a long time New Yorker, I don’t normally do “touristy.” However, in the wake of Donald J. Trump’s landslide victory in the New York primary, a friend of mine suggested that Mr. Tramp and I go to “The Today Show” to get our “fifteen minutes of fame.” Since my Donald J. Tramp dummy bears a striking resemblance to the GOP front-runner dummy, I figured why not.
I arrived at Rockefeller Plaza with my Tramp campaign signs and Mr. Tramp wisely concealed in a box. A viciously huge security guard demanded to know what the signs were. Eyeing me suspiciously, he informed me that to gain access to the plaza audience I would have to dismantle my signs.
As I took my place in line, I smiled knowing my secret in the box. But then the secret was spoiled. Another security guard, an even beefier fellow, also eyed my signs suspiciously as I was dismantling them. “Donald Trump? Come on,” he grumbled.
Then he approached me and eyed me like a snake about to envelop a mouse in it’s jaws. “Aren’t you the girl from YouTube with that Donald Trump puppet?”
“Donald J. Tramp, sir,” I corrected him. While I was certainly surprised, I was also quite pleased that he had seen my “Introducing Donald J. Tramp” video (https://youtu.be/fVg4ufbYnrU).
“We can’t have you here,” he said as he then promptly ordered me to leave.
The two NBC pages working the show, both nice girls who were probably fresh out of college, thought that Mr. Tramp was a creative idea and loved the concept. However, they told us that in light of all the recent political controversies, “The Today Show” had nixed any and all political statements by the audience on the Plaza. “Even puppets?” I asked.
“Even puppets,” one of the pages told me with a half smile.
Yes, even puppets. Puppet free speech was being censored. As an author, comedian and scholar of The First Amendment, I find this not only worrisome, but also a sad commentary on the times. While George Orwell predicted media censorship, did he know it was going to become so severe that it would restrain ventriloquism free speech?
Donald J. Tramp and I left without further incident, but vowed to tell the world our story: A tale of how a girl and her puppet were silenced by the media for attempting to exercise their constitutional rights of humorous and satirical speech.
Now that I’ve uploaded another Donald J. Tramp video ), I’m just hoping that the security guards outside “Fox & Friends” aren’t YouTube fans.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Wedding Bell Blues

Skipper's shower has just passed and I am happy she is getting married. However, weddings bring out this odd sort of malaise and feeling and melancholy. What I am trying to say is, weddings have a morbid overtone sometimes. What I mean is, everyone starts to talk about the people who died. Maybe it's an Irish thing. Maybe it's a Catholic thing. Irish Catholic.....obsessed with death.

On the way to the airport Monday we were talking about the Table for the Dead. Yes, how to remember those who couldn't be there because they died. One woman had a table with candles at her daughter's wedding and pictures of the dead people. It's like, hey, look at this morbid shrine feet away from the cookie table and two feet away from the dancing and booze? Why don't we just depress everyone on this big day? It will come after we get the final total of the wedding which is $$$$$.

As if that wasn't enough, this woman wanted my mom to photograph this thing. Why not have the wedding in a cemetery if you like morbid things?! Seriously.

My mom suggested putting my Nunni and Pop Pop's wedding picture on the cookie table. That way they could be remembered in a more happy fashion. My grandparents were fun people. They dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus, and on my public access show in high school offered to steal me the answers to the SAT's for Christmas. My mom had a near heart attack. They made you laugh. In a recording of The Night Before Christmas they lost their place and just kept going trimming out a large part of the story. They were akin to a comedy team, a George and Gracie. No, they would not be going on the Table for the Dead.

As for my dad's mom, her death last summer caused some drama within his family, and it is a family that loves to battle. Some of my aunts and uncles are estranged but we are working on it. Death does that, but weddings bring people together. It's nice that some of my relatives who had strong feelings about my Mema Ralph's care towards the end are making attempts to send Skipper presents and such as well as congratulations for her impending nuptials. Still, it rips everyone's heart out.

Lest we forget the fireworks that always occur around a wedding. My cousin's mother in law, a country club snob, accused her of being pregnant and that was the only reason her son was marrying my cousin.....not true. Another family friend had her maid of honor make her cry the day of the wedding. Then there was the wedding I went to in West Virginia where two girls were literally fighting for the death over the bouquet toss (One did punch the other......it was weird). Weddings do bring out the worst in everyone. Or as my dad says, "They are just looking for an excuse to be crazy."

Still, it's amazing how now that my sister's getting married, everyone is asking me when I will get married. I have no plans nor do I care. But now they are trying to sell marriage to me like it's a used car. Like I am less of a woman for being single let alone not having a husband. The truth is, I could have been married three times. The first man I would have supported his lazy ass and we could have lived in his mama's basement. The second guy would have given me the world, but he was a goof. The third would have stolen me the moon but got apprehended by the police, but granted he was a knight in shining armor in the suit of armor he stole......and we would have been the envy of the whole trailer park in our double wide.

I know it's okay to be by yourself. Being alone is better than being with a bad husband. But around weddings you see people justify their craptacular marriages. The excuses are terrible, worse than their marriages might I add. I just let it go. Whatever keeps you enjoying your beach front property in The Land of Delusion.

Either way, during the planning of this wedding I have yelled and cursed at all my family members. They have been called a myriad of names by yours truly as I have stressed on getting the big day on track. Skipper probably wants to elope. Yet as my mentor says, "As someone who has been married three times, it's like the circus comes to town and there's this build up. Then the day after, the field is empty."

Maybe that's the scary thing, the field being empty. Time passing. Knowing that we all won't be here forever. Knowing that someday we will all take our place at the table of the dead. Knowing weddings and funerals have so much in common. Knowing that this stressful celebration is one where there is heavy drinking because it is a swift reminder that time keeps going regardless of who or what we fathom it to be, and no one lasts forever........


Monday, April 25, 2016

Let's Go Crazy (Prince)

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, to get through this thing called life…..” I remember those words spoken back in the day listening to Prince on the 80s throwback. It was my sister and I having a makeshift dance party in our family weight room. It was my dad screaming to turn the music down. It was always our escape during forced family time, when my dad controlled what we watched on TV, and the times Skipper and I wanted no part of it.
This weekend Prince died, and Skipper was having her bridal shower. Both are a sign that time passes, and both a funeral and a wedding have odd ways of bringing the crazy out in everyone. Let’s go crazy, eh?
Weddings as I mentioned are stressful, and this event in general was stressful. Weeks before, at the edge of a near breakdown, my Aunt Marie sent me a rambling email about setting up. She advised me to bring a track suit and then change into my clothes there. I replied to her email, but apparently she didn’t get it because she called my mom. Apparently her daughter Kelly didn’t get it because I got another facebook message wanting to know if I would come and set up.
Aunt Marie is my sister’s Godmother. She is well intentioned but sometimes high strung. Then again, of course she would be super high strung. This was a big event, and the opening act to the main event…..the wedding.
Of course I will come and set up. It’s my sister’s wedding. I am The Maid of Honor, aka family member who gets to sit near the bride and act as her indentured servant at all wedding events. Yes, I have only put this wedding on a physical timeline, prodded my parents and sister to complete the guest list, and make people stick to their deadlines. This wedding only haunts me in my sleep. Yeah, I’m there.
The other stress of the weekend was Boomer, my sister’s fiancĂ©, had his parents coming to town to meet my parents. They had to go to some of the wedding appointments with my mom, and make some wedding decisions. However, their flight from Boston was delayed, and my mom was flipping out because they had appointments to go to. It all worked out, but it was one more stressor.
While the parents were doing wedding stuff, I cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed as well as scrubbed and did a load of dishes. I felt like this was going to kill me, and in no way am I ready to be a domestic engineer. My mother was pleasantly surprised, but my father felt it was still too dirty. I freaked out. I had only spent all day cleaning.
Diplomatically my mother informed me that there was always a new level to clean, and the house had to be perfect for the man party. It was in part so my father could show off his newly renovated man cave. So there was MORE cleaning to be done. And kindly she informed me that at a time like this, there was always MORE CLEANING. Nevermind my parents have spent the better part of the year using their weekends for home improvement projects regarding this wedding. And the fact they changed my childhood room around. Yeah, it looks cleaner than when a teen lived there but damn, I have never felt so violated.
Fortunately the Nelson’s turned out to be lovely people. Mr. Nelson is an engineer, and Mrs. Nelson works with people who have diabetes. Gentle spirits, they too were from large families. They too were stressed about this wedding. At least we were all connecting on that level.
The next day was the shower, and to say the lid was about to blow off the stress pot was an understatement. Skipper went to the salon to have her hair done, and I my mom and I decided to have the wedding timeline meeting with her. During the course of the meeting, I found out one of my sister’s bridesmaids, a young woman who is a trauma surgery fellow, cannot get off for the wedding. However, she is coming in days early just to help out and spend time with my sister. As I was planning, my head nearly exploded.
“I need to know about conforming bridesmaids!” I snapped as I began to chart the weekend. My mom snapped back at me. I had other wrinkles to sort out, such as the fact each girl would need 45 minutes on their hair and the hair dressers had to come at 8 AM to get started. Someone who wanted to act rogue was on their own. When I am in a planning phase I am akin to General Patton on the Peninsula. Don’t get in my way, bitches!
Yeah, I know it’s not my wedding but at this point it’s like I am this far in the foxhole, might as well lead the charge.
I got ready to go to the hall, and my cousin Kelly was supposed to retrieve me. Aunt Marie had been planning this event and now we were down to the wire. However, the clock ticked and she was late. My dad and I plotted on what to do, as Skipper was having her final dress fitting. He advised me to stay calm, weddings made everyone crazy.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“It’s because they are looking for an excuse to be crazy and finally have one.” He informed me. Seconds later, Kelly pulled up to rescue me from a possible impromptu cleaning project involving the man cave.
Kelly apologized, she had to pick up a prescription of horse pills because apparently she somehow in her travels contracted shingles. It’s always a question of what isn’t happening when these things go down. When we got to the hall, Aunt Marie was wearing the proverbial captain’s jacket and gave us orders. To say the place looked beautiful was an understatement. She and my Uncle Frank really outdid themselves. I mean really.
They handmade the decorations hanging from the ceiling, and they also handmade the party favor margarita glasses with bath salts and other treats in them that said, “From my shower to yours.” My mouth hung open in pleasant surprise. Perhaps this was going to be a party and not D-Day as initially dreaded.
Guests came in, and Kathi, a fellow bridesmaid and high school bestie of my sister’s, helped me intercept the present as soon as the women entered. That way they could put on their name tags and socialize. While Skipper and I knew some of the people present from growing up, others were relatives coming from afar. This is the blessing and curse of having a huge family because you always have to pose the awkward question of, “How are we related again?”
Everyone was really nice and the event went smoothly. A lot of people came because they had known my grandmothers, and they had come to their children’s weddings. Others to my pleasant surprise actually have been following my exploits on social media. Many spoke about my dad as a little boy.
Of course the second there was an inkling of down time it was back to work aka opening the presents. Yes, WORK. Kathi and Kelly handed the presents and disposed of the wrapping paper and made a bow. Skipper shined like a diamond as she opened them. And I, sitting to her right, painstakingly catalogued everything. The entire time I took copious notes hoping my ipad would not melt down or crash.
Skipper made out like a bandit. She got so much cook ware that with her medical degree I somewhat worried that if she had trouble paying off her student loans she might resort to cooking meth. But then I remembered she was a good kid. However, she got enough liquor decanters to make many an alcoholic in my genetic line jealous.
However, all jokes aside, she lit up the place and was kind and gracious as ever. Sure, there have been times I have wanted to strangle her in the planning of this wedding, as she is not one to make a decision easily. At the same token, she has grown up into a nice young lady and I was so happy for her and proud of her at that very moment. All and all, she’s a good egg.
My gift accidentally had a moment. I got her the cake cutters and matching flutes as per tradition for the Maid of Honor. I also got her a cake topper back in January from the party store down the street. Actually, it turned out to be too big to be a topper, but I had no clue what she still needed let alone who was throwing the shower at that point. My mother and I were worried it was going to be us before Aunt Marie stepped up. Thank God. Either way, I purchased it because it looked like Skipper and Boomer.
In purchasing this, I had no idea that the bag I would put it in would play wedding music. Either way, when I pulled it out, music played. It was a WTF moment. The whole room ooed and awed at my present. Yes, we all agreed it would be used for the cookie table. (the cookie table gets a blog of it’s own).
In any event, the shower was a success. Cleaning up was like climbing the last stretch of Mt. Everest. Skipper, my mom, and I wanted to go. But Aunt Marie and Uncle Frank had really put their blood, sweat, and tears into this event. It would have been wrong for us to bolt. Plus we had mounds of presents to load.
When I got back to the house, I thought I would get to put my pajamas on and crash. No such plan. There were some men folk straggling. I did what I always do when my parent’s have house guests, visit like a civilized human. However, it was also nice to see men. The party was wonderful and everyone was generous, but after a room full of women for several hours you want to see other civilization. It’s similar to when a chick arrives at a sausage fest.
My dad’s friend Dr. Reb was there drinking with Mr. Nelson, and we discussed the election and laughed. Mrs. Nelson told a story about how Boomer had snuck out as a child, and like a gentle soul she read a book on the experience about raising young men. The Nelson’s were different than my parents. We would have been killed dead had we done that. Skipper and Boomer both turned out relatively well, so perhaps everyone’s parents did a good job in their own different ways.
The next day was spent crafting 55 thank you notes. Skipper, being thoughtful but not so practical, wanted to make each one special. I warned her that she would get tired. She did as I dictated each gift from my master list and my mom addressed and then handed it back to me to steal and stamp. Just when we thought we were done, we had failed to account for the gifts that were shipped to the house, aka shadow gifting. And then Skipper had a few envelopes with gift cards she forgot about in her purse.
There was added drama when there was a gift from one woman named Nanette. She had come with a group of my dad’s family members and no one knew who she was. So we had to call my Aunt Marie who was still in her glory over the shindig she threw to find out. It was a daughter in law of one of my dad’s many relations. Sigh…..
Just when I thought my day was over, my dad wanted me to teach him how to use social media. As I gave this sixty something year old a lesson as we sat in his man cave, I wondered which of the fates I had pissed off. Explaining twitter to my dad was interesting to say the least. He needs it for his job, and I wondered why no one else had bothered to explain it, but why ask?
All this was in between Skipper chronically facetiming Boomer as he spearheaded their house hunt, and her making sure he didn’t fall asleep in the car. Face to palm, these people had taken my last kernel of sanity. If I saw the color white, heard wedding music, or even the word wedding I was going to scream……..
Just then my dad proposed we watch Bridge of Spies. As usual, there he was controlling the TV clicker. The radio stations were all playing Prince. My sister and mom were on my last nerve. Maybe I could dance to Prince alone.
However, weddings are like funerals. You begin to realize you won’t have everyone forever. It’s just not the way it goes. Skipper was getting married. While I would be gaining a brother, we would never be able to hang out like this again really and truly. And if anything happened to any one of them, I would be devastated. The good part is, Prince’s music will live on but these moments won’t.
So I watched Bridge of Spies with my family in my dad’s newly fashioned man cave. My mom fell asleep half way through the movie. Skipper hogged the blankets. My dad and I actively talked history. We all agreed it was Tom Hanks at his best.
During the film my mentor texted wanting to talk. I told him he would have to wait a bit. The movie was just getting good and we were all detoxing from a long and stressful weekend. At the end of it all, they are crazy people, but they are my crazy people.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.”