a very Maury wedding

When my husband and I first got married we exchanged vows in the hospital room of his father who had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. There wasn’t much time and we made certain his father would be able to witness the occasion. 

We had known we were going to make one another miserable for the rest of our natural lives, we just hadn’t set a date yet. This was God telling us, “Here’s your sign.” We decided that when we got back home, to California, we’d have a separate celebration for friends and other family members who weren’t in attendance the first time around. Here’s how I want this shit to go down.

I’d enjoy it very much if one of our friends would perform the “ceremony.” Bear in mind, we’re already married, so this little performance is just for shits and giggles. Preferably more giggles than shits. In fact, I’d like our officiant to roast us. Perhaps draw some attention to Kevin being my last resort. No one else will put up with my bullshit attitude and increasingly droopy ass, or my laughable excuse for breasts. We can all have a laugh at my idiosyncrasies and some of my complete failures.

Once we’re done with me, we can focus our attention on Kevin. We don’t have the time for all of that today though. I’ve promised to not write for longer than 30 mins. a sitting. We could be here a while and I’m just not that dedicated. Doesn’t bode well for our marriage if I’m not “dedicated” to writing for longer than it takes some places to deliver a pizza.

Guests should be comfortable, so please, wear superhero attire of choice. If superheroes aren’t your gig, fictional character of preference will do just fine, but for God’s sake, don’t show up as yourself! Nobody wants that. You don’t even like yourself, what makes you think any of my guests will? If you truly insist on coming without costume and ruining everything, you’d better have a dog with you; something we can all focus on instead of your glaring defects.

I would typically invite our asshole friends out to a nice sit-down dinner somewhere, but I just remembered – I’m poor. So, we improvise. I bring my Grandma down from the Bay Area and have her cook for all of us. Why? Because she will, and I can yell at her that there’ll be time to cry about her arthritis later - flip those damn tortillas!!

This is a good time for me to whisper to my husband that I plan to get fat. Super morbidly-obese fat. Beyond that type of fat. Like, I looked that classification of fat in the eye, winked at it, and rang my little bicycle bell at it as I rode past it chasing the ice cream truck. It’s a dream of mine. I want to have a talk show dedicate an episode to me. They’ll live film a crew of first responders coming in to rescue me from my home. Then, months, and maybe even years later we’ll do follow up episodes. The initial episode will be enthralling though. The jaws of life will be needed just to wrestle the pork chop from under my arm and the bag of sour cream and cheddar Lays from my right hand. I tell my husband all of this slowly and deliberately then take three solid steps back to examine his face. Priceless. My whole life has been leading up to this moment.

I’m a terrible person for the shit I say. I’ve made peace with it. Apparently, you have too, or you wouldn’t still be reading this crap. Anyhow, my 30 minutes are up. My wedding is going to be great…again. It was perfect the first time, this time it’ll just have attitude, cosplay and pets.