IBS

Since I was a teenager, babies had only ever acquired a sliver of my thoughts.  It was a soft battle cry — whispered instructions for how to not disappoint everyone around me.  Don’t get pregnant.  Don’t get pregnant.  Don’t get pregnant. I’m like that — I take one simple idea like “Don’t get pregnant,” run with it for most of my adult life, and never look back. 

So I was naturally disgusted when moments after getting engaged people started in with, “When are you having a baby?”  How.  Dare.  You.  In classic Royer form, I had seemingly been doing one thing correctly my entire life only to find out I was doing it wrong.  What the fuck?! 

I suppose there has always been a part of me that just assumed I would have children.  Much like I’ve always vaguely believed I would know how to respond if ever faced with imminent danger.  I’ve imagined that if there were an apocalypse, my adrenaline would start pumping and I would save the world, but also I never really believed the apocalypse would happen in my lifetime.  Yet here I am, married, and the apocalypse is upon us.  I tried to ignore it, but wouldn’t ya know well-meaning bitches are on my jock…NON. STOP.

Well-Meaning Broad #1

#1: That’s so exciting that you’re getting married!!!

Me: That already happened.

#1: How great!  Are you planning on having children?

Me: Unclear.

#1: (Face of shock and horror) Oh…how old are you?

Me: I get it.  My eggs are deteriorating.

#1:  Well if you ever need a good fertility doctor, my sister had an incredible experience with IVF.

Me: Is this a joke?  I haven’t even tried to get pregnant yet and you’re already calling me infertile?

Well-Meaning Broad #2

#2: So, how long have you been married now?

Me: A week.

#2: That’s so great!  Are you guys trying to have a baby?

Me: What?!  No.  We literally just got married.

#2: But you want to have kids don’t you?

Me: It feels like I should be having this conversation with Husband and not you.

#2: I’m just saying, it could take years to get pregnant so you might want to start trying.

Me: I’ll take that into consideration, Jane from accounting. 

Well-Meaning Broad #3

#3: You still smoke?!

Me: OMG shut up!!!

#3: Don’t you want to have kids?

Me: I didn’t realize people who smoked couldn’t procreate.  Are you familiar with the 50s?

#3: I’m just saying, you might want to quit.

Me: I’M just saying it seems like I can deal with that when I go off birth control which I have not yet done, you raging Cuntbag.  And by the way, NICE JOB CONGRATULATING ME ON MY WEDDING!

#3: Oh right! Congrats!

Obviously, I literally hate everyone.  I tried to stand my ground, but after a plethora of bitches hounded me about my potential offspring I started to panic.  I then spent the next six weeks after my wedding implementing something I’ve decided to call Impending Baby Syndrome. It’s when you know a baby is about to happen so you do as many fun things as humanly possible, because eventually your vagina will be out of order due to a person crawling out of it and you won’t be able to have fun anymore — unless that fun can include a human being hanging by their mouth from your jugs… blech.

I decided to start big.  My first Impending Baby Syndrome event would include Vegas.  It happened pretty organically but goes against all of my natural instincts.  Here’s the thing.  I hate leaving my house.  When people invite me to social functions, I take it as a personal affront.  All I ever want to be doing is laying on my couch, watching Real Housewives and convincing myself that I am moments away from experiencing even a modicum of success.  BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD FOR ME TO DO THAT WHEN I HAVE TO GO TO YOUR SURPRISE PARTY, CLAIRE!!!

Needless to say, Vegas does not conjure in me the kind of “we’re gonna have the time of our lives” scenario that it apparently does for other people.  This is largely due to the fact that I don’t drink anymore and previously, when in Vegas, I spent my time drinking liquor out of plastic sippy cups depicting the Eiffel Tower and slutting myself out for cocaine.  So when a few of my improviser friends suggested that I drive to Vegas to do a show, my first instinct was “absolutely not.”  But then the panic set in and I thought to myself, “Alison, your husband is going to impregnate you.  And you will never be able to go to Vegas again.  This could be your last opportunity to experience joy.  Once you have a child, you think you’ll really be able to travel to Vegas on a whim?  GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING!”  So I went to Vegas.  It was terrible.

Here’s the thing.  I drove to Vegas.  Strike 1.  I hate driving so why would I want to relegate myself to an automobile for four hours?  FOUR HOURS!  The only time I like road trips is when Husband is driving and I’m sitting shotgun smoking and eating sandwiches.  Now THAT...sounds like a delight.  I decided to stay with my friend Rob which was excruciating because Rob hates me.  Strike 2.  This is largely due to the fact that I once agreed to meet him in Mexico and then was unable to go at the last minute because I inadvertently sent a water barrel to Ecuador.   Finally, due to my spine fusion, I rarely stay awake past 9 p.m.  Strike 3.  I think our show was at 10 p.m.  It was horrific.  They basically dragged my lifeless body onstage and I pretended to have control over my motor functions. 

Sadly, Impending Baby Syndrome never got better than the Vegas trip.  I spent weeks saying yes to birthday parties I would ditch under normal circumstances, I went to Six Flags, I agreed to watch someone’s cat.  And each time someone presented me with what literally sounded like the worst idea in the world my inner-voice would whisper, “Of course I’ll watch your cat!  When will I ever be able to spend time with a cat again?!  Don’t cats eat children?  This could be your last chance to enjoy a feline!  ALISON, GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING!”

By week six I was overwhelmed and exhausted.  Impending Baby Syndrome had barely left me any free time to think about myself and all the ways the world had fucked me over.  It was so depressing.  I clearly needed some me time.  The spinal Gods must have agreed with this sentiment because before I knew it, I literally couldn’t move most of my body.  This is an unfortunate side effect of an autoimmune disorder.  Your body gives up on you when you’re just trying to have a little fun before your vagina turns into a thoroughfare. 

Husband was concerned, to say the least.  He came home from work one day and found me in a dark room, covers up to my chin, Ferris Bueller-style. 

Husband: What happened to you?

Me: Impending Baby Syndrome.

Husband: What?

Me: WE’RE GONNA HAVE A BABY SOON AND THEN MY LIFE IS GOING TO BE OVER!

Husband: OMG, are you pregnant?

Me: NO! 

Husband: I don’t understand.

Me: I’m trying to do fun things before I become filled with baby but I did too much and my bamboo spine is acting up.

Husband: But you don’t like doing fun things.

Me: DON’T TELL ME WHAT I LIKE!

But holy shit did Husband nail that one on the head.  I DON’T like doing fun things!  Why was I spending all my time trying to “live my life” when I’ve literally never done that?  I couldn’t possibly be missing out on anything because I hadn’t done a God damn thing in the 35 years that I’ve been alive.  My idea of a good time is sleeping while football is on a T.V. somewhere.  The craziest I’ve gotten in the last ten years is keeping a library book for too long.  I had a piece of cheese the other day that had whiskey in it and I legitimately thought I would get drunk so I spit it out.  I’M NOT FUN!  I WAS SO RELIEVED!

Here’s the deal.  I can tell Husband is trying to impregnate me.  I’m not stupid.  But maybe I can do that thing where they just put you to sleep and rip the baby out of you.  And I already almost exclusively wear maternity clothes so that part won’t be all that different.  And, from what I can tell, once you have a baby, you are literally unable to leave the house which basically sounds like a God damn dream.  So after a month and a half of Impending Baby Syndrome, I realized that having a baby sounds great!  I mean… obviously my baby’s not going to like me.  That’s a given.  But it will be a justified reason to not have to attend any social functions and from what I’ve been able to glean, my tits will get bigger.  I’m in.

Drunken Love

I could not have predicted that I would marry Husband.  I first met him at a party in a dilapidated garage when I was 18-years-old.  I had a broken leg and a D.U.I and he was passed out next to the keg.  He looked like an angel.  And thus began our torrid, drunken love affair.  When I look back at our 17-year courtship, it seems pretty obvious that Husband has made a huge mistake.  He had every reason to believe that I would be a handful for the rest of our lives, yet he married me anyway.  What an idiot. 

I’ve always envisioned myself as being fiercely independent and capable.  This is a farce.  The reality is I’m an insatiable control freak who will relentlessly grip the wheel while barreling towards a fiery abyss.  This is likely why blackout drinking has always appealed to me.  It’s such a relief to have alcohol making all the decisions.  I’ve often woken up and thought, “Huh…I didn’t realize I wanted to go to New Jersey to have sex with this intriguing coke dealer.  Thank you alcohol.  What a fun sabbatical.”   

This type of Jekyll-and-Hyde behavior has been confusing for those around me.  This is particularly true of Husband.  He has repeatedly watched me declare my strategy, set off to make my mark and then patiently followed me as I straggled to the finish line — always falling short — and right when I throw my white flag in the air, he’s there to pick up the pieces.

Many years ago, when Husband was merely Boyfriend, I proclaimed that New Year’s Eve was for pussies and that I wasn’t having any of it.  I was probably 20 around this time and feeling very mature.  I was also very into Boyfriend and thought this would be a good time to impress his family during the holidays.  His parents typically celebrated New Year’s with their neighbors and lifelong family friends.  I reasoned that this would be the perfect time to ingratiate myself to Boyfriend’s family.

Sadly, I started having a few cocktails and inadvertently overshot the mark.  I’m not sure what happened, but I got accidentally shitcanned real quick.  It was later revealed to me that I was so drunk, Boyfriend’s father spent the evening attempting to strap me to a barstool with his belt so that I wouldn’t fall off, as I had previously been doing.  In retrospect, it was a chivalrous move but apparently I was hammered and having none of it.  I was screaming, “RELEASE ME!  I AM NOT YOUR PRISONER!  UNBELT ME!  UNBELT ME, YOU ANIMAL!”  Now I was blacked out during this exchange so who’s to say what really happened, am I right?  But Boyfriend maintained that I was so inebriated I had to be taken home.  Now we were literally across the street from Boyfriend’s house but he claims it took 20 minutes to walk me back because I was a) unable to move my legs effectively, b) demanding that he return me to the party, and c) simultaneously propositioning him for sex in the middle of the street. 

I hadn’t even made it to midnight!  I was mortified. This was not the delicate flower persona I was attempting to portray.  Instead I came across as a drunken, sex-crazed lunatic.  BUT IT WASN’T MY FAULT!  Clearly someone had spiked my drink.  In the morning, I assured everyone that that was not typical of my behavior but his parents were not buying it.  More upsettingly, they pointed to Boyfriend’s birthday the year before.  I hate when people hold a grudge.

Ugh…Boyfriend’s 21^st birthday.  To be fair, I was well-intentioned but as usual, I got my ass handed to me by the universe and have yet to be able to live it down.  Here’s the thing.  I had spent copious amounts of hours trying to create the perfect 21^st birthday celebration for Boyfriend.  I was 19 years old and wanted him to understand the kind of thoughtful, organized woman I would surely turn out to be.  So I bought two very expensive tickets to the Cubs game and drove us to the city so that Boyfriend wouldn’t have to worry about drinking and driving.  Now here’s the thing, I’m not a great designated driver.  Come to think of it, I’m not a great driver.  BUT I WAS DOING MY BEST!  Was I of legal drinking age?  Of course not.  Is drinking and driving totally illegal despite one’s age?  Absolutely.  But I wasn’t going to let Boyfriend have all the fun after I had painstakingly planned the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!  (i.e. bought some cubs tickets and a pint of Jack).  Whatever.  The point is I was an amazing girlfriend and the rest of you are jealous.  Ugh…

I like to pride myself on finding joy in the little things in life.  For instance, boyfriend and I had been dating for two years (I was about to turn 20) and one of us was FINALLY LEGAL DRINKING AGE!!!  It was so exciting.  Boyfriend was able to buy beers at the game and I LOVE BEER!  So I had some.  And it was great.  Did I potentially have too many?  Who’s to say?!  I’M NOT THE BEER POLICE.    I was enjoying a wonderful baseball game with the Love of My Life, sorry if I didn’t count all the beers I had!  I probably had 5.  Or 6.  Definitely no more than 8.  And some Jack Daniels.  And a joint.  Oh shut up.  I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE, GET OFF MY BACK! 

After the game, I got a little turned around on Lake Shore Drive and ended up in a parking lot near the lake.  Now this didn’t strike me as an emergency but Boyfriend was furious.  You know how men are… He was yelling and shouting and I could not focus because he was being so judge-y!  I couldn’t figure out what he was complaining about and I had just dropped a cigarette in my lap so that was happening and he was still yelling and I’m thinking, “I PLANNED YOUR BIRTHDAY!  IF ANYTHING YOU SHOULD BE THANKING ME!  SURE, I GOT A LITTLE LOST BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FREAK OUT ABOUT IT!  BE COOL BRO!  I’VE GOT THIS!”  I then threw the car into reverse, slammed on the gas, and furiously drove in the wrong direction over a set of tire spikes thereby popping and deflating the two tires on the right side of my car.  Luckily, I had hopped a curb with the left side of my car so those two tires had been salvaged.  YOU’RE WELCOME!  Seriously though, what is the point of those spikes?  Like why is everyone so dead set on me not driving backwards?  I found the whole thing to be wildly unreasonable and viewed it as a small setback.  Boyfriend, however, was outraged and trying to make some big point about how we had drugs on us and I was an underage drunk driver. 

Boyfriend: You are so fucking stupid.

Me: Just relax.  I’ve got this.

Boyfriend: You’ve got this?!  You are inebriated beyond reason and just popped two of your tires.

Me: We both know I should never be in charge of driving places but it’s your birthday so I was trying to be nice.

Boyfriend: Nice?!  You’re going to get us arrested!

Me: Well then maybe you shouldn’t have brought me so many beers at the game!

Boyfriend: Oh, so now I’m supposed to drink alone on my birthday?!

Me: OBVIOUSLY NOT!!!  I WOULD NEVER DO THAT TO YOU!  Wait…do you have any more of that Jack on you?

Boyfriend: NO!  WE ARE STRANDED ON LAKE SHORE DRIVE, YOU ARE A DRUNKEN TEENAGER, I WOULD BET MY SWEET ASS YOU DON’T HAVE CAR INSURANCE AND NOW WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CALL OUR PARENTS AND THEY’RE GOING TO THINK THAT I’M THE BAD INFLUENCE IN THIS SITUATION WHEN THE TRUTH IS YOU’RE AN IDIOT AND CAN’T HOLD YOUR LIQUOR!

Me: Take it back.

It was a low blow.  It’s one thing to embarrass me on the side of the road but how dare you suggest I can’t hold my liquor.  I was outraged.  Eventually my parents came, took control of the situation and seemingly… it all worked out? Maybe. Who knows? Honestly, I can’t remember.  But Husband brings this story up constantly.  I feel he’s trying to admonish me but then I point out that he was dumb enough to marry me and that usually shuts him up.  I mean honestly, what was he thinking?

To be fair, Husband hasn’t always been on his best behavior.  Each time he brings up the birthday story, I remind him of a time he visited me after college.  I was 22 at this point and living with three men… obviously.  Boyfriend came to the city for a night on the town and we happened upon a local watering hole that was selling 40-ounce martinis.  Honestly, I hate martinis but I love things sold in increments of 40-ounces so I was on board.  As usual, I’m vague on the details.  I remember ordering a drink and the rest is a blur.  I came to, however, in the middle of the night when I heard Boyfriend rustling around my bedroom and I found it to be very irritating as I was attempting to sleep LIKE A PRINCESS!

I awoke to find him phantom pissing all over my bookshelf.  For those of you who aren’t raging alcoholics, phantom pissing is when you’re deep in a blackout, but your body decides it’s time to pee.  You then piss all over whatever is nearest you but deep within, your drunken synapses convince you that you’re in a bathroom.  I always like to take the high road when Boyfriend is the one acting out.  And when I say “high road” I mean that I like to berate him for his foolishness and point out that he probably has an out-of-control drinking problem.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Boyfriend: Iiiaaammm gonnna peeee heeeerreee.

You will never know true love until you’ve been peed on by your boyfriend.  True devotion and togetherness will only make sense once you find yourself trying to move your blacked out boyfriend’s large body while concurrently attempting to get him to stop pissing all over your belongings.  And while you’re trying to get his pants up and you’re holding his dick in an attempt to cut off the urine stream, you will think, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

In retrospect, I suppose it was inevitable that we ended up together.  Sure we’re both wildly immature, covered in track marks and dangerously close to dying if per chance we ever decide to pick up a drink again.  But not many people can say, “My wife once almost killed me in a car accident, embarrassed me in front of my family and then I pissed all over her.”  True love knows no bounds.

Wedding Disasters: Chicago

I didn’t spend my childhood fantasizing about my wedding day.  Instead, I spent my adolescence trying to get as many chemicals up my nose as possible.  This type of behavior didn’t align with daydreams of meeting my husband and being treated like a princess on my big day.  Due to my debaucherous lifestyle, I instead spent every waking hour envisioning my funeral.  It was gonna be great.  I was gonna play The Beatles White Album and you were all going to feel so horribly about the way you had treated me.

In a cruel twist of fate, I got sober instead and decided to live.  Since my formative years had been spent racking up D.U.I.s and attempting to catalog my STDs, marriage still hadn’t piqued my interest.  My time was split between relentlessly chain-smoking and trying not to drink.  That was how I spent the bulk of my twenties.  Ultimately, I ended up marrying my junkie ex-boyfriend and he too could not have been less interested in the minutia of our wedding day.  We were so happy to be alive, we just wanted to make it legally binding before one of us relapsed or died.  It was super romantic.

Since I had “insisted” on having a “destination wedding,” I was forced to also have a Chicago Wedding, Chicago Shower, and Chicago Bachelorette party.  This was in addition to LA Wedding and LA Shower.  The entire thing was ludicrous but, inevitably, if weddings don’t interest you, you will be bombarded with wedding hysteria.

Despite the knowledge that Chicago Wedding was on the horizon, I had paid no attention.  Aside from agreeing to physically be in Chicago that weekend, I had offered no additional help or guidance.  I figured our parents could run the show and that I would just show up and eat sausage.  LA Wedding = Cheeseburgers.  Chicago Wedding = Sausage.  Beyond that, I cared zero about what was going to transpire.

But once again, I got hoodwinked by my family.  I say “small wedding,” they invite 250 people; I say “casual BBQ,” they hire a staff of 17; I say “I don’t drink alcohol anymore so none of this is fun for me,” they concoct some sort of magical boozy lemonade drink that I cannot partake in but turned out to be the centerpiece of Chicago Wedding. 

It wasn’t until the week before Chicago Wedding that it occurred to me that I’d need an outfit.  Los Angeles Wedding Dress did not go well and I ended up looking pregnant.  I had a new strategy this time.  I’m not skinny BUT I have a huge ass and monstrous breasts which people seem to be into.  For Chicago Wedding, I figured I’d just work with what the Good Lord had given me.  So I bought a dress that basically made me look like street walker.  Husband was very concerned by this approach.  I had a mini-fashion show prior to leaving for Chicago and he was basically horrified:

Me: So what do you think?

Husband: Um…

Me: OMG, you think I look fat.

Husband: Nooo…I didn’t say that.

Me: Do you not want to get married anymore because I’m unattractive?

Husband: We already got married.  This is just a reception.

Me: So you hate me?

Husband: Alison, I don’t hate you but that dress is too short.  As a matter of fact, all your dresses are too short.

Me: ARE YOU SAYING I LOOK SLUTTY?!

Husband: You literally always do.  I don’t even know what to say anymore.

But it was too late.  That was the dress I bought and we were leaving the next day.  At this point, I started to panic.  Perhaps I should have put some thought into Chicago Wedding and how it was all going to shake out.  I started thinking about all the things I should have done.  For starters, my mother-in-law was hosting this fiasco and I probably should have contemplated thanking her.  I immediately called actual mother and put her on the case.

Me: I never bought anything for mother #2.  Is that bad?

Mimi: Why don’t we get her some flowers?

Me: I assume “we” means “you.”

Mimi: Fine.  I’ll put something together and you can bring it.  What kind of arrangement would you like?

Me: I don’t care.  I trust your judgment.  See ya tomorrow.

Note to self: Do not let Mimi go rogue when it comes to flower arrangements.  My plan upon arriving in Chicago was to get my hair and makeup done and then pick up the flowers Mimi had orchestrated.  Needless to say, what should have been a simple task resulted in a full-blown suburban meltdown.

For starters, I don’t pretend to know where one should get their wedding styling done in the suburbs so, again, I left this to Mimi.  I was slightly concerned when I walked into the “salon” and all the styling stations had been fashioned with tool boxes.  It looked like this had previously been an auto-shop dedicated to NASCAR and that these broads had just taken over and opened their salon “as-is.”  In addition, there was a lot of suburban fashion happening in that place.  The trend in Los Angeles right now is to dye your hair gray-purple — grayple, if you will.  While we can all agree that grayple is ridiculous, at least it’s fashionable — to some degree.  None of these suburban broads had heard of the grayple trend that was sweeping the nation.  They were still locked into the Kate Plus Eight buzzcut and blonde highlights.  Clearly, I’m not attractive — but I knew enough to know you should not mirror yourself after a woman who had a small army rip their way through her vagina.  No one can think rationally after such an event and she did not strike me as the fashion idol everyone in the suburbs found her to be.

After spending two hours in the salon, I had a headache from the 500 bobby pins that were used to fasten what was essentially a Toddlers-and-Tiaras-style bun to the side of my head.  I was miserable.  It wasn’t until I arrived at Chicago Wedding that I realized how dire this situation actually was.  My friend Laura pointed out that I looked as though I was about to enter the Ice Capades.  She was right.  Instead of looking like Kate Plus Eight, I looked like Nancy Kerrigan, and quite frankly my heels were too high and I was wobbling so I was channeling Nancy post Knee-Gate.  It was regrettable.

It was in this state that I walked into our local grocery store, Jewel, to pick up the flowers real mom had ordered for mom #2.  I was already suspicious since Mimi had chosen to order flowers from the same organization that brings us corn dogs as opposed to ordering flowers from, say, an actual flower shop.  But it was too late.  I walked in and was presented with what can best be described as an ornate funeral arrangement.  I was horrified.  I slowly toppled out of the grocery store, leaving the funeral flowers where they were and headed home to meet up with my friend Morgan.  She took one look at me and understood that I had reached full levels of mania.  Chicago Wedding was not going well.

Me: I’m falling apart.  We need to cancel Chicago Wedding.

Morgan: Just relax.  What is happening?

Me: I can’t feel any portion of my skull and Mimi bought funeral flowers. 

Morgan: I’m sure they’re fine.  Is that what you’re wearing?

Me: YES, IT’S WHAT I’M WEARING, MORGAN!  Oh God, how bad is it?  Do I look slutty?

Morgan: I mean…no more than usual.

Me: MORGAN!

Morgan: What?!  It’s sort of your thing.  Just embrace it.

Me: I hate everyone.

Morgan: Listen, we’re going to go back to Jewel, pick up the funeral flowers, go to Chicago Wedding and have a great time.  You look adorable.  Get in the car.  We can smoke there.

Those were the sweet words I needed to hear.  Morgan took control from there.  And just as I was beginning to feel like everything was going to work out, I entered Chicago Wedding and was faced with the realization that I am always right and that I have every reason to believe that nothing in my life will ever work out.

Here’s the thing.  I shouldn’t have been wearing a short dress nor are hooker heels an appropriate choice for anything beyond sex for money.  But Morgan had made me feel so confident that I completely forgot what was happening.  She had at least talked me into wearing underwear instead of a thong and I will be forever grateful.  Because as I was greeting my guests, I embraced my friend Charlie for a big hug and realized that something was pulling at my dress.  Of course Charlie didn’t know what was happening, thought I was trying to get out of hugging him and therefore just held me tighter so at this point I was basically in a choke hold.  I had a hard time escaping his grip and when I did, I turned to see my brother-in-law behind me.

Me: What the fuck are you doing?

Brother-In-Law: What are you talking about?

Me: Someone just lifted my dress.

Brother-In-Law: Alison, you’re barely wearing a dress, I’m sure it was the wind.

Me: HOW DARE YOU!

At this point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlie’s son, smiling like the devil and grasping a handful of leaves.  Apparently, because he’s a small child and therefore a literal monster, he had seen my ice-skating dress, walked up behind me, lifted my dress from behind, and tried to stick a handful of leaves in my underwear thereby having me flash the entire Chicago Wedding.  It was the equivalent of wrapping dollar bills into a stripper’s G-string and who could blame him?  Despite my attempts to look quasi-attractive, I once again looked like a hooker.  And clearly I couldn’t spank the future sex-offender toddler because then I’d be giving him what he wanted.  Sicko. 

Ultimately, everyone at Chicago Wedding saw my ass.  This is not the type of grace I was hoping to exude, but who was I kidding.  Even when I spend every waking moment trying to be appropriate and demure, I end up with an ass full of leaves and unwanted propositions for sex — it’s who I am.  It took everything in me not to start pounding the lemonade concoction and eventually I just changed into pajamas.  I had tried and failed to be wedding appropriate.  At the end of the night, my family spent over an hour getting all those God damn bobby pins out of my hair.  I slept like a motherfucking baby that night.  It could have been because my blood was finally circulating after removing all of those pins; or because I had just made the most I’ll ever make as a stripper; or because I had found my One True Love and married the shit out of him.  But mostly I slept a beautiful, restful slumber because all wedding festivities, all trying on of dresses, all vendor hiring and food ordering and pining after alcohol-infused lemonade concoctions was finally… over.