Wedding day, part one - Preparations

I was determined that after the last two weddings I was in, I was not going to do everyone’s makeup. It always stressed me out and had me rushing into my dress at the last minute, feeling not as put together as the others. But unfortunately, one of my faults is that I have a hard time saying no to something that’s going to make me look good...like turning some busted bitch into the belle of the ball.

“Oh my god, you did such a good job on her makeup! She looks so much better!”

“I know.”

Own it, I say. False modesty is just silly.

This was, of course, how I found myself standing in a corner, applying foundation to the bride’s face, wondering why no one had had the balls to suggest she wax her mustache before her wedding day. I’d never been that close to her before and had I known how bad it really was, I most certainly would have said something. But there was no point stressing her out about it at that point – what was done was done.

Papa has always had a case of “keeping up with the Joneses”, so what was once, over 25 years ago, a one room fishing cabin is now a three story monstrosity surrounded by random porches and more brick columns than are strictly necessary. On the side of the house that faces the lake, the majority of which is his bedroom, there are huge side by side windows all the way around. The view is spectacular, but I can tell you from personal experience that it loses a bit of its luster after you’ve had to clean those suckers. Still, his room is my favorite part of the house and the one that’s always designated for bridal preparations.

So while Tess sat on a stool facing the two corner windows, the black hairs of her mustache shining in the afternoon sunlight, I applied makeup as quickly as possible. And all around us there was chaos. The bed and chairs were covered in plastic dress bags, bottles of hair spray and various undergarments that would have looked more at home in a torture chamber. The counters were littered with makeup and shoes were scattered at random across the hardwood floor. Bridesmaids and other female family members were running in and out of the room in various states of undress. One hair stylist had set up camp in the bathroom while the other, who happened to be a new neighbor, was stationed just behind me.

John, the new hair stylist, was an interesting character – tall, round in all the wrong places and in complete denial about his sexual orientation. Even I knew he wasn’t batting for the home team, and my gaydar is nonexistent. Ever seen Will and Grace? I’m Grace, with breasts...and hips. If there’s a hot gay guy in the vicinity that isn’t making out with another guy, I’ll probably hit on him.

He was teasing my cousin’s wife’s long blonde hair into a half up 80’s video nightmare. While he walked around her, swinging his hips and flicking his wrists, I saw her eyes dart from person to person, desperately trying to get someone to say something, anything, to stop him. But she was the “MOH” (read: maid of honor / supreme bossy douche bag) and guilty of choosing those horrendous dresses for us, so I just smiled and kept my mouth shut.

One of the girls walked into the bathroom carrying her dress and he stopped teasing long enough to confirm everyone’s suspicions. “Honey, make sure you shut that door! Just because I’m a male hairdresser doesn’t mean I’m gay! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, mmmk! I’m marrrrrrriED”, he shouted, waving his ring finger in the air.

I caught Marie’s eye from across the room and grinned.

“I did my wife’s hair and makeup on our wedding day”, he continued. “I wasn’t letting anyone mess it up, no ma’am!”

By the time I’d finished Tess’s and the MOH’s makeup, the whole room was ready to kill him. Everyone looked great, with the exception of the MOH, but I thought to myself that I’d made a good decision in asking my godmom to do my hair instead of going with the crowd. At the very least I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of his shrieking. I figured I had just enough time to finish Tess’s mom’s makeup (which she asked me to do completely last minute) and run up to my house for my godmom to just throw the lot of it atop my head.

Unfortunately it took me a little longer than anticipated. Tess’s mom doesn’t speak any English, other than the names of Papa’s seven dogs, the name of that stupid goose (Larry) and “hello”, so every time I turned my back to grab something, she’d slide off the chair and try to totter out of the room. I’d have to lead her back and mime sitting down and closing my eyes, showing her what to do. But at least I didn’t break up my words into a dozen syllables and shout at her like my Grandma does when someone speaks a different language. Those poor Burmese children down the street are still suffering from post traumatic hearing loss.

When I finally made it home, Leigha had claimed my hair appointment and I was left waiting. Angry about being pushed aside, I grabbed my things and stomped back down the hill, cursing and threatening to walk down the aisle with a frizzy ponytail. That’s when John offered to do it and, feeling defeated, I agreed.

I relaxed into the chair and sighed.

“How do you want it done”, he asked.

“I want the front pulled back, soft curls”, I said, thinking that maybe it would be alright. He walked around my chair, lifting a piece of hair here and there, studying me like a bug under a microscope.

“No big 80’s shit either”, I added, just in case.

“No problem”, he said.

But less than five minutes later, after blow drying it and curling it under with a round brush, he sent someone for his straightener. “I think I’m going to do something different with you”, he said.

At first I panicked, my eyes flicking to the MOH’s unmistakable frizz tower, but after glancing at my phone and realizing that pictures were less than half an hour away, I gave in and thought, “Fuck it. There’s no time.”

“Will you let me do whatever I want to it?”, he asked.

In my experience nothing good has ever followed that sentence, but I glared at him and said, “As long as it’s not big 80’s hair, I don’t care. Just do it.”

And do it he did, throwing out the Adam and Steve line at least two more times in the process.

After spaying me with the bright red can labeled “BIG SEXY HAIR” and something to make it “shine”, he let me stand up. As I walked to the mirror he said, “You could be a model for the makeup store! This hairstyle really opens up your face.”

My eyes opened wide and an involuntary “Oh!” slipped from my mouth. I looked like a lion. I was surprised my reflection wasn't roaring and licking its wrist. He’d styled the front to stand up in an arch and the sides were flipped out and styled the same. I could hear the other hair stylist sniggering in the background, but I waited until he left the room to comment.

“I look like there’s a fan pointed at my head! I’m going to have to run down the aisle so it looks like the wind is actually blowing it back!”

I tried to use a pick to soften the bridge across my forehead, but it was too stiff. “BIG SEXY HAIR” apparently does its job. And there was no time to redo it; we were being called outside for pictures.

“It looks fine”, Marie said.

“You look like a lion”, Cory laughed.

“Ah! What scared you”, Ben asked.

And after an hour and a half of pictures, I walked down the aisle that way. I decided to pretend like it wasn’t happening – like I wasn’t dodging goose shit on a brick pathway in a booger green dress that as soon as I’d pushed my shoulders back had popped the new seams the altering lady had put in to keep the twins from jumping out and yelling “surprise”, with a lion’s mane framing my face.

But, little did I know, I’d soon have more than a hairstyle and escaping breasts to worry about.

When everything turns to shit

Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.

A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.

I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.

I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.

The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.

Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…

That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.

Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.

I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.

I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.

The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”

“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”

I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.

That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.

As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.

I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.

“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”

I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.

I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.

While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”

“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.

“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”

“I didn’t do that either”, she said.

“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”

CLICK.

Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.

I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.

I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.

And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.

The only way was to get on my knees.

And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.

After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.

I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.

“I’m hungry”, she said.

I stared at her in disgust.

“What?”

Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.

“What’s…oh…oh!”

That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.

After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”

“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.

“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.

The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.

“Mom”, she said.

“What honey?”

“It still smells like shit in here.”


*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*