BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Part 10 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Fool For Your Stockings…

Grabby little minx, isn’t she? I mean would you look at that? She’s only had the collar around my neck and the ring around my… Uhm…  Uh… Finger, yeah, finger… That’s what I was going to say… So, anyway, yeah…  Ahem… Well… Back to what I was supposed to be saying, I guess…

The marriage had only been official for about two hours when the above picture was taken, and my bride was already just grabbing things right out of my hands like Kwai Chang Caine snatching pebbles from a blind Shaolin monk. (If you can believe the old TV show that task is much harder than it sounds…)

Okay, I have to be honest… I have absolutely no clue what E K is so intent on taking away from me in this photo. Well, that statement isn’t entirely accurate, because I do have at least a faint clue, but I cannot in any way be absolutely positive what it is in this particular picture. The only thing I can assure you is that it’s not candy. She only takes that away from babies. Just kidding… Man, y’all are way too serious… loosen up… please…

Let’s put it this way, since people were well aware of our  financial situation – not much cash in the bank, just bought a house,  financed our own wedding, very little furniture, yadda yadda – rather than give us relatively useless crap like Terra Cotta Taco Racks or some such as wedding presents, many of them simply gave us cash. So, I suspect money is most likely what my bride is reaching for… I probably had a couple of twenties in my hand that I had just pulled out of a card or something of that ilk. But,  you know, I can’t really blame her… I mean, after all, she knew  all too well my history with getting myself into debt, so letting me have any manner of control over the cash was cause for immediate alarm. And besides, she’s a Taurus. She absolutely loves money…

Wait… You know what? Something just dawned on me… I think maybe we did get a Terra Cotta Taco Rack… Oh hell, there it is! Right there in the middle of the picture… that yellowish box with the bow on the corner… And, it even looked exactly like the one in this other picture here on the left… (Yeah, I actually had to go out and steal the picture off the web since we no longer have our Taco Rack, therefore the closeup is not of the actual gift, although it is exactly the same kind we received.)

Yep… It’s true, we did in fact receive a Terra Cotta Taco Rack, and it came from some dear friends, Dave and Deb. The verbal caveat they added when we unwrapped the box was that it was more or less a moral imperative that a newly married couple receive at least 1 somewhat useless gift as a wedding present. Well, D and D, we actually did get some use out of it – as well as plenty of amusement given your “explanation”, so here’s another “thank you” all these years later…

But, I suppose I should be staying on topic, correct? Well, you know me better than that by now… I’m afflicted with Blog A D D, and I just can’t help it…

Unless I missed my guess, it most likely hasn’t escaped your notice that our wedding was held on Halloween. I mean after all, not only have I repeatedly tossed the date out there, I even pointed out that it was on Halloween… And, I’ve been going on and on about how it was held in our living room… In our new house…on a residential street… Need I continue scattering breadcrumbs?

I seriously doubt I do, because y’all were already on top of this one. E K and I, however… well… not so much.

Now, in our defense we were twenty-somethings without kids. The duplex where we lived prior to buying this house was on an extremely busy thoroughfare and there weren’t really a lot of kids around… On top of that, let’s go back to the twenty-somethings thing… What do folks in their early twenties do on Halloween? Stay home and give out candy? Well, unless they have kids of their own, probably not. More than likely they are misspending their young adult youth at a party in not-fit-for-all- ages costumes, with dip, party food, and ungodly amounts of alcohol. Know what I mean?

Yeah… We completely and totally forgot about the fact that kids could possibly come to the door and scream at us until we produced candy… candy that we had neglected to purchase for the occasion.

I’m sure you see where I am going with this…

About 5 minutes into the ceremony a handful of tiny voices bellowed outside the front door, “Twik o Tweep!”.

Everything came to a screeching halt as we all looked around in sudden realization. My father looked at me and said, “Where’s the candy?”

To which I replied, “We forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“Yeah, dad… We’ve been a bit preoccupied.”

Saving the day, my father stepped over to the door, swung it open, then dug into his pocket and started handing out change to the kids. I believe we only had one other interruption during the ceremony itself, but by the time the reception was rolling, kids were knocking on the door left and right…

Eventually, my dad ran out of change and so did I. We ended up offering wedding cake, ham, and veal parmigiana to the costumed beggars after that – only with their parent’s permission, of course… As I recall, we had 1 taker for a piece of cake. However, I think what I ended up finding to be the most amusing out of all of this were the numerous compliments we received. Not because we looked damn sharp, which we did… Especially E K… (Hey, I’ve been good for almost an entire blog entry now)… No, it wasn’t just our costumes… it seems we were garnering compliments on our Halloween decorations and spirit for the occasion. Apparently, several of the folks who were escorting their kids around the neighborhood thought that we were simply in costume as Bride and Groom, and that the whole reception itself was an elaborate, wedding-themed Halloween Party, complete with food and cake. Some who had been by the house earlier actually thought the wedding ceremony itself was a mocked up act to lend credibility to the facade.

Since we are on the subject of “wedding cake”, I would be remiss if I didn’t include the picture on the right. Especially since E K went to the trouble of digging out what passes for our wedding album  for me  in order that I be able to scan a few of the photos for this series of blog entries. (Remember, I said we couldn’t afford to hire a pro)…  So, what you have here is obviously a picture of us next to the wedding cake my father insisted we have… (And we definitely appreciated that more than we could ever convey).

But, unfortunately, there is an evil and insidious story behind this particular snapshot… Notice how we are both reaching? Well, you see, E Kay had been hitting the champagne pretty hard. She was starting to get a little rambunctious, and no one could seem to calm her down. A suggestion was made that we cut the cake in hopes this would bring her under control, but alas, it just fueled the fire. In this piece of historical still life, what you are witnessing is E K as she is just about to pluck the tiny little groom off the top  of the cake so that she can throw it on the floor and stomp on it. I, as you can see, am rushing to save him.

Really. She did. Danced all over his little body in her high heels. Crushed the poor bastard into a gazillion pieces… Laughing maniacally with a bizarre gleam in her eyes, and mumbling with each step, “Take that… How does that feel?  … How about this? … And this?”

Yeah, really… She did…

Seriously…

You don’t believe me?

Okay, so she didn’t. Y’all are just no fun today at all are you? Oh, and since we are apparently operating under a full disclosure policy here,  I suppose I should point out that she hadn’t really been hitting the champagne either. Yes, we had some, but not even enough to tickle our noses in the grand scheme of things… Besides which, E K isn’t a very big fan of the bubbly.

So, in reality, if memory serves, our grabby, reaching gestures in this particular photo have something to do with us trying to figure out how to go about disassembling the cake and store the top layer away in the freezer for our first anniversary, as is called for by time honored tradition.

I have a comment about said tradition: … For the record, year old freezer burned wedding cake tastes like crap…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: Where’s Everybody Going?

Part 6 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Goin’ To The Chapel…

So, in the previous installment we established that Tom Hanks wasn’t available for my bachelor party. Neither were Tawny Kitaen nor Adrian Zmed. I’ve never forgiven any of them for that, and it is largely why you will never see us together in public, or private, for that matter. Well, that and the fact that we don’t know one another, but that’s just one of those small details… On with being “mobile”…

As all men are born knowing, there is a certain code that must be followed with regard to bachelor parties… really… it’s built right into our genetic makeup. But, anyway, all men know if you are tapped to be your buddy’s best man when he takes the plunge you have been telling him not to take ever since you were old enough to understand the ramifications… (Whew… that was a mouthful… Deep breath…) You know, inherently and without any outside influence, it is a moral imperative that you take your buddy out and get him completely and totally f*cked up. Preferably, the night immediately before the wedding.

Now, women have caught on to this in recent years. No doubt because they are generally a whole lot smarter than men give them credit for… (yeah, I know, ending in a preposition… it’s a blog… cut me some slack)… To be honest, women are generally a damn sight more intelligent than men, period. But let us not digress into a discussion about my submissive side and E K’s collection of handcuffs, leather items, and stiletto he… Err… umm…

Just ignore that last part, okay?

So, anyway, since you ladies know what’s up with that crap, you have had a tendency to put the brakes on the time honored tradition, insisting instead that the bachelor party be held a week or so prior to the event so as to allow for recovery time.

Well, Kathy didn’t do that. It’s not that she was oblivious to anything. I mean, after all, she’s friggin’ brilliant and it’s virtually impossible to get anything over on her. It requires an entire government conspiracy, unmarked helicopters, tranquilizer darts, and James Bond to pull even a shred of wool over her eyes. (Although, if the 007 in question happened to be the Pierce Brosnan incarnation, E K would probably be going by some “Bond Girl” name like Kitten McSharpclaws, and I would most likely be finding myself suddenly single and crying in my beer… Yeah, E K is all about that guy. I have no idea what she sees in him… I mean, it’s not like he’s insanely handsome, intelligent, philanthropic, faithful to a fault…Oh wait… he is… never mind.)

So, anyway, E K didn’t put her foot down on anyone’s neck. Not right then anyway. She’s definitely stepped on her share since, but not without just cause, believe me. Even though she has nicknames that seem as though they belong to some kind of psycho woman, they are really and truly all in fun. She is one of the most even tempered people I know, and I’m not just saying that to score points with her. Trust me, scoring points with E K requires a hell of a lot more than a handful of pretty words…

And, speaking of points, (like how I did that?) the point here being, she allowed Scott to plan the bachelor party for the night immediately before the wedding. October 31 was falling on a Saturday that year, so Friday night was on for the festivities. Kat was going out with her Matron of Honor, (remember Erin?), and some other ladies for a nice dinner, and whatever women do at Bachelorette parties… yeah, I know, I’ve seen some home videos… But, as it turned out E K and her friends didn’t go that route. She was exhausted and after dinner and a couple of drinks she came home and went to bed. Or so she maintains…

Me however… well, that was a different story. Scott arrived in a rented 12 passenger van. He had already picked up a few of the guys, and we made the rounds to pick up the rest. In the back of this van was a cooler… In the cooler was beer… something on the order of 48,000 beers… No kidding. The damn thing never became empty and, at Scott’s direction, neither did my hand. What I mean is the moment I would finish a beer, someone would reload my hand. If I wasn’t drinking fast enough, they found a way to get me to slam whatever brew I was holding so they could… Yeah, you guessed it.  Reload.

Once everyone was on board, we made the rounds of several bars in the Saint Louis area. As would be expected, these bars all featured scantily clad, young, busty, leggy, flirtatious waitresses. And, at each stop the mantra became, B-52!

Nope, not the Love Shack,  Rock Lobster, Channel Z folks… I’m talking about the drink. A triple layered shot of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier and Kahlua… sometimes set on fire. AKA a Flaming B-52…

So, at each and every bar we would begin the stay with a round of B-52’s… Although, to be honest, I think it was less of a round and more of a pair… I was always presented with one, and whoever else in the group got tapped to drink with me that “round” to make me think everyone was getting trashed, and not just me.

Now, so you understand, Scott is a responsible guy. After all, a year later he officially became a cop and is probably one of the best cops around… So, he wasn’t drinking booze. He was staying sober so that he could drive, and watch out for everyone else, in particular me, as you will see later…

And so, the B-52 chant continued… with help from the outside. You see, these characters were not at all shy about telling everyone in the bar that I was a “dead man walking,” so to speak. Therefore, I became the object of much fawning by waitresses. (Believe me, I know they were well tipped. I saw the dollar bills flying.) And, there were extra drinks, courtesy of other patrons in the establishment: usually a B-52… Or 3… Or 4… Yeah. Go figure. Although, I must admit, I do vaguely remember something about Kamikaze’s and Purple Hooters. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a hospital detox ward…

By this time it was relatively late, and I had not yet had anything to eat for dinner. But, they had a plan there too… On the way to our next stop on the “get drunk in St. Lou” tour, we swung into the drive-thru of White Castle. Now, I know they don’t have White Castle everywhere, but they have equivalents I believe… For instance, in the south the closest you would find would be Krystal’s… However, if you have no equivalent, and no idea what I am talking about, White Castle, (and the equivalents,) serve these little, square, steam grilled with onions burgers. They have a unique taste, and are a staple for drunken binges. Since they are small, a grown man will generally eat around 4 to 6 of them. Sometimes more, if he’s really hungry. If he’s drunk, usually quite a few more. You have probably heard these burgers referred to as Sliders, or the ever popular Saint Louis moniker, Belly Bombers.

Well, they get the nicknames honestly… You see, they have a lingering effect on one’s digestive system. Especially if one has been drinking heavily. The thing is however, said effect usually doesn’t roll around for about 6 to 12 hours after consumption… See where I’m headed with this?

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of those things I ate that night…

So, anyway… Eventually, as all Saint Louis based bachelor parties tend to do, we ended up across the river in Illinois, smack in the middle of what is called the “East Side”. This is where you find the bars where the waitresses are not scantily clad. Well, actually, the waitresses are scantily clad… but, the other women who work there are mostly naked and swinging around shiny poles… Or wiggling around on your lap… Or sticking your face in their cleavage… Or… Well, you get the picture.

Guess what? We didn’t go into one of those bars. No kidding. I remember it had to do with one of the guys in the group not wanting to go in, and I was so drunk at that point that I backed him up, slurring my way through, “If he ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’…” He didn’t make any friends of the other guys that night, trust me… Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against me that I backed him up, because they knew I was so trashed that I had no clue what I was saying. Besides, they also knew that it was all their fault that I was out of my head drunk in the first place… Well, not all their fault I don’t guess, but that they had been the primary contributors, that’s for sure…

Instead, we grabbed a table at one of the big dance club type bars and sat  there drinking beer. At least, that’s what I think I was doing. Everything was kind of moving in slow motion, including the music and sound around me. It was much like that part in the original Terminator movie when Arnie comes into the techno dance club on a mission to off Sarah Connor…

I do remember that at one point I hauled myself off to the restroom to unload some of the drink my kidneys had finally managed to process, and while becoming acquainted with the urinal someone stuck something in my back and demanded my wallet. Being trashed I just replied, “Yeah right. Very funny.” (Although, I suspect it probably came out more like, “Nyabnigh, furrvffblee nubby.”) Still, in response to my slurred words, whatever it was in my back went away, and that was the end of it.  However, I later found out that some fool had watched me bob and weave to the restroom and decided I’d make a good target, and that unbeknownst to me I was actually being mugged. However, unbeknownst to my mugger, Scott,  (remember him, the 6 foot 6 cop?) had followed him. So, when the whatever in my back disappeared and life went on without incident for me, what had actually happened was that Scott yanked the idiot up and bounced him off a wall.  All without a word. Kind of like Chuin rescuing Remo at the statue of liberty… Yeah, more obscure movie references… I just can’t help myself…

But, see, I told you he was looking out for me…

By now, it was oh-dark-thirty… really… I have no friggin’ clue what time it  actually was. All I know is we left the bar, dropped off some of the guys, then went back to Scott’s place with the crew that was left, and had Pizza. Yeah… Pizza. Don’t ask me. It was there and I ate it. Oh, and there was more beer involved. Yeah… a lot more beer.

At some point in the wee hours of Saturday morning… well, I think they were actually beyond “wee,” because we weren’t all that far from sunrise… Scott drove me home.

Now, here is something I didn’t mention earlier: All I had in my pocket was my ID. No wallet, no keys, no cash, no nothing. Scott knew this.

He helped me out of the van, dragged me up to the front door of the house, propped me against the porch railing, then rang the doorbell and ran just like a kid who had just set fire to a sack of dog-poo.

However, he didn’t go far… He stood in the front yard to watch the show.

A few moments later a very sleepy E K pulled open the door and just stared at me with one eye. Without a word, she turned and headed back to the bedroom while I literally crawled into the house…

No matter how many years have passed… And I do mean to this very day… I can still hear Scott laughing his ass off out in the front yard…

At a later date, E K made it perfectly clear to Scott how she felt about my condition upon being returned, and moreover, the method by which I was deposited upon the doorstep. She takes a very dim view of her possessions being mistreated whenever someone borrows them. I think it hearkens back to her high school years… Something about her Drill Team Uniform never being returned by the girl who borrowed it… (And believe me, I’m not real excited with that girl either… I mean just imagine, E K in a drill team  / cheerleader uniform… But, I digress…)

It was after the evil one had delivered her cold and calculated admonition that Scott fessed up, and told her the original plan had been to wait until I passed out,  strip me down to my skivvies, tape a quarter to my forehead, write his number on the back of my hand, and put me on a Greyhound Bus bound for Chicago… Of course, part of his plan also involved driving to Chicago so he could be there to watch me get off the bus and wander about aimlessly, before he finally loaded me up and hightailed it back to Saint Louis, arriving just in time to deliver me to the wedding…

Good thing I never actually passed out, until arriving home that is, because there were some unforeseen events in our very near future, one of which was only a few points shy of being catastrophic in relation to the upcoming festivities.

Besides, 6 foot 6 or no, E K would have killed him and fed his carcass to her cats. Guaranteed…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: The Wedding Suit…