Runnin' Around & Weddin' Nonsense

My Mama defines a Southern woman as: "Someone who is strong, yet fragile. A well-mannered, soft-spoken female who is the epitome of femininity. A woman who understands the importance of wearing hats and gloves, and the importance of carrying a handbag no larger than her head. A woman who knows that the only thing worse than bein' tacky is bein' called tacky."

That definition was tossed out like moldy cornbread in early 1987, or as we refer to it...the Weddin' of '87.  My sister, Big Sissy, was marrying her then second husband, Benji.  A man who had a passion for Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, banjos, and porn.

My sister didn't ask for much for her second special day. She just wanted a small, intimate ceremony free of drugs.  Not an extravagant request by any means, but when Mama's poppin' her pills you might as well be asking for Jesus to officiate the ceremony. 

Mama suffers from many ailments, but at this point in our family's time line, she was mainly coping with the slipped disc, and migraine headaches.  The slipped disc she received because of a fall in the garage after a hard night of binge drinking and bucket chicken, and the migraines because she seems to be in a constant state of withdrawal.  Apparently modern medicine hasn't developed a drug with a half-life that can keep up with Mama.




I knew the union between Big Sissy and Benji was doomed the night of the rehearsal dinner when Benji broke out his banjo, and began playing tunelessly with great effort. He would bite his lower lip while making his chubby, fish stick fingers stumble over the chords. Then close his eyes and shake his blonde, curly little head during (what he thought) were magical musical moments. He looked like a masturbating Labradoodle. Everyone hated him. That is, except for the bride.  Seems she has a soft spot for stupid men who are into pickin' and grinnin'.

Mama made it through the evening without slurring her words, breaking something, or hitting on men that she thought were my Daddy.  These were all good signs that tomorrow (the wedding day) just might be an event without event.

By that morning, any exuberance about the wedding quickly evaporated.  Mama had conveniently developed a nasty migraine, and managed to take more than the prescribed recommended dose of her medication.  She always managed to take more than the prescribed recommended dose.

Story goes that she couldn't handle the stress of the wedding, and the stress lead to a migraine.  I was forced to remind her that she was not the one getting married, my sister was, and if anyone was suffering it was Big Sissy.  All you had to do was look at the groom to know that she was doomed to a life of hell.  If anyone needed a sedative, it was her.

Not able to waste any more time, my sister felt it best to leave her own home and finish getting ready at the church.   I pleaded with her to stay.  The more the better whenever managing Mama, but Big Sissy could not be stopped.

As she gathered her ten foot train of meringue Big Sissy said, "God's house is nothin' but a big livin' room with a toilet and a mirror anyway, so who gives a shit."

It now fell to me, and Daddy, to get Mama ready for the wedding. We spent the next two hours, cloistered, trying to pull Mama's hose up over her knees. 

With what time remained, I attempted to apply just the right amount of Clinique make-up; however, Mama couldn't keep her head still. It was as if the sheer weight of hot rollers, bobby pins, and Final Net were too much for her to take, and suddenly she had no spine. It was gone. Poof! My Mama was now a sea sponge.  A horrible experience to be sure, but only horrible if you had never seen it before. This was my world, so how would I know any different?

By the time I was finished with Mama's make-up she looked like a spider monkey had taken a grease stick to her face.  She was either going to a wedding, or a covert ops mission to the Congo. She didn't care.  She had her cigarettes.

I hastily removed her hot rollers, and she demanded that I leave the hair styling to her. I stood back and watched as she drooled, and teased, drooled, and teased. By the time she finished she was two feet taller than when she started, and a foot wider on either side. She attempted to stand up, but stumbled. I couldn't be sure if it was the drugs, or the hair, that was the cause for the lack in her equilibrium, but it didn't matter. We had to get to the church on time.

We left the house with Benji, his banjo, and Mama. Daddy drove, Benji took the passenger seat, and I sat next to Mama in the back.  Mama insisted that she lay down as that was the only way the car would accommodate her hair.  Amazingly, she was able to smoke, drink a Coke, and consume a box of Butterfinger miniatures all with her head in my lap, and all before arriving at the church.

Upon arrival my sister greeted us at the car.  She was there to make sure Mama was decent. I could tell what she was thinking.  She knew, as we all knew, that while this was technically her day; the best thing that could happen, at this point, would be to make it through the ceremony without having to take Mama out back and pistol whippin' her ass.  A common solution in the South when a friend, or family member, is in need of some assistance when attempting to regain their composure.

Mama slowly emerged from the back seat. Her hair plastered to the left side of her face with little bits of Butterfinger sprinkled throughout.  She slowly removed a tissue from her purse, and wiped her face, looked at my sister, smiled, and gave a gracious hello.  As if the two of them were being politely introduced in a receiving line.  

My sister just glared at her, then me, then my Daddy, and marched back inside the church.  Even Big Sissy knew that there were no words for what she just witnessed.  Given her reaction I now feared that the day would end on a Shakespearean note with one too many corpses.

Big Sissy held her frustration as long as she could, and as we followed her into the wedding chapel, she began screaming at capacity.  She was a tornado of colorful phrases and exclamations.  It was amazing to watch as this tiny, 5'2", 90 pound woman emitted vulgarities I thought were only reserved for the military, prison yards, and Sam Kinison.

She then grabbed Benji by the elbow, which caused him to scream, "Ouch baby! That's my pickin' arm!" and she hastily ran them to the altar.  It should be noted here that they opted out of the traditional wedding march, and music of any kind, in favor of a cold cut buffet for the reception. Seems the organist was more proficient with Wonder Bread than the ivories, which led to be quite a money saver for the happy couple.

During the commotion of vulgarities, and spousal abuse (which shocked none of the guests as they had attended other family events),  I noticed that Mama had disappeared, much like she did whenever she would take us to the mall.  We came to believe it was her intention to lose us, and begin a new life as a New Orleans lounge singer.  A pursuit I encourage to this day. Unfortunately I did find her.  She was in the main sanctuary, smoking. 

"Mama!" I exclaimed.

She jumped as if unaware that, besides God and herself, others were present.

"As mother of the bride should you not be with the bride?"

She casually removed her ancient Foster Grant sunglasses, blinked, and stared at me.  From her reaction, I don't think she even knew there was a wedding.

"What the hell are you doin' smokin' in here?" I asked.

"Young man, I am a Southern woman and I make my own rules. Besides, if you can't smoke in God's house, where can you smoke?"

Who knew that God was so accommodating in matters concerning his own home?  Has there ever been a more gracious host?

Mama had responded with such clarity, and conviction, that despite the awkward shape of her head, and the fire hazard she was creating, I couldn't argue with her.  Just like Big Sissy...there just weren't any words.  I simply walked away.

I reported to Daddy that I found Mama wandering aimlessly about the church.   As a military officer I would leave it to him to decide the best course of action to take; however, time passes differently for my Daddy when it comes to certain things like football, bourbon, and my Mama. We only had seconds to decide on the best approach, and there was no time to secure a schematic of the facility.

Ultimately we went with my idea: Tie her hair to a light fixture and leave her be.   Just make sure her cigarettes are within arm's reach, and no one will get hurt.

Luckily, Mama seemed to pull herself together just before the vows.  Freed of the light fixture, Daddy escorted her into the wedding chapel, she took her seat next to mine, and only snored once during the ceremony.  No one knows how she worked that miracle, but she did.  

According to Grandmother (a.k.a. Goo-Mama), "Your Mama must have gotten a bit of the Lord while she was chain smokin' in that batismal.  I've never seen anyone pull a rabbit out of hat like that before."

Of course when the wedding photos arrived I realized that only part of Mama had made it to the ceremony.  In every photograph, Mama is seen leaning to the right, her crooked hair leaning to the left.  She looked like a human "S" with no neck.

As my sister sagely said, "I knew she'd fuck up the whole damn thing. Now I'm stuck with these damn pictures until my next marriage!"

And she was.