Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (17 page)

In Bush’s world, Brit and Jason wouldn’t just be able to go before a judge and whine for a quickie annulment.

No, no. It happened too fast. What God and a half-dozen really wasted witnesses hath put together, let no judge put asunder in just a few minutes. Under the Bush plan, a federal bureaucrat could have been dispatched to the scene of the breakup and convinced the couple that it was purely possible for Britney, one of the richest and most popular entertainers in the world, to give it all up in order to settle down and make fat Louisiana babies with a, uh, college student.

Can we be far removed from a divorce requiring an official letter from the President of the United States to be final?

We get it. Marriage should not be entered into lightly. But Bush should know that most couples already get pre-marital counseling for free from their minister. Admittedly, in Las Vegas, this is probably reduced to an Elvis impersonator advising the couple, “Don’t be cruel.” Then again, what more is there to say, really?

The president’s weird marriage-or-bust program could also have helped those headline-grabbing former shackmates
Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. If only they could have had a sit-down with the leader of the free world before deciding to split. J. Lo could’ve expressed her frustration with Ben’s gambling and womanizing, and Ben could’ve said, “Look, we all know that I’ll never be truly happy with anyone except Matt Damon, so let’s just stop pretending.”

Y’all know I’m right.

I worry about Bush’s “save the marriage at all costs” mentality. One couple I’d like to nudge into divorce court would be Mr. and Mrs. Kobe Bryant.

I have to admit it: I was on Kobe Bryant’s side till he bought his wife an eight-carat purple diamond that cost more than four million bucks to atone for that pesky rape charge. Hallmark, which has a card for almost everything, must not have had one in the “Sorry I Strayed, But It Was Consensual” category.

On the other hand—yep, the one that sports my modest three-quarter carat diamond ring bought from a pawnshop, no less—maybe Kobe’s wife had the right idea.

Next time Hubby forgets to take out the garbage? Let’s seeee, that’s one pair of sapphire earrings. If he eats the last Eskimo Pie (again), that’s one tennis bracelet on the Kobe Scale of Remorse.

My heart goes out to Kobe’s wife, with her sad Precious Moments doll eyes. As I watched her stroke his hands during the World’s Most Humiliating Press Conference when
the news first broke, I had to wonder how she could sit there while he described her as his “backbone,” “soul mate,” and similar gibberish.

She did “her duty” on live TV. But sister-hon should have accepted that ring only long enough to hold it under Kobe’s nose and say something on the order of, “Fool, you need to put that hunka junk where the sun don’t shine.”

While I don’t think it’s smart to force people into marriage through a guvmint program, I’m actually a big fan of weddings—old-fashioned ones, that is. That’s why I’m so distressed to see the disturbing trend of tacky engagement announcements. You know the ones I’m talking about. The bridal page picture where He is tightly wrapped around Her in their best impersonation of a couple desperately in need of a room.

Now I realize that we live in an age in which most people actually believe you can—heck, you
should
—meet your soul mate on a TV show catfight filmed in a borreyed castle somewhere. Therefore, maybe we’ve let a lot of wedding customs go by the wayside.

Still, I must speak out against the “modern” engagement photos of couples wearing bathing suits or tube tops and muscle shirts looking slightly hungover. And, at the risk of offending more than a few friends and relatives, I don’t think grooms belong in engagement photos at all.

One reason is they’re impossible to pose. How many
times have you seen the studio portrait where she is standing behind her beloved, arms wrapped around him like a sumo chokehold? They sure look happy.

Call me old school, but I think engagement portraits should be of the bride only. Men have no business being in the picture. Just show up at the chapel and remember not to smash cake in her face on the big day. You’re a guy, for heaven’s sake. No one cares what you look like, and neither should you.

The tacky wedding write-up is another pet peeve. There is simply no need to advise us, as one wedding announcement did recently, that “two have become one during a spectacular Maui honeymoon trip.”

Oh, precious Lord.

Ditto the fact that your children served as your junior attendants. We know you’ve shacked since Clinton’s first term; just don’t rub our noses in it.

As a native Southerner, it’s possible that I am irrationally traditional on such matters. We Southerners cling like kudzu to our traditions. Every so often, though, things go awry. I’m remembering a bridal shower I helped host in which a friend thought it would be a good idea to have tiny plastic cherubs frozen in the punch bowl ice ring. Instead of evoking the image of merry cupids that we had hoped for, more than a half dozen guests gasped in horror and demanded to know, “Why are there dead babies floating in the punch?”

Like picking a wedding photographer based solely on which one of your redneck cousins has the biggest lens and best chance of staying sober, the floating cupids seemed like a good idea at the time.

And speaking of wedding photography, y’all show some love to Catherine Zeta-Jones, who has gone to court, repeatedly, to claim that her wedding day was ruined by unauthorized photographers.

Oh, how I have cried myself to sleep thinking about how CZJ has had to suffer. And Michael Douglas, too. They’re outraged that the paparazzi snapped unauthorized pictures of their wedding at the Plaza Hotel years ago.

My heartless friend Susan thinks it’s ridiculous. “I mean,” says Susan, “doesn’t this woman know there are people with real problems out here in the real world?”

What can I tell you? Susan clearly can’t comprehend deep pain. After all, as I pointed out, CZJ said that both she and Michael broke down and cried in phone calls to friends about how tacky tabloid photos ruined their most special day. At least the most special since Michael’s last wedding.

One gets the impression that Michael Douglas would say just about anything to keep the missus happy, and for that he gets major props. But it does tarnish his macho image a bit to see him wringing his hands in public about how “devastated” and “emotional” he is about photos that “made the reception look like a disco.”

The Zeta-Jones–Douglases did allow that the pain and
stress of the wedding day ordeal, while irreparable, could be mollified somewhat by $800,000.

Big of them.

To the two of them I’d say, that having a wedding at the Plaza Hotel doesn’t entitle you to a lot of privacy. Hell, even I have had tea at the Plaza and roamed its hallways, so that should tell you those folks are about as discriminating as a pre-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith at an all-you-can-eat chitlins buffet.

Marriage isn’t easy, even with federal grants and lawsuits to help. Perhaps the Zeta-Jones–Douglases can bravely soldier on, despite this numbing tragedy of disco receptions and allegations of matching chicken necks on bride and groom. Perhaps some of Bush’s counseling could help them work through the stages of grief: denial, anger, greed, and a new house in Bermuda.

Works for me.

Southern-Style
Silliness

I’ve always been an obituary junkie. If there’s a long, fabulous obit accompanied by a picture obviously taken at least forty years earlier while wearing a sailor hat, then I’m hooked. If there’s a nickname in quotes, say, Red Eye, Tip Top, or simply, Zeke, then my entire day is made.

I don’t like obituaries that don’t list the cause of death. Even if the newly dead was ninety-six, one can’t assume. I crave details. I must know whether death resulted from accident, disease, or simply an unfortunate tuna casserole.

I don’t like obituaries that don’t list charities. Not long ago, I read about a Wisconsin mother of six who died at seventy-one and specified that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to any organization supporting the impeachment
of President Bush. You just know she died with her little fists all curled up, mad as a mule chewing bumblebees.

I don’t like obituaries that just list the bare facts: name, age, place of death, relatives, funeral details. No, no. I want to know that the deceased loved the Atlanta Braves, Reese’s Pieces, Dale Jr., and going to Mr. Tang’s Imperial Wok on all-you-can-eat crab legs night. People, is this too much to ask?

Occasionally, readsers are rewarded with a list of survivors that includes beloved family pets: “Joe is also survived by his faithful standard poodle, Rhett, and a somewhat sickly betta fish he purchased at Wal-Mart only a week before he died and had named Stumpy for reasons unknown to anyone else.”

I like obituaries that aren’t afraid to let loose a little bit. “Crossing Jordan,” “racing into the arms of the Almighty,” and “leaving all earthly cares behind” (including, perhaps, an unpaid Belk charge card and that nagging thumpa-lumpa-lump noise that had been coming from beneath the hood of the LeSabre for a couple of months now) are powerful descriptions, all.

I love obituaries that take the time to point out that the deceased died “peacefully, surrounded by his entire family.” Celebrities appear to be especially good at this. Not only are they rich and famous, but their families can assemble dutifully and peacefully from around the globe on a moment’s notice. I hate them.

Still, it’s a tremendous accomplishment for any family to be assembled in one room
and
peaceful! But, unlike the Thanksgiving table, in which all manner of grievances tend to spill out over the creamed onions, deathbed etiquette demands that Aunt Pearl refrain from calling Uncle Gene “that lying apostate of hell who cheated on me back in ‘57.”

I’m too young to be talking about death and dying, I guess, but it’s a Southern thing to obsess over these matters. Funeralizing is second only to hospital visitation in occasions that call for you to dress in your best Jaclyn Smith for Kmart Collection.

I did an inordinate amount of hospital-visiting when my friend Lula was admitted.

The best part of our visits was listening to this wiry little redneck woman who was her roommate on the other side of the curtain.

Here’s something you need to know: Little old Southern redneck women are always pissed off. They can’t help “they-selves.” Maybe it’s from a lifetime of living with a man who thinks a talking bass plaque is a suitable fortieth anniversary gift.

Lula’s roommate was one of the most hardcore little old rednecks I’ve ever encountered, so naturally I just pulled up a chair and listened while Lula just scowled.

Azelene had started firing questions as soon as Lula got settled into her bed.

“What’re
you
in for?” she snapped.

“Oh,” said Lula, “we thought it was my heart, but it turned out to be my gall bladder, so I’m going to be just fine.”

“Hmmmph!” Azelene snorted. “Don’t you let ‘em tell you you didn’t have no heart attack, honey. When I had my first heart attack, they tried to tell me it was just indigestion. They don’t know
nothing!
Damn thing like t’ have bio wed the whole back of my heart off!”

Lula gasped.

“That was almost as bad as the time I had to call 911 on account of my backbone was a-poking outside of my skin. They said it wasn’t, but they don’t know pea turkey squat. You don’t believe me? Just feel this scar on my back ratch ‘ere. Go on! Feel of it, honey. You know, I’ve lost all the feeling in all my arms and laigs ever since I got the sugar.”

Redneck vocabulary tip: A good Southern redneck doesn’t know from diabetes. It’s always
the sugar.
They also call Alzheimer’s
old-timer’s
and don’t know that’s funny. (In a related vocabulary note, redneck old people always call SUVs
SOBs,
and they really don’t know what they’re saying. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard old Aunt Bettisue say, quite innocently, “That there SOB’s gonna run right over us, he’s so big.”)

Redneck Southern women of all ages love to dress up any ailment, no matter how minor. My redneck friend Verna-Lynn is particularly blessed with a colorful vocabulary when it comes to her “ladies’ time.”

“I swear I’m flushing clots the size of a London broil,” she announced one day over lunch.

Check, please.

Elderly redneck women will go to dramatic lengths to get attention. My friend’s mama used to look both ways down the street before carefully lying down in the shrubbery near her front door with just her legs showing from the kneecaps down.

The first time I saw this, it was naturally quite upsetting, and I raced to help. My friend stopped me. “Oh, hell, hon, that’s just Mama’s way of getting attention. She’s forever hiding in the shrubbery and pretending to have blacked out. Come on in and borrow that casserole dish you needed; she’ll crawl out directly.”

I tell you this so you’ll have a bit of context when you consider Azelene’s conversations.