Jessica’s Wedding

I had a long week­end, trav­el­ling to and from Indiana for my cousin Jessica’s wed­ding. The wed­ding went off with­out a hitch, and Jessica was the least stressed and hap­pi­est bride I’ve ever seen at a wed­ding. I had to be down for the re­hearsal, since I was read­ing pe­ti­tions, and I left work ear­ly on Friday to make it there on time. No soon­er do I get south of 271, then a dump­ster over­turns ten cars in front of me and I have to sit on my ass for an hour. The dri­ver wasn’t hurt. I still made it on time and went to the re­hearsal din­ner as well, where I had Chicken Parmigiana, Grilled salmon sundry veg­eta­bles and a po­tent rasp­ber­ry sor­bet for dessert.

The day of the wed­ding was long and busy, with me as­sist­ing the moth­er-of-the-bride with var­i­ous last minute er­rands, but it end­ed with all the vod­ka I could drink and a Cohiba, so I’m not com­plain­ing. The re­cep­tion was a blast, and the prime rib we had there was de­li­cious.

I got up ear­ly the day af­ter the wed­ding, hang­over-less thanks to my body’s tal­ent at pro­cess­ing Russian agua, and helped my aunt pre­pare for the post-wed­ding brunch. Right af­ter every­thing was fi­nal­ly ready, I ate a bunch of brunch food [in­clud­ing sug­ar cream cake, for which my aunt re­fus­es to give me the recipe] and then hit the road.

I made it back to Cleveland at about 4:30 and sent out my foot­ball tick­et ap­pli­ca­tions and got ready to do my laun­dry. I was greet­ed by my con­fed­er­ate flag-wav­ing neigh­bor, drunk off his ass and stum­bling down my street and smok­ing up with his sim­i­lar­ly drunk off his ass friend. They called me a fag­got, al­though they al­so live on Fruit Avenue. I should ex­pect such para­dox­es from my red­necked brethren by this point, es­pe­cial­ly af­ter liv­ing in Connersville for 18 years.