Cinderella Has Cellulite (6 page)

She probably gripped him with her great oral hygiene . . . what a slut!
one thinks to herself as she holds the wedding invitation in hand. Still another affirms her wedding day strategy to her closest confidante, “I’ll go to the wedding, look simply fab, be mean to Her, and He will wish it were me He is whisking off my Manolo Blahniks!”

And you can just hear his family’s reactions now.

“Our little angel is marrying
Her,”
bemoans his vigilant mother, protecting her cub. “No surprise to me,” says Great Gramma Lil. “I just hope She’s not in the family way!”

Mama Bear, in shock that her poor son is taking on the Kate Gosselin brood, whispers back, “I don’t know how he’ll ever make this bunch a living. I tell you one thing, she better not expect me to babysit one minute. It’s not
me
getting into this mess—it’s my husband’s son.”

Your mother is likely to be in one of two states at this point. If you are marrying money, her newly flossed porcelains are ready. “I just love my new son-in-law,” she will beam to everyone within earshot. Is it the smell of her brand new perfume purchased for the Big Day, or her syrupy bragging to her friends (whose children married assorted losers) that is creating a wave of nausea rampant in the room?

On the other hand, your mother’s bouts with depression could reappear. If your Soon-to-be-Betrothed invited your father to accompany him to Men’s Warehouse to pick up his one-day tuxedo rental (and his mother offered to bake homemade meat loaf to serve at the rehearsal dinner), your mother will be forced to consider renewing her Valium prescription.

To his crowd, a place setting means deciding which place at the table they can grab the fastest to wolf down another Frito pie!
Here comes another freeloader
, your mother thinks, wishing she could get a refund on your private school tuition.
When she ends up throwing neighborhood parties in her doublewide, all the scrimping I did to pay for her sorority gown will prove needless
, she laments.

At the wedding rehearsal, the mothers-in-law try never to come close enough to rub any body parts together, including hugs or handshakes. Even though flu season has long passed, these two act like quarantined athletes ready for a fight. The slightest spark of competition can send the two mama bears into a sparring match while their two cubs receive last-minute instruction from the clergy.

His children are freshly spit-shined from the saliva his Ex-wife has spewed. Their processional resembles Mary Queen of Scots going to the executioner. Dressed to the nines but with somber expressions, they know this could be the end. She has assured them, “Daddy is hooking up with the ugly stepmother. My darlings, you’re toast! You will be lucky to get a Walmart special next Christmas—it will be the one thing left that her kids didn’t want.”

You’ve threatened your children, “Do not make a scene.” They are at their Sunday best. Little smiling cherubs or teenage starlets, they will put on an Oscar-worthy performance. “Mommy, we are so glad to be at the ball. You look so pretty,” they chime together. (At this, the thought briefly occurs to you that maybe you shouldn’t have divorced their father since your genes so evidently worked to perfection!)

At the reception, both families jockey for the best position in the buffet line. The shoving and hissing among the bloodlines might be clandestine, but be certain it’s there.

Another wedding . . . at least the food looks good,
the family misfits think as they gnaw on another beef rib. “Oh well,” mutters cousin Bernie. “Even if my top button snaps, I am eating another round. Moneybags can pay for it.”

Just then, the bitter enemy approaches—the Last Wife’s Best Friend! She has been angling all night for a direct hit, one that can land you where you belong. She and the Last Wife have practiced their moves during their “just-one-more-glass” pity parties throughout your engagement. If she could not get to you before the priest marries you off, she will get to you during the conga line!