Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

Spinning a Yarn, Tweeting a Tale

with 14 comments

You first.

You first.

Let me say, from the very beginning, that my exhaustion last week came not from jet lag, PMS, or sleep deprivation, but from staying super fucking positive all weekend long. I have this tendency to freak out in situations I can’t control (like flying, or anything involving money, people, places, or things), which in turn freaks out the Esq – and then we get on this freak out/mend/freak out/mend cycle that’s reactionary and pointless, even though we’re both just trying to calm me down. Knowing I’m the cause of this, I made a conscious decision to stay positive for the whole entire weekend – but couldn’t decide whether Thursday, Friday and Monday were included in that equation. I can only be positive for so long.

Tweets before the plane took off:

I’m getting on a plane tonight, so let’s not mince words: who’s got the Valium?

We’re coming back on AirTran. When Mom heard this, she said “Oh! The Greyhound bus of the sky!” This does not inspire confidence.

When I board this plane, I’ll vividly recall how my man-made PC crashed for no good reason today.

I’ve decided we’re so far in the back of the plane, its even more exclusive than the front.

The pilot is warning us of our impending doom.

YES, THIS IS ME BEING POSITIVE. In reality, I did pretty good. Every time I envisioned our plane going down in a fiery blaze of twisted steel – like on the TV show, Lost – I just imagined all of the obligatory orgasms I’d be having thanks to Sawyer, Lost’s greasy island hottie. Somehow that cheered me right up.

Sitting by the window on an airplane is like telling God you want a front row seat to your eventual demise, so I sat on the aisle. When we landed in Charlotte, North Carolina, I couldn’t understand why people were staring at us – folks on the plane had been doing that, too – until I walked into Ye Olde Restrooms of Yore to find a nice black lady ready to wipe my ass. Oh, right:  I’m brown and he’s white and we’re in the South; or rather, I’m a terrorist and he’s a hostage and RUN FATWA RUN. The bathroom attendant handed me a towel, cleaned up the sink I used, handed me a mint, and called me “ma’am” a number of times; I fumbled around for a dollar to give her while feeling very much like The Man.

We arrived in Dayton, Ohio and that’s pretty much all I have to say about Dayton, Ohio.

Cincinnati was interesting, and we all know what I think about that word. It reminded me of Portland, at least the parts that haven’t been revitalized yet. There was a lot of beautiful run-down architecture that should definitely be restored, but I gather the city is having some problems. Even though it felt kind of sketchy, I could certainly see the potential. The bride also told me that Cincinnati is split 50/50 between white and black people. Being from Washington state, that number is incredible.

Tweets from Cincy:

Driving around downtown Cincinnati. Reminds me of Portland before it was too hip to be square.

3 people recommended First Watch café for breakfast, so here we are.

The boif just noted that I’m the only brown person in this huge restaurant besides the help. True.

We went to the rehearsal dinner that night at a quaint little place in Clifton, Ohio, and WOW that open bar was trouble. I’ve never seen so many pomegranate mojitos in my life – not for me, they were too sweet – nor have I seen so many stressed-out Midwestern waiters at once. Oh, you can call them ‘waiters’ there – I called my flight attendant a ‘stewardess’ because… well, it’s the Midwest, and ‘air hostess’ seemed too dignified.

Tweets from rehearsal dinner:

Signs you are in Ohio: 1) You’ve talked about college sports at least 8x today. 2) You’re drunk.

Survived the rehearsal dinner. Phone was dead. Met some awesome ppl from L.A., which seems… unlikely.

What I know about Ohio can fit into 1/4 of my left pinkie finger:  they’re sports fanatics and it’s ‘the birthplace of aviation.’ I only know that last one because it’s the motto on all of the license plates. After being asked a million times which teams I root for, I started making shit up. ‘Me? Oh, I follow the Kuhgotter im Raum. It’s a futbol team in Germany.’ Someone asked me to translate ‘Kuhgotter im Raum’ and since she was a very nice lady, I said, ‘I think it means The Happy Otters, but German isn’t my forté.’ In reality, though, I think it means ‘cow gods in space,’ or some kind of gibberish. Make-Believe is fun.

So onto the wedding and why it was awful:  THERE WAS NOTHING TO MAKE FUN OF.  I kind of live for those cringe-worthy moments at weddings, where drunk uncles make passes at you and a newly-divorced cousin starts impromptu pole-dancing – so I was mildly disappointed at how respectable it was. The only thing I noticed and commented on was the abundance of super-short, non-regulation hemlines on some of the guests, and even so:  they all looked good. Major kudos to our friends, Sheila and Andy, for pulling off a gorgeous traditional Catholic wedding that even this snarky unconventional atheist appreciated.

It was not, however, without some character:

The church was massive, one of those huge monoliths of old stone and amazing stained glass. There were large, detailed portraits of saints – or rather, important-looking churchy types dressed in robes and pained expressions – that were painted above the columns, all around the church; each one was painted in a semi-awkward pose. A lot of them had their hands held up in front of them, as if to say, ‘No no, I’m stuffed and couldn’t eat another bite.’ Some had just one hand up in a very ‘talk to the hand ’cause Jesus totally said so’ pose. But the women – of which there were very few – all looked properly downtrodden and egregiously sad. Ah, the Catholics.

There was The Most Rockingest Wedding Story In The History Of Wedding Stories that involved a bridesmaid, a lost tampon, and its eventual discovery – but I can’t write more than that because of propriety and the anonymity of others, or some such ballyhoo.

They included African music during the traditional Catholic mass – an homage, I believe, to Sheila’s father who worked there, and possibly a Peace Corps stint – and a classical singer during the full mass who rocked my Catholic bobby socks off; he sang the Ave Maria to perfection. Jesus himself would have wept, although he has a history of that type of behavior.

Our entire row stayed seated when I think we were supposed to be eating Jesus’ holy cracker ass on-stage, or however that ‘body of Christ’ thing goes. They might have had wine to signify the blood of Christ, but it’s usually Welch’s grape juice, and I don’t walk in heels down a mile-long church aisle for non-fermented grape juice. Come on.

I wore a black-and-white polka dot dress to the wedding; it’s okay, but I’m thinking of taking it out of rotation. I was discussing this with my friend, Stephanie, and she was all, ‘It’s fiiiiine, you’re fiiiiine, it’s greeeeat, how cuuuute.’ I said the dress was a little “old ladyish” and made me feel like I was headed for Sunday School – her response was, ‘We’re going to a church!’ That logic made sense, so I donned said dress – and what was the first thing I saw upon entering the great stone hall? An old lady in basically the same discount dress from motherfucking Macy’s. The cut was a bit different, but it was the same pattern and, more importantly, looked like we’d planned it that way. My geriatric twin, who’s frantic waving I steadfastly ignored, took a photo of me and waved at my shoulder, since my mortified face was turned in the opposite direction. Then, like a backwards miracle that God himself had orchestrated, they sat us directly across from her, on the aisle. So that we could be a pair of imbalanced polka-dotty bookends in our Sunday School attire.

Tweets from a Catholic church:

This was the dream wedding I wanted when I was 12. But 22 people in the wedding party? CRAZY.

Going home to change or die – old lady showed up in the same dress I’m wearing. Fairly sure she looks better.

We’ve been inspired by the church to have stained glass windows in our home that feature the Evolution of Man.

The pre-reception reception – cocktail hour, open bar (THANK YOU CATHOLICS) – was classic, beautiful, elegant:  historic marble hall with enormous windows and columns, a string quartet, trays of amazing nibbles being passed around by sweaty fresh-faced servers… I was duly impressed. Mostly by the open bar (FOR 300 PEOPLE) and how many tuna tartares I managed to inhale, not to mention the bacon-wrapped dates. Had they served those dates instead of wafers in church, I would have run down that aisle with my twin tucked under my arm and used her as a shield when tackling parishioners. They were that good.

The reception, a sit-down dinner, was pleasant and awkward; we were sitting with a table filled with strangers, so I talked about the weather like a goddamn fucking CHAMPION. Yes, it certainly is humid in this city. No, it’s not like this in Seattle. Yes, the air conditioning is pleasant. No, Seattle doesn’t have 14 months of rain. Yes, I hear it rains in Cincinnati. No, I didn’t know that the weather in North Carolina was similar to Ohio. Well, I actually kind of like the weather in my city. But yeah, I hate the weather, too, pretty much everywhere. Then we moved onto babies. Babies are cute. Babies are a lot of work. Babies are a gift from God. Babies are a blessing. At no point did I ever say that babies are tasty with just the right dipping sauce. The Midwest just wasn’t ready for me.

During the reception, the father of the bride told the required jokes – plus one about Obama that I didn’t understand – and also made my eyes leak with an unknown watery substance. The waitress I had – an old biddy who I swear to God was gunning for me – made the meal fairly unpleasant with her blatant incompetence. She gave me a plate of food that had HALF the food on it than everyone else, and I was like WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY, BITCH. She spilled water on me. She poured me less champagne. When she served us cake, whole slices were given to the people around me, but apparently mine had been sliced with a carrot peeler. We finally blew that popsicle stand to sit in the aforementioned grand hall, where I insisted on sweating like four hogs in a fire pit while sitting in the corner with my sweetie. Cincinnati, you need to do something about that humidity.

Tweets from the reception:

Three forking forks?!?! I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

The humidity is killing me, and also my hair’s chance at happiness.

Girl here has a whore-short silk dress on. Made fun until I heard she has 4-wk old twins & an 18mo old. Now she’s my hero.

We headed to Palomino’s later for the afterparty; the Esq and I sat down for a nice meal, because we’d had very few chances to be alone. We had a nice romantic dinner – noting three other brown people IN the restaurant, not including the entire staff of brown folks (isn’t that what you talk about during your candlelit dinners?) – and then Irish Car Bombed the night away. Not really, but we certainly lived it up with our crazy awesome friends, new and old. Took a cab home; a good time had by all.

Sunday was a day of rest, recovery, and Skyline chili cheese hot dogs. Unfortunately, I took a Valium to battle a toothache, which waged a bloody war with those chili cheese dogs, and I’m the soldier they left behind; I’m the one who lost. And by ‘lost,’ I mean ‘I lost all my hot dogs on the lawn out back.’ That’s a lot of cheese, chili, and hot dog to re-live, all day long in the bride’s bathroom. I’m fairly certain I’ll never take Valium again; you can take my dignity, but you will never take my hot dogs.

Tweets on the way back home:

It’s 4am and we’re on the road. Kill me.

Awkward Billboard Nominee: ‘Tom Raper RVs.’ I’ll bet they’re the scariest RVs in the land.

At the airport in Baltimore. Makes me miss The Wire and random drug killings and proper English.

I guess L.A.’s talented team of basketball players/ cheaters/alleged rapists won a big game. Yawn.

Lady in bathroom: Your skeleton scarf is VERY unfriendly. Me: I generally describe myself as that way.

Since arriving on Thursday, I’ve had 14 hours of sleep. My pants are cranky.

There’s no smoking on this flight, but they didn’t say anything about snorting crystal meth or this flamethrower.

And that was the end of my positive attitude; you can see the downward spiral. But it was also the beginning of something even more awful and totally unbelievable: injury, surgery, and moving in with my parents. So I guess the end of my positive attitude represents the last time I was carefree and happy. Oh, the fucking irony.

More on that later.


14 Responses

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  1. Amazing! You and I have been on parallel journies, and you have chronicled yours a hundred times better. Mind if I copy this into my blog? j/k. But really, mine involved a (Lutheran) wedding in Baltimore and a layover in Cincinnati. Same reception, same dinner. Except I didn’t get cheated in my portions. Love your writing (as always) and wishing you a speedy recovery with the leg.


    June 26, 2009 at 9:50 AM

  2. @Jenny Thanks, lady. I’m trying to stay positive positive positive. But I just feel HIV-positive. It’s a delicate balance.


    June 26, 2009 at 9:59 AM

  3. Technically, the Catholics wouldn’t have LET you take Communion unless you are a baptized Catholic yourself (I learned this at a Catholic funeral, and a shot of wine would have done me some good). I wish I could have met you in Cincy-only4 hrs or so from Nashvegas…


    June 26, 2009 at 11:31 AM

  4. @LilRed I’m so bad with geography. I swear to God I thought Ohio was, like, six states away from Tennessee. And yeah, that’s true for the Catholics, but EVERYONE in the pews before us went. Like, every. single. person. 300 people were there! That’s a lot of fucking wafers. I felt like we stood out because we were the only pew who didn’t go, except for the obvious Jew two rows up.


    June 26, 2009 at 11:37 AM

  5. Ach-Ja! What made the Jew so obvious, eh? Well, what?


    June 26, 2009 at 1:27 PM

  6. @Ross He was glowing red, as if to alert the Catholics of the evil within their church. Also, I love me some Jews, and have dedicated my life to ferreting them out and making them friends. Oh, and there was that Jew I had baby with. He also said he was Jewish over mojitos later on. That helped.


    June 26, 2009 at 1:35 PM

  7. running for the bacon wrapped dates in a church with your twin……that made me laugh so hard. good talking with you today.
    mad love


    June 26, 2009 at 4:23 PM

  8. @mafiamama I know it’s a visual you won’t forget. 🙂


    June 26, 2009 at 4:27 PM

  9. positivity doesnt pay the bills.


    June 28, 2009 at 8:41 AM

  10. @henchbot That’s true. But we don’t really pay bills, either.


    June 28, 2009 at 11:17 AM

  11. @mkhblink Elton was unavailable. I might ask Oscar the Grouch instead.


    June 30, 2009 at 8:27 AM

  12. The masthead of your Blog suggests one of Michael Jackson’s first hits, “One Bad Apple Don’t(Doesn’t) Spoil the Whole Bunch Girl . . . ” – very cool! I hope you get better soon and return to the Emerald City soon. We are all missing you. Arthur

    Arthur Parthur

    July 2, 2009 at 2:02 AM

  13. @Arthur Parther Hey, Stinky!


    September 7, 2009 at 1:33 PM

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