The Nightmare Before the Wedding
Dear diary, the fact that the entire fam-jam thought I was beat up and left to die in a back alley has really proven to put a damper on the afternoon. The good news is I found a killer pair of denim overalls to wear to the BBQ tonight. The bad news is that I am currently locked in the back seat of the rental car. I think mom is convinced I need one of those child leash things again in the event I begin to veer off towards another sale.
Thank Meryl Streep for A/C because it is Tim Riggins hot outside and I am totally unequipped for the heat. Every time I step out of the car I feel like a parasol and glass of unsweetened iced tea should magically appear. I am currently riding a dangerous line between Southern Belle and Southern bitch. Pops wants to hit up a couple of tourist spots before hitting the interstate back from blues to country. I am dying to see the home Justin Timberlake grew up in! Dying!!!! AHhhh huuurgggg..
Ugh!! F*@#*!!! ???? We are on the I40 en route back to Nashville and despite all my better attempts to sabotage the GPS, I am now leaving Memphis (against my will!) without a selfie of myself on JT’s front lawn. “In the name of Instagram, it is not fair!” I cried to my father. “For crying out loud, I went on a full BUS TOUR of Elvis’ place and you can’t find the time to pull up in front of a single house?” SIDE NOTE: I am too shallow to recap right now but we also visited the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King was shot and Sun Studios where Johnny Cash laid down his first tracks. Memphis is action-packed with history.
Half-way to Nashville and just pulled over to Dairy Queen. I am feeling much better now.
Back in the hotel room at the Best Western Belle Meade. Totally wiped. I haven’t even made it to the wedding yet and I am starting to crash. Must creat to-do list to get shit together.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Just pulled up in Franklin, Tennessee for “country casual” BBQ and not at all what I expected. Turns out Franklin is one of THE RICHEST counties in the US and the “country casual” BBQ is neither “country-casual” nor a BBQ. I am in the parking lot outside of what looks to be a high-end restaurant. No BBQ in sight. I asked the folks to buy me five minutes but I am unsure I am going to be able to get out of the car dressed like this. SIDE NOTE: I feel like Donald Sutherland is the mayor of this town, in fact I bet you twenty dollars he is. I must go. I am confident put together gay man dressed as straight farmer collecting welfare cheque.
Back at the hotel having nearly escaped total catastrophe. Friday Night Lights meets Gossip Girl. As I suspected, the meek little hostess tried to bounce me as soon as I walked in the front door. “Excuse me sir but we are closed for a private event.” I tried to explain to her that I was the Master of Ceremonies for the event; but it is not like they give you a business card for such a role. Luckily my sister came to my rescue before I attacked another member of wait staff on this trip.
“IS THERE EVEN A BARBECUE HERE??” I began screaming at the hostess as my sister dragged me to the bar.
“Yes sir, it is upstairs, you must try the bourbon pulled pork sliders! They are to die for!”
“I MISREAD THE INVITATION OK?? WE ALL MAKE MISTAKES!"
The reaction to my overalls and plaid shirt was definitely mixed. To those family and friends who knew me, it was a major hit. To those “new” family and friends who did not know me, I had about the same impact as a drunk in an AA meeting.
The good new is that catching up with 300,000 members of my extended family at these events has become a total breeze. Now that my sexual orientation is no longer front page news, I am exempt from the barrage of questions my cousins are all pummelled with:
When are you get married? Why aren’t you married yet? Are you pregnant? Why aren’t you pregnant yet?
The truth is so long as I am not dying from a disease or addicted to non-prescription drugs, as far as the family is concerned, I am doing just fine. My Aunty Hill is knocking on the door. She is crazy. Love her to death. Gotta go.