May 29, 2010
Until I got a text message reminding me, I completely forgot that I told my cousin's new husband, "I think it's great that you were willing to marry JJ, given her non-functioning male genitalia and all."
So I think that makes up for the fact that I didn't take a picture of my junk with the disposable cameras at the reception. But if this bothers you, it might be best to stop reading the recap now. You can safely check out my pictures here.
We had a good weekend up in beautiful West Monroe, Louisiana. We arrived late Friday afternoon, and I complained about the 3 1/2 hour drive, realizing mid-complaint that everyone else in the conversation had driven for 8 or 10 or more hours, and with more kids. I was really complaining about having to slow down to 45 and pass through one shitty little North Louisiana town after another, but I couldn't choke that part out. So I just mentioned that my 3 1/2 hours felt more like 4, and that we hadn't even stopped at Fatty's Cracklins in Mississippi, despite the allure of the cartoon pig on their sign.
(Just typing Fatty's Cracklins makes me need to go poop. Hang on, and I'll come finish this post in a few minutes....)
|Just another afternoon at the compound.|
Once upon a time, my grandparents bought this lot in West Monroe. Back then, it was out in the country. My mother finished her childhood there with her four sisters, and there's some dispute about who was responsible for taking the one-legged grandmother who also lived there to the bathroom.
Once my mother's generation was grown, one of her sisters moved to that house, and all of her children grew up in that house. Then, when she moved away, her son bought the place. On that lot, he built two new houses, one of which he moved into, and one of which one of the other sisters bought. What calls the Martins to this particular plot of land escapes me, but so it is. All of this is to give you some context for what I'll refer to as "the compound."
When we arrived, we walked around to the back of the compound, starting a full weekend of sitting around, nursing a drink, and making fun of each other. My first really good laugh was when my nephew turned to see an uncle pointing a rifle over the pool full of kids (he was using the sight to try to identify a particular bird of prey), which pretty much scared the bejesus out of him.
That night, many of us from my generation sat in the kitchen, eating a snack made out of saltine crackers. They were tossed in some sort of oil and seasoning mix and then dried, so that they tasted similar to large Cheese-Its. This is particularly funny, because the Martin women share a pickle recipe with something oddly in common.
The pickles are very good, and one time, Mrs. theskinnyonbenny asked me to find out how they were made.
"Do you know what the main ingredient is?" I asked.
"In fact, you're wrong. They start with DIFFERENT PICKLES!"
Yes, my mother and aunts make pickles out of different pickles. And now, I guess, crackers out of different crackers.
I think that there's a cookbook idea there, and I assigned my cousins the homework of coming up with recipes for snacks made out of other snacks. I'm going to try to make pudding out of Chips Ahoy.
|This is what happens when you bring babies to weddings.|
Saturday morning was more of the same. After a long nap, we dressed, and went to the park for the wedding. It was very nice, and then I sweated through my shirt dancing and drank the bar out of gin, which is usually a sign of a good reception.
For some reason, I gave special treatment to the male members of the bride's family. I gave her brother Josh a good, hard slap on the ass while yelling "Wooooo," and it gave me pleasure to hear him lean over to another cousin of ours and say, "That hurt like hell."
Later, I gave my Uncle Larry sort of a clumsy but dirty shimmy where I started low and worked my way up to where I was looking into his uncomfortable face. Come to think of it, my sister owes me a buck for that one.
And then of course, packed into a cab with God knows who on our way to a local watering hole, I thanked her new husband in the manner I described above.
So maybe I won't even be invited to the next party. But I had a good time at this one.