Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (19 page)

“Where to?” the chauffeur asks as he slides into the front seat.

“To Mandalay Bay, please,” I reply.

“Should be a pretty wild weekend at Mandalay,” he says, as we merge onto Paradise Road.

“Really,” I say magnanimously. Normally it annoys me to have a chatty driver, especially when I’m with other people, but I’m trying to demonstrate to my family what it means to be a good sport. “Why is that?” I ask, feigning interest.

“That hotel always gets freaky this weekend.”

“Because of the holiday, I assume.”

“Partially, but mostly it’s because of the strippers and porn stars.”

A confused silence emanates from the backseat.

“You folks ARE aware the Adult Entertainment Expo is being held at your hotel, right?”

My father spends the next three days hiding from my mother. And, coincidentally, as she’s barely left my side, Fletch also disappears. We catch glimpses of them occasionally in the hotel’s restaurants and bars, whooping it up with their friends who got here early. I’m glad the men are having a good time. My mother’s anxiety has reached dizzying new heights and we’ve squabbled nonstop about everything. (
“Walking to Treasure Island will take an hour even if we do get on the people movers.”
“No, it won’t.”
“YES, IT WILL.”
“Why aren’t you using sunscreen?”
“I want to get really dark.”
“You’ll get cancer.”
“I’m sure heart disease will kill me first.”
“Should you really be wasting all your money in the slot machines?”
“It was $5 worth of nickels!”
) Fortunately, my brother arrived last night, and even though he’s usually an ass, he helps defuse the situation. He and Mom are off somewhere right now. I don’t know or care what they’re doing because I am finally, blissfully alone.

Because we’re on a budget and I haven’t gotten any presents yet, I can’t take advantage of my precious downtime by doing my usual Vegas activities. Denied the opportunity to shop and gamble, I’m working on my tan. I love it here because Mandalay Bay’s outside area is second to none. Scattered throughout the lush landscaping are scads of regular pools and hot tubs, although I prefer to lie on the gigantic natural sand beach by the wave pool.

However, I’m not having a good time today. Apparently I’m the only one poolside without an
Anal Pirates II
screen credit, and I am more than a little uncomfortable. I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help it. Seriously, I’ve never seen so much plastic in my life! The sleeping gal to my right appears to be carrying flesh-colored watermelons under her eye patches, and on my left, the woman is wearing two thimbles attached by dental floss. Earlier, a gentleman smuggling a flotation device in his pants had a chat
right next to me at eye level
with Thimbleina regarding their most recent film. I feared one wrong move could put my eye out, so I didn’t hear everything they talked about, although I believe it included something called a “rim job.”
⁹⁹

Strained from too much stimulus, I close my eyes and keep them closed until a large shadow passes over me. When I look up, instead of a seeing a puffy cumulus cloud, I spy a hairy, fat, yet somehow comfortingly familiar belly.

“Hey, Peeg!” my brother calls cheerfully.

“Todd! What are you doing here?” His plane got in so late last night, I’d already gone to bed and hadn’t yet seen him.

“Gimme $20.”

“For what?” My brother has plenty of money and wants for nothing. However, he takes great pleasure in attempting to squeeze cash out of me and has perfected his craft over the years.

“I kept Mom out of your hair all morning, and I just sent her off to lunch with Auntie Virginia so you won’t see her until the rehearsal dinner tonight.” I told you he was good.

“Done,” I reply, grabbing my beach bag. I give him my last $20 bill. “Thanks. I consider this money well spent.”

Thimbleina offers Todd her chair because she’s off to her own lunch with the Astroglide people. I thank her, because, really, what else do you say? Todd eases into his chair with a
Sports Illustrated
, a
Sporting News
, a
Baseball Digest
, a
Golf Magazine
, today’s sports page, and a towel.

“I’m honestly surprised you made it out here. Don’t you need to be writing about how some athlete threw some sort of projectile through some sort of apparatus?” My brother is the sports editor at his paper, and he works constantly. What his employers don’t understand is he’d pay
them
to be able to write about sports all day.

“Nope, got an intern to cover my page for a few days, so I’m good. Hey, how do I get one of those foot-long strawberry margaritas?”

“You flip the flag up in the back like this.” I demonstrate on my own chair.

The waitress retrieves our drink order, and Todd is soon taking contented sips, alternating his glances between the Red Sox article and the porn queens frolicking with one another in the surf.

“I hope they’re using extra chlorine this weekend,” Todd snickers.

“No kidding. This convention is making me nuts. Last night Mom and I were waiting in line for a cab next to a woman in an outfit fabricated from a Mylar balloon. Her dress was short enough to be worn as a tank top. A couple of men behind us made a big fuss over how nice she smelled, and it made me mad. Excuse me, but
I’m
the one who showered, moisturized, and perfumed myself with J’Adore Dior minutes before.
She
smelled like crab dip.”

“When I called Jean last night, she wasn’t pleased to hear about the strippers, either.” Hmm, Jean’s at home managing three children under the age of six, and her husband’s at a hotel full of adult entertainers. I can’t imagine why she’d be upset.

“Did Mom tell you about the guy with the greasy tan and a ton of gold necklaces who asked me if
I
was here for the convention? I said to him, ‘Pal, I’m wearing a pink Lacoste, green Capri pants, and a triple strand of pearls. Exactly what part of my countenance says, ‘I have sex with strangers on film’ to you?”

“After a bunch of strippers got off the elevator this morning, Mom made the comment, ‘I can’t stop looking at boobs.’ I don’t think she realized other the people in the elevator were listening,” Todd tells me with a laugh. My mother and I both lack the internal firewall that keeps us from saying almost everything we think.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were enjoying yourself. How many times have I heard you say you hated Vegas and would never, ever come out here?”

He shrugs. “I say a lot of things I don’t mean in order to make you mad.”
¹⁰⁰

“Once I’m married, will you’ll finally start treating me like an adult? And quit writing mean articles about me? Maybe not try to extort money every time we see each other?”

“Can’t see it happening, but because of your wedding, I’ll make you a deal. If you give me $5, I’ll be nice to you for the rest of the week.”

“You’re truly a prince among men.”

“Yeah.”

I hand him five singles. “Hey, Todd, how did you find me out here? The beach itself is something like eleven acres, not including the rest of the pool area.”

“I looked out the window up in Mom and Dad’s room, and I tried to spot the fattest person. I saw a big blob, figured it was you, and here I am.”

I hold out my palm and demand he return my $5.

He complies. “It was worth it.”

“Mom, come
on.
Our appointments start in a few minutes.” It’s my wedding day, and I’m standing in the hallway outside my parents’ room, banging on the door and trying to get my mother out of bed. I can’t believe I have to rally her. As anxious and excited as she’s been about today, I figured she’d have been up since dawn. “If we don’t get down to the spa now, we won’t have time for coffee and muffins.”

My mother opens the door and I’m taken aback at how green she is. “Oh, my God! What happened to you?” I exclaim.

“Shh, sick. Very, very sick,” she whispers, leaning on my shoulder for support. “I don’t know why. I only had one glass of wine.”

“Mom? It’s not considered
one glass
if the waiter keeps refilling it.”

She gasps. “Jennifer, that’s a lie! I don’t drink! Besides, I only had one glass. I’m sure this is a bad reaction to the tannins because it was red wine.”

“You were sitting next to me at the table, and I saw the waiter top off your goblet at least fifteen times. Do the math: We had twenty guests at the rehearsal dinner, yet we went through fifty bottles of wine. That’s an average of about ten glasses apiece.”

“I do not have a hangover! I’m sick! I ate too many rich foods last night, and they interacted with the tannins.”

“Really? If you’re not hungover, you wouldn’t mind if I talked about a fatty pork chop covered with fried onions, served in a dirty ash tray?”

“No!” she yells, dashing to the trash can by the elevator.

“Ready to change that
one glass
answer?”

“Well, maybe I had two glasses, but no more than that,” she claims. While our elevator descends to the spa level, my mother places both hands on the walls to steady herself.

“Oh, look, it’s Julia, Queen of Denial! Mom, do you recall why Fletch and I left the rehearsal dinner so early last night?”

“Actually, no.”

“Remember when you and cousin Karla started singing ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home,’ and I begged you to stop? And you looked at me with your hair all disheveled and your blazer hanging off your shoulder and replied, ‘Itsch my daaay, annnd I’ll do whats I wantsss,’ so I turned to Fletch and said, ‘We’re leaving.’”

“I would never say such a thing. And it was only one glass. Possibly two.”

“Tell yourself that enough and it will eventually begin to feel true.”

I check us into the spa. “Hi, I’m here for a sugar glow and this radiant mother of the bride is here for a massage.” I gesture toward my mother, who is practically grass green at this point. I collect our robes and keys, and we head to the locker room to change.

In the waiting area, I indulge in muffins, fruit, and a mimosa while my mother clings to her bottle of water. I shake my glass at her. “Care for a little hair of the dog?” She winces and places her head in her hands. When my esthetician comes to get me, I follow her to the treatment room, calling over my shoulder, “Don’t yack on the massage table!”

When my sugar glow ends, I rinse off and look for my mother. We planned to spend some time in the eucalyptus steam room and then the sauna before we have our manicures.

“Jennifer?” asks the woman behind the counter.

“Yes?”

“Your mother said she’d meet you at the salon later. I think she went back upstairs to lie down.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Is she going to be OK? She looked pretty bad.”

“She’ll be fine,” I reply. “After all, she only had one glass of wine.”

I’ve pictured my wedding day a hundred thousand times. In none of these scenarios was my teetotaling mother too hungover to help me get ready. Because I didn’t want to impinge on any of my friends, I’m completely alone right now. Fletch is getting buffed and polished in the men’s spa, so it’s just me in my room, finishing a club sandwich and a Coke while watching a
Real World San Francisco
rerun.
¹⁰¹

I have to be at the chapel in a half an hour, so it’s time to put on my dress. After washing the mayo off my hands and fixing my lipstick, I slip on my gown and attempt to zip it. Because of the zipper’s placement, I can only get it up halfway. I struggle to the point of breaking a sweat and then I give up. My bridal magazines lied to me: This does
not
feel like the best day of my life.

Fortunately, it
looks
like the best day of my life. The stylist pinned my hair in a messy up ’do, festooned with baby orchids and it’s all tousled and Brigette Bardot–like. My makeup is unbelievable, too—the artist used some kind of iridescent powder on my cheekbones, and they look amazing. I ate my lunch in front of the mirror because I couldn’t stop gazing adoringly at myself. I am one hot bride.

I call my parents’ room, seeking help. In an amused voice, Dad informs me they’ll be over as soon as my mother finishes dry heaving. Then he starts grousing about his cummerbund. He’s mad at my mother because she insisted he wear a white dinner jacket instead of a blazer and the Hawaiian shirt I’d bought him for the ceremony. Apparently I’m not the only one with a Mom-induced wardrobe dilemma.

Half-dressed, but radiant, I sit on the bed and wait. Surely I won’t have to go down the aisle with my steel-plated bra showing, right?

Here I am, about to make a covenant before God and the most important people in my life, and all I can think is the minister looks exactly like the Father Guido Sarducci character from
Saturday Night Live.

“Fletch, Guido Sarducci! He looks like Father Guido Sarducci,” I whisper without moving my lips.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he whispers back.

“I wonder if it’s really him. When was the last time you saw him on TV? Hey, did you notice the gangbanger getting married right before us? His child bride looked about fourteen years old, and they already had a baby! And did you see the tattoo on his neck? He must have—”

The minister begins the ceremony. Oh. We should probably not be talking. I already kind of got in trouble for stopping to chat with a couple of people on my way down the aisle.

We opted for the religious ceremony today. I mean, just because I’m getting married in a casino doesn’t mean I’m a pagan. Even with God included, the whole thing should take less than fifteen minutes, which should be a new record for weddings I’ve attended. In high school, Carol and I went to this girl Janine’s wedding and it was sixteen minutes long. Of course, she was seventeen years old and heavily pregnant, but still…I win.

Ever been to a Catholic ceremony with a full mass? Oy. You could grow old and die before that service ends. With a fifteen-minute ceremony, there’s no time for all the extraneous foolishness that bores everyone at weddings, like that awful “Love Is” reading or the hideous “Today I Marry My Friend” poem. Ugh. I’d rather repeat Homer Simpson’s vows from the “Milhouse Divided” episode: “Do you, Marge, take Homer, in richness and poorness—poorness is underlined—in impotence and in potence, in quiet solitude or blasting across the alkali flats in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated—”