You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl

by Rivenbark, Celia

  “You’re getting too close to the mini bar! Didn’t you hear what the desk clerk said? Do you want to spend nine bucks for a pack of peanut M&Ms? DO YOU????”

  Hmmm. Maybe renewing our vows wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Duh was so paranoid about the minibar that, watching him dart by it, I was reminded of Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible when he did back flips and even caught his own sweat droplets to keep from setting off the laser alarms. But seriously? Army-crawling on the carpet just to avoid setting off insanely overpriced Fiji Water? This was not the romantic scene I envisioned when I made the reservations.

  Our first trip to Vegas was an eye-opener, and not just because of those wicked cool electric drapes. For starters, it’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s desolate mountains, hundreds of miles of cactus-studded desert and then-bam!it’s GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! and ALL-U-CAN-EAT CRAB LEGS!

  Cruising across town in our complimentary white stretch limo enroute to the Graceland Wedding Chapel to renew our vows before Elvis, we were momentarily delayed as a heatstroke victim was loaded into an ambulance. A walleyed tourist drinking rum punch from a life-size plastic guitar with a straw attached stopped to take pictures. Second weirdest sight: an attractive woman limping into a casino wearing a full leg cast and high heels.

  It was early May but already the temperature hovered around a hundred by the time we got to the Graceland chapel, where a sign out front announced “WHERE JON BON JOVI AND BILLY RAY CYRUS GOT MARRIED,” although, it should be noted, not to each other. I don’t think. In the early-afternoon heat, we were wilting faster than our $7 airplane salads, so we scurried inside.

  Fortunately, inside Graceland the air-conditioning was cranked up good. We had to wait for a minute while the young woman at the reception desk finished hot-gluing some silk flowers onto a rental veil. We were getting remarried at 2:30 P.M., to duplicate exactly our wedding twenty years ago. What can I tell y’all? I’m romantic as shit.

  I was getting a little nervous that Elvis was going to be late but, at 2:20 exactly, he walked in, looking very much alive, and mumbled some Elvis-style pleasantries.

  He led us into the chapel and, never once breaking character, grabbed a microphone and sang Can’t Help Falling in Love With You. Then he threw the mic down and sprinted from his pulpit to walk me down the aisle. He then tossed me off to Duh and jumped back in the pulpit. I was blown away: Elvis was wedding singer, preacherman, and father of the bride, all in one.

  Elvis read the vows, which included several wonderfully cheesy song references. Duh vowed to Love Me Tender and I promised to never send him to Heartbreak Hotel.

  After it was over, Elvis presented us with our marriage certificate and a replica of his and Priscilla’s, which I thought was a little egotistical but it didn’t cost any more so it was OK. We posed for pictures, me, Duh, and Elvis, as though the three of us had just been married. I clutched my complimentary three-rose bouquet and Duh wore a red rose boutonniere that also came with our “Viva Las Vegas” package.

  Before he could leave the building, I just had to tell Elvis that I truly loved his black, sparkly jumpsuit.

  “Had to smash up a Trans Am or two to make this one, darlin’,” he said. I knew right away that he said that about eighty times a day, but it didn’t matter. Elvis’s sidekick and photographer collected the money. Elvis is too classy to take it himself and merely ducked out a side door when I tried to tip him, which I thought was just so very Elvis.

  The limo took us back to the Bellagio where we got gussied up for Cirque du Soleil’s Love show. For those of you who don’t speak French, Cirque du Soleil is French for “Buford, you’re ’bout to see some weird shit!”

  Our twentieth anniversary evening ended exactly as it had twenty years before, with me watching SportsCenter while Duh dozed peacefully, and me waking him up to show him basketball highlights.

  “Which is why we work,” he has said on more than one occasion.

  Amen to that, and to twenty more … .

  Act II

  We also work because Duh is nothing like Richard Batista. Who he, you ask?

  Dr. Batista is the doctor you may have read about who must have skipped bioethics class the week they discussed whether or not it was cool to donate a kidney to your dying wife and then try to take it back when she dumped you.

  Although I can sympathize with the whole man-spurned angle (wifey reportedly took up with her karate instructor after getting all healthy and whole again), it’s tacky beyond words to ask the mother of your children to please return the kidney you gave her like it’s your favorite piece of Corning-ware and your so-called best friend is just bound and determined to keep “forgetting” to return it even though she’s had it since her aunt died last August and you really need it back to make a proper funeral tetrazzini. Oh, sorry. Where was I?

  Yes, Dr. Batista. Well, I do sympathize with him because it’s a wretched thought that your very own kidney, that which hath filtered countless kegs of beer through undergrad and medical school, now enables your ex to toss back Mai Tais with her new boyfriend after a few hours of breaking bricks with their foreheads or whatever.

  Here’s the thing, though, Doc. Sure, you’ve got a nasty scar to remind you of what you used to have, but trust me, getting that kidney back won’t make you feel any better. I mean not for more than a week or two, anyway. Those two weeks, you’d probably be on top of the world, but seriously, no longer than that.

  Lawyers got involved and the doc decided he didn’t want the kidney back so much as he wanted its value, which he decided was $1.5 million. Which kinda makes those home parties where you get a few twenties for your old gold necklaces look like chump change, right?

  The real problem with this is that it turns out, you can’t put a price tag on a vital organ. Which is why they call it organ donation not organ selling. When you go to renew your driver’s license and they ask you if you’re an organ donor, they don’t mean there’s a guy out back with a couple of reasonably clean knives who can give you some serious cash if you want to get rid of an organ today. (“What’s it gonna take to get you to give up that pancreas to-day, lil lady?”)

  Donating body parts is at the tippy-top of things to do to get into heaven. I don’t care what else you’ve done wrong; you give somebody a kidney, those pearly gates will swing wide. (Which is why Tiger Woods might want to think about letting go of a lung or something before too long.)

  Dr. Batista’s wife is lucky she doesn’t have my kidney ’cause I’d camp outside that karate studio going, “Karate? Are you kidding me? I don’t think our kidney can take that. And lay off those sugary sodas, would you?”

  Act III

  In the third act of our marriage play, allow me to vent just a moment about a couple that may love each other a little too much.

  Please tell me that I’m not the only person who thinks Pat and Gina Neely, the nauseatingly in love stars of Food Network’s Down Home with the Neelys, need to get a room. With a velvet swing, mirrors, and plenty of oils that aren’t Crisco.

  Pat and Gina Neely host a cooking show but they baby talk, kiss, and cuddle so much that it’s a wonder anything gets cooked.

  And, yes, I could turn it off but then I’d miss the only soft porn I get all week—plus I’m incapable of turning off a show that promises a recipe for macaroni and cheese topped with strips of bacon and crushed potato chips. In-cape-uh-bull.

  So the food is fabulously, decadently Southern, but the banter? Well, this is only a slight exaggeration:

  Pat: “Today, Gina and I are gonna make some barbecued ribs that’ll set your mouth on fire!”

  Gina: “You set my mouth on fire, baby, oooh, ooooooh.”

  Pat: “Oh, girl, when you talk like that, I can’t remember whether I put the vanilla extract in the sweet potatoes or not.”

  Gina: “Baby, I’m the only sweet you need. Come over here and gimme some sugar!”

  (Camera nervously lingers on a pan of mashed rutabagas lang
uishing by the sink while sounds of “Mmmmm, oooh, baby” come from somewhere near the Mixmaster stand.)

  Pat: “We’re back! And it’s time to stuff that duck!”

  Gina: “You the only duck I wanna stuff!”

  Pat: “Baby, I don’t even know what that means but it sounds like it might be hot!”

  Gina: “Mmmmm, Pat, come over here and watch me lick this spoon.”

  Pat: “Girl, I wish I was that spoon.”

  Gina (to camera): “My husband is so baaaaaad, isn’t he ladies? You know I like to keep my man happy and one way I do that is with my crème brulee.”

  Pat: “Was that French? Cause, baby, you know I like French. French toast. French fries. French kisses! Mmmm, put that turkey dressing pan down, girl, and get over here!”

  Gina: “Down, boy! We have to keep our minds on what’s cooking.”

  Pat: “I’d hit that.”

  Gina: “What?”

  Pat: “Oh, sorry. I was just daydreaming ’bout the time I first saw you back in middle school and you were so fine and my best friend, Rodney, asked me what I thought of you … .”

  Gina: “Pat! That’s enough sessy talk for one day. This butternut squash isn’t going to sauté itself, now is it?”

  Pat: “I’d like you to butter my nuts … .”

  (Hasty commercial break)

  Gina (visibly disheveled): “And we’re back and, whoa! Who’s that at the door? Why it’s Pat’s noseybutt mama. Again.”

  NBM: “Y’all cuttin’ the fool up in here again? (to Pat): “I told you this triflin’ heifer was gonna be the death of you … .”

  Gina: “Why you old …”

  Pat (separating the two): “Join us next time when Mama shows Gina how to clean the oven by sticking her head in it with the gas on. Mama, you sure that’s safe?”

  NBM: “Oh, yes, honey. It’s the only way.”

  Everybody always says that marriage is such hard work but I don’t believe that. All you need to get along through any disagreement is this Marriage-Saving Blueberry Pie, courtesy of my friend Jana. One bite and all will be forgiven.

  I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DID, JUST GIMME SOME MORE OF THAT PIE, PIE

  Crust:

  1 and one-half cups graham cracker crumbs

  2 tablespoons sugar

  Pinch salt

  1 stick butter

  Melt the butter in a heavy saucepan and add the other ingredients. Blend with a fork and press evenly onto the bottom and sides of a greased 9-inch pie pan. Bake 8 minutes at 325 degrees. Cool completely.

  Cream Cheese Filling:

  8 ounces cream cheese, softened

  1/3 cup sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  2 eggs

  Combine cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla and beat until smooth. Add eggs and beat well again. Pour into pie shell and bake at 325 degrees until filling is set, about 30 minutes. Remove and let cool completely.

  While that’s cooling, mix up this divine and simple

  Blueberry Glaze

  2 cups blueberries

  ½ cup water

  1/3 cup sugar

  Combine in saucepan; bring to boil; reduce heat; simmer, covered 5 minutes, stirring once. Remove from heat and add 1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch mixed with 2 tablespoons cold water.

  This will thicken things up nicely. Bring back to boil and cook 1 more minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; let cool until tepid. Spoon blueberry glaze on top of cheese pie. Chill at least 1 hour. Enjoy!

  24

  Politically Correct: A Palin/La Toya Ticket

  Ever since I first watched them join hands high in the air together at various stops on the campaign trail, I pictured the Obamas and the Bidens as the Ricardos and the Mertzes.

  They’re a congenial foursome but it’s not always a blissful relationship. One gets the distinct impression that if they went to Hollywood on vacation, the Bidens would somehow end up being the ones to accidentally land a cream pie in William Holden’s face at the Brown Derby and the Obamas would be apologizing for it while making it very clear that there would be no talent night at the Babalu for either Jill or Joe. Everybody say, “Waaaaaaahhhhhh.”

  The Bidens remind me of the Mertzes. He tends to shoot off his mouth; she tends to rush to his side and defend him. Together, the Bidens have a vexing “Did I just say that out loud?” quality about them.

  I wonder if Obama has ever second-guessed asking Joe Biden to be his veep. A jolly, tail-wagging foil for Obama’s crisp demeanor, Biden occasionally seems Lucy-like. Some of the stuff he comes up with (remember how he told us he’d never let anyone he loved board an airplane during flu season?) makes it sound as if he’s been hitting the Vitameatavegamin pretty hard.

  When Biden commits a gaffe (which would make a pretty terrific drinking game) you’ll see Obama maintain a steely gaze and discreetly pinch his elbow. It’s the same gesture that Ricky used when Lucy was about to make a pure-T fool out of herself in front of Milton Berle. (Ask your parents.) And it’s the same gesture that every mom uses during a church service to get her squirmy kid to be quiet and sit up straight.

  Biden doesn’t have any trouble sitting up straight, but being quiet is another matter. Not as hard as packaging candy on an assembly line with a broken conveyor belt, mind you, but still pretty hard.

  Biden is a yappy and irrepressible sort. It wouldn’t surprise me to see video of him and first dog Bo happily romping and yelping amongst Michelle’s freshly planted lemongrass. Michelle, who seems elegant but somewhat boring, would rap on the kitchen window and shake her head “no” to get them to stop. Yes, there would be lots of splainin’ to do later.

  And while we’re talking about first ladies, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had one who we could really relate to? A gal pal for us all? I get so sick of the monotonous do-gooders that we’ve had in the past. Just once, I’d like to see a sweats-wearin’ redneck first lady. Feet on the Lincoln coffee table while she’s interviewed by Family Circle Gardens Bazaar or whomever.

  “My outfit? Oh, yeah. It’s by Hanes. Want some more boiled peanuts with your saltines?”

  “My beauty regimen? Two words: Oil of Olay.”

  “My legacy? Well, let’s see, Lady Bird had beautification, Betty Ford had rehab, Laura Bush had literacy, Rosalynn Carter had houses for poor people … hmmm, is free lottery tickets for kids under twelve taken?”

  We tend to focus on the Obama presidency because it seemed as if the Bush years would never, ever end. And now they have and so we celebrate, sort of, with a lot more kitsch than Bush ever had. I’m remembering the Obama Inauguration Genuine Embossed Champagne Bottle that came complete with your name in script as a “witness to history.” Never mind that the only witnessing you did was to look up at the overhead TV at Applebee’s during 50-cent wings hour on Inauguration Day.

  You could pour that “elixir of hope” into a limited-edition commemorative wine glass etched with the faces of Obama and Biden before enjoying a rousing game of table tennis using your officially sanctioned Obama inaugural Ping-Pong paddle.

  All the commercialism did chafe a bit, but probably not as much as the Obama Age of Hope thong. There were even, for a short time, Obama condoms which came with the advice to “Use good judgment” on the side of the box. And don’t forget the Yes, We Can! (opener).

  The election was big news for anyone with a marketing idea and a decent connection to a Chinese factory. I was pondering Hope on a Rope myself, featuring forty-four’s smiling face carved deep into a bar of soap. Who wouldn’t pay $14.95 plus tax to shower with a president every morning? No? Well how about $4.95?

  I still think it could work. As someone, I forget who, once said, you can’t misunderestimate the American appetite for presidential paraphernalia.

  Obama, who hasn’t been able to quit smoking yet, shouldn’t be surprised if people try to sell his butts on eBay.

  And while we’re on the subject, I wish everybody would leave him the hell alone about his occasional ciga
rette sneaking. If the leader of the free world wants to unwind with a cigarette after another day of listening to Republicans accuse him of everything short of bowling with the severed heads of their grandmothers, it’s fine by me.

  My sweet Lord, he’s not firing up a crack pipe. I get that it’s not good for him but I think Obama needs a few stress reducers. The man lives with his mother-in-law, for God’s sake.

  You think your boss is a jerk and your job at the widget factory is a stressful bummer? Try dealing on a daily basis with psychos like Kim Jong II and Congresswoman Michele Bachmann (R-Neptune). Not so easy now, is it?

  It’s not like he’s grinding out the butts with his heel on the presidential seal of the Oval Office. Let him be. The man was awarded the Nobel Prize after approximately twenty seconds in office. Yes, yes, I know it’s just because the Nobel folks hated Bush. They would’ve given it to The Situation if they could have gotten away with it.

  Thanks to Obama’s election, even the French are being nicer to Americans, although they still think we’re too fat and spend way too much time carping about how much they smoke. In elementary school.

  Obama never gets to truly relax. Not even at his own parties. Remember those goof balls who lied their way into the fancy state dinner for the prime minister of India?

  What was the Secret Service doing? Talking into its shoe? Was it trapped in the Cone of Silence? What?

  It’s not Obama’s fault that he was even photographed shaking hands with Tareq and Michaele Salahi. Everyone who’s watched The Princess Diaries knows that the way this highfalutin political party stuff goes is that someone stands beside the fancy folks and whispers the names of the approaching guests. Unfortunately, the Salahis should’ve been introduced as “two assholes who have crashed your party by pretending to be on the list because they want to be on Real Housewives of DC, Mr. President. And, no, I’m not making this up.”