“Don’t give me that look!” demanded my mother, bundled in a sea of blankets in our ai-conditioned living room.
“Well, it’s ridiculous that you won’t iron my shirt so you can watch HGTV,” I replied. “I have a wedding to go to and I’m running late!”
“Oh, please! You’re going to a stripper’s wedding,” she shouted, making certain to correct me. “I can’t keep up with your ridiculous adventures. It’s not my problem!”
I didn’t even want to go when I was first invited by a friend of mine.
“Will there be an open bar?” I asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “It’s an outdoor wedding, too! It’s going to be beautiful, and so much fun!”
I was picturing tables dressed in white linens throughout a field of bright green grass, free beef or chicken, and an open bar where drinks were served by a dude with a mustache wearing a tuxedo. However, when I got a text message the morning of the wedding warning me to not be surprised if the bride’s mother was wearing Converse sneakers because she’s a hippie, I quickly learned that this wedding wasn’t going to be what I expected. That’s when I was told the bride is a stripper, and the venue was a state park.
Instead of tables dressed in white linens, there were picnic tables dressed in bird poop and plastic silverware. Instead of free beef or chicken, there was pasta, cucumbers, grapes, and hummus, because they were vegetarians. Instead of some fancy dude with a mustache serving me drinks, it was self-service beer in a keg underneath a camouflage tarp - with iced tea-flavored vodka available in a cooler behind a barn. At this point, I was just waiting for the strip club DJ to reveal “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” on the microphone.
When I caught the garter from the bride I was ready to party, so I encouraged my date to get high off whip-it’s with me. Once we sucked all the air out of the cans we had a food fight, spraying whipped cream all over our dress clothes.
To clean off, we decided to skinny dip in the creek at the park.
I then found myself naked in a creek at a stripper’s wedding, having to poop. So, I did. In the water. That’s probably what Pocahontas did, right?
After all, I was Pocahontas-wasted!
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind? I can’t, but, ironically, the guy who cleansed me from negative energy at the campfire shortly after can. He was an artist - a painter to be exact - who was a spiritual healer who specialized in Reiki and went to school with the groom, and offered to cleanse me.
After being cleansed of my negative energy, I realized it was stupid to argue with my mother over not ironing my shirt. Sometimes it takes a stripper’s wedding to help put your life in perspective. Sorry, Mom and Dad.