As I walk along I wonder a-what went wrong/With our love, a love that was so strong…
Writing by treason on Saturday, 30 of April , 2005 at 8:07 pm
And I wonder, I wa-wa-wa-wa-wonder
Why, Ah-why-why-why-why-why she ran away
And I wonder where she will stay
My little runaway, run-run-run-run-runaway….
Okay. There was a moment - maybe fifteen seconds - when I thought I could give the runaway bride a pass. After days of watching her friends and family testifying before the cameras that “Jennifer is just so perfect” and her fiance “John is just so perfect” and that “together they’re just so perfect!” - I tell ya, I was getting more than just a little nauseous. This group of people - well-meaning they might be - were suffocating this poor girl. The normal response would be to hop on a bus and leave town as quickly as possible. But then you look at the facts. Who was holding a gun on her to have the wedding of the century? She’s not an eighteen year-old innocent; the woman is in her early thirties and should have a little more sense. It’s difficult to feel sympathetic towards a person who has invited 600 people to her wedding, has had eight bridal showers in four weeks (criminy - how many food processors does one woman need?), and has forced fourteen groomsmen and bridesmaids to participate in the ceremony.
I thought the story stunk the minute it broke. But after watching her fiance, I couldn’t help think that he just wasn’t sharp enough to kill his bride-to-be. Sure, her photographs were unsettling - her eyes were wide open and a bit manic (reminding me a lot of Sharon Stone, who is also a tad off her rocker) - but not everyone knows how to take a good picture. And maybe it’s because of my mother and her criminal mind. A news story would break and she’d have the crime solved in minutes. When Susan Smith cried that some black man had taken her car and her “bay-bays,” my mother knew instantly that she’d murdered her own boys. When Charles Stuart called the police to report that someone had just shot his pregnant wife, my mother leapt from the couch and shouted: “He did it! He killed her!” How did she know? Simple. When he reported the crime, he told the police that he’d been injured, too, and that he…ugh…was…aaarrrggghh…blacking out….. Well, you don’t know when you’re blacking out - what a load of crap.
But when I woke up from a sound sleep in the middle of the night to hear FOX News reporting that she was found alive in New Mexico, I knew something was just not right. She was kidnapped, she said, by a Hispanic male and a white female who cut her hair and pushed her into a van, just so they could drive her all the way to Albuquerque and drop her off. Considering the price of gas, what idiot is going to go through the trouble of abducting someone, then chauffeuring her across the country for absolutely no reason? I would have made her pay for the gas.
But then, there was that unmistakable stench. The minute she said it was a Hispanic who grabbed her, I immediately thought of Susan Smith and her bay-bays - and the fictitious black guy who took off with them in the back of her car. And I’m more than familiar with the part of Albuquerque where she stopped to call and report her kidnapping, so she should be grateful to have survived her excursion on south Central Avenue.
I am a woman who was born without a wedding gene. I knew little girls who had a clear idea of what their fantasy wedding would be and they’d already picked out all their kids’ names. The only names I come up with are for dogs and new colors. I’ve never fantasized about a wedding. To me, weddings are usually tasteless and unnecessary. That the average woman would wear white is appalling enough, but to throw away that much money on a few hours instead of investing in real estate is just damned stupid. The wedding that appealed to me was the one that Cyndi Lauper had a few years back. Little Richard performed the ceremony, then the bride and groom climbed onto a rented bus with a bunch of friends and drove to a neighborhood dive for pizza.
Now that’s a wedding! Treason number fourteen: Elope. And use the cash you’d blow on a wedding for something more important. Like life.
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