It’s been cold and dreary for the best part of a week and I may be in a snit about it. It’s May. I should be outdoors with wind rushing through my hair like a piquant shampoo commercial, but no. I’m huddled under a blanket in my living room, waiting for Nature to quit acting like a motherfucker. Further, it’s springtime and people are making plans. Auntie InExcelsisDeo and I had this annual conversation.

Auntie I.: There’ll be a bridal shower.
Tata: I’m not going.
Auntie I.: You’re going. It’ll be a barbecue and later there’ll be a band.
Tata: I’m not going.
Auntie I.: You’re going. It’ll be nice, and it won’t be girly.
Tata: I’ll mail cash from a great distance. But I’m not going.
Auntie I.: You’re going!

I’m not going. The happy couple are already married, which marriage happened in the office of a Justice of the Peace when my first cousin was deployed to Iraq, but now they want the big honking wedding. He’s not afflicted with deep thoughts or sobriety; she’s a lovely biker chick. Their friends are the kind of racist lunkheads I cross the street to avoid. It’s not all about me, but I try to do something constructive with my rage. With any luck, I can find a soup kitchen in need of a spice organizer and, on the day of the renewed nuptials, I’ll be up to my elbows in garam masala.