Yesterday my knocked-up little cousin married her baby-daddy. It was raining and Chelsea and I were gleeful. I personally made no attempt to hide my glee. There were a lot of cowicahan goons there. And a lot of people I didn’t know. I had a mild panic attack. Chelsea and I sat at a table, by choice, with my ex-schizophrenic uncle and his cousin who is a 47 year old stuttering hospital orderly with a comb-over and a penchant for dates and times who lives with his mom and collects handguns. The wedding cake was a pyramid of cupcakes. A Diana Krall clone (only less manly) sang the processional and recessional. My aunt who is a minister in the United Church performed the ceremony. The groom’s father made a typical speech where he proclaimed he thought of the bride as his own daughter blah blah blah. He left out the part where he and his wife made their son break up with her because she wasn’t “religious enough” and threatened to disown him. Her mom being a minister doesn’t cut it. I spoke with another cousin of mine who is now executive producer of Smallville. He seems weary at the prospect of his three year contract. He used the words, “I’m trying to figure a way to get out of it. But they sue you if you try.” I hope he doesn’t because I really think The Clap should play at Superman’s highschool graduation (if they haven’t done that episode yet–I’ve never watched that show). This is the first time I’ve seen my family in two years.