T h e A d v e n t u r e s o f C h i c a g o J o
|2007-02-06† Ė† 4:47 p.m.|
I was told this morning that I am going to be in a wedding. The date and time isnít quite working out for me, so thereís a possible complication with my participation. That aside, I got the information for the dress Iím supposed to order, purchase, and subsequently wear.
Itís harvest gold.
Youíve all seen plenty of pictures. Iím a porcelain princess. Harvest gold does not come near me.
Iíve been a good sport in past weddings. Iíve worn the dress ordered for me that was two sizes too big. Iíve worn the dress thatís covered me from neck to toe. Iíve gotten the mandatory up-dos, the manicures with funky colors, the Dyeables because someone feels that my wearing black or silver shoes wonít cut it.
Iíve flown to attend wedding showers. Iíve been instructed to tell people that the couple is registered at one of a billion places. Iíve spruced up wimpy floral arrangements with stuff purchased at the grocery store only hours before. Iíve sprinkled rose petals on the hotel bed. Iíve made those stupid crowns with the tulle veil for bachelorette parties. Iíve painted JUST MARRIED on the back of a truck.
In sum: Iím a good sport when it comes to something I find out-right ridiculous. If nothing else, itís made me laugh with friends over IM today about what my wedding would look like.
If I get my way, itíll be a quickie dealio where we both say something sweet, smooch, and then sign a paper before heading out to meet friends for a drunken dinner somewhere where the music is loud and people are encouraged to act like fools.
TV tells me that when you meet The One, youíll know. In an ideal world, he will go along with what I have to say and accept the above scenario. Everyone knows that wedding planning is for girls anyway.
But something tells me that the man Iím gonna be saddled up with will be a bit of a pain in the ass. Knowing that, heíll probably want to have the entire rigmarole. And so long as he doesnít whip out a book with cut-outs from wedding magazines from years past, weíll have a wedding and reception. Of course Iíll have to make a few non-traditional changes to get it to suit both of us...
Future sir, be warned. If you force this social and societal norm upon me, you will regret it.
During the wedding, I will insist on wearing a fitted blue dress. For one, I look awesome in blue. Second, Iím gonna rock my bod while Iíve got it. No. Puffy. White.
And if you think Iím gonna carry flowers, youíve got another thought coming. Iím going to MC Hammer dance down the aisle while tossing condoms into the audience.
Of course my sixteen bridesmaids will have already scampered down the aisle, tossing sample packets of Astroglide and wet naps. They will be wearing anything nappy they find at a thrft store. The more 80s it is, the better.
Our nuptials will conclude with a high-five instead of a you-may-now-kiss-the-bride declaration. Then weíll retreat down the aisle to Hava Nagila.
No worries about the lack of smoochiní. Iíll jump your bones when we retreat to the limo you forced us to rent. I figure if Iím shelling out to ride in luxury, I might as well get my moneyís worth.
Weíll head to the reception site, where there had better be some cake. I want a six-foot sparkler-covered cake with our initials around the layers. And when the grub comes out (Iíll let you choose the menu, so long as I get two corn dogs and a swirl of ketchup and mustard for dipping), I want the entire wait staff to be made up of little people. Children, midgets, dwarves -- I donít care. So long as theyíre shorter than me, Iím up for it.
Instead of a DJ or a band, how about circus performers? I want fire-breathers! And unicycles! And juggling bears! How about a contortionist who gets stuffed into a Plexiglas box?
On and on and on.
Do note that I didnít mention the jewelry in the above loony listing. Iím not fucking around with that. I want this.
I repeat: No fucking around when it comes to my jewelry.
Hey, there are some things that this woman wonít stand for. Even if itís wedding-related. †