Dreaded bliss

The other day I was reminded that it’s nigh on to time for my annual wedding. Those of you who’ve followed this site for a while may remember that I spent last summer adrift on my personal Raft of the Medusa, agonizing over napkin folds and ankle fat. And let’s not forget being tormented by relatives I haven’t seen in years and relatives I see all the time.

We attended a wedding on Saturday that was admittedly inspired by our wedding style (debauched, scroll down til it gets blurry), which was very flattering. Except they got a prop DJ, really, the Carrot Top of DJs. As we hid under the table during “Who Let the Dogs Out,” Mr. H and I realized that our greatest regret is not making our favor tins filled with candy wrapped to look like nuts read “Nuts 4 Each Otha.” Well, that and spending our wedding night vomiting, but it’s not like we hadn’t sampled the goods before.

So we’re doing it all again this year! I am on the fence between a Studio 54 theme and a country barbecue. Pros of the first idea: wearing a white pant suit a la Bianca Jagger, lots of drugs. Pros of the second idea: barbecue and Johnny Cash. Maybe we should just do both, on consecutive days. Or I can finally marry Lambchop, now that Massachusetts has come around on this subject. Every now and then when I’m frothing and flailing about starting UglyBoston.com or the window of this one dress shop downtown, Mr. H will sigh and say “yeah, you probably should have married Heather.” He’s so right.

-xxoo

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