Tag Archives: wedding

The Tango of the Manatee

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Behold the arcane rite of passion!

We finally got our confounded marriage license. The most surprising part was at the end of the delicate dance between windows in the cavernous basement of city hall: we were handed a goodie bag. It contained samples of Downy, see Pepto Bismol, viagra a carpet spot remover, whitening toothpaste, and assorted coupons. So take heed, newlyweds are apparently prone to dyspepsia, halitosis, and spotty carpets! Apparently we should have registered for a Bissel steamer. Or a tarp. Or a hose-wielding zookeeper.

-xxoo

The lights are on, but no one’s home

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This is to serve as official notice that I will be off in a Swiss sanitarium for the next few weeks to months. I have a lot on my plate, so much so that I’m practically in need of bariatric surgery. Glarmph.

What to do with this space is turning into a puzzler. Frankly, work sucks, planning a wedding sucks, and there are only so many times one can discuss either of those topics. I’ve also noticed in the stats that this site is read by some people who are in my general orbit but definitely not close to me. They don’t mention that they read it, as close friends will actually do, and that’s kinda creepy. Even total strangers write in and make themselves known. Shouldn’t you people be busy looking for Buffy fanfic or something? This is public, of course, and you have a right to read. This knowledge helps me rule out the extremely personal as fodder. Not that I usually run on and on about gynecological hijinks or the joys of separating my laundry, but it’s nice to touch on actual human experiences now and then. So if my contribution to this site can’t be personal, what does that leave? The topical? That’s sooooo irrelevant.

Indeed, there are enough people doing pseudo scholarly analysis, movie reviews, and in depth-coverage of what they ate for breakfast. Ah, self-publishing at its finest. The world cries out for another pastiche of NYT links!

So I leave you for now in the capable hands of Lambchop. At least until after September 1, when I am absolved of some legal doings and can speak freely about something particularly hilarious. Until then, Lambchop’s wee paws are as soft as a baby’s hindquarters. She’s been soaking in something…

-xxoo

Also

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“It was sooooooo good,” as Lambchop said. I can’t possibly sum it up politely. It made a lot of people who were not me happy, so I guess that’s a super thing. Plus we now own half a Crate & Barrel. And I accidentally shoplifted thank you cards from the Crane’s store today. Don’t worry, Bloodhound Gang members, I brought them back and paid for them once I realized I still had them in my hand. Not that the clerk noticed me walking back IN with them either. Hey, I was carrying a lot of other bags for a friend while wandering listlessly around the store. It’s just so distracting when one must decide between the ones with the silver deckle edge or the illustration of the cunning little teapot. The monogram? Just the Right shade of blue? OH GOD WHY GOD WHY.

I am going to fondle my red Kitchen Aid mixer now. Them’s the breaks, man.

-xxoo

A Memoir

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Back in the days of MUDs and alt. binaries.naked.teens Lambchop met Licketysplit on alt.rollyoureyes. After exchanging copious emails on strange diseases and the Pointlessness of Everything, we discovered our mutual love of booze drunk out of paper bags, Edward Ka-spel, gummy treats, and Douglas Sirk movies (same thing). So we arranged to meet on a subway platform. As we hurtled toward the station from opposite directions, we steeled ourselves to encounter a mouth-breathing, hunch-backed, pasty creature with spectacles and bad hair. Covered in eczema. (of course had that been the case we would have both kept walking.)

Needless to say, we passed muster and ran gaily off to consume Night Train under a bridge. These are the things that I think about on a Friday morning when I sit in my silent cubicle with nothing to do, pretending I’m Kafka.

Especially now that our Licketysplit is getting married. I really thought she was kidding. I thought the thousands of dollars she has spent on hand woven baskets and ermine place settings was all an elaborate scheme to make her beaux dance with her, and score a toaster. But her shower is on Sunday and I am very happy for her. She won’t forget beneath which bridge to find me.

-xo

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

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Poor Licketysplit is floundering in a sea of tulle and chintz! Bridal fittings are not for the faint-hearted. They require the desire to stand for hours in the center of a puff-pastry-like object, facing the mirror, and barking orders in manner of Leona Helmsley to the fawning sprites with mouths full of pins. Our Lickety has that sort of courage…screw it, we are calling on Gaultier! Then she can sit on a sofa eating chocolate cherries while Heidi Klum manxes around in various outfits until lickety has found the one that rings her bell.

I attended a wedding on Sunday in Andover, the place where White People were invented. This was my first voluntary wedding, and I was only on my second drink when I was surprised to be overcome by a feeling of joy and pleasure while watching my friends shake hands with their guests, looking happy but confused. Who knew there was something else to be done at a wedding besides cringe?

Congratulations, J&J!

While others are joyfully uniting, I am afraid I must part from my daytime swain, Mr. James Rockford. I have finally wormed my way into some kind of job. It requires trousers with a crease and non-threatening footwear. It also requires punctuality and attention to detail, so I hope you will all include me in your prayers or bag-waah or whatever the hell it is you people all do when you aren’t watching people humiliate themselves on tv.

-xo

Bless my buttons

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Today is stressful. I bet you people think my life is all fun and games, an endless blur of sucking champagne from the navels of cabana boys, but that’s a dirty lie. A misconception.

In a traumatic turn of events, I had to decide which stamp to use on my wedding invitation. I am allergic to my wedding anyway. The invites that we thought we could do ourselves ended up requiring an emergency overnight trip to Sir Speedy for printing. Sir Speedy lived up to his royal image and did a great job though. After much hemming and hawing, I went with the Andy Warhol stamp.

I know I’m not legally married unless the invite bears a “Love” stamp, but nothing says “this is a big production that bores me terribly” like Andy. The best part is that the invite requires 2 stamps, so I can have a proper Andy diptych. And Mr. H pointed out that it “works with our color scheme.” We love it, yes we do.

-xxoo

Let me hear your body talk

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Murphy’s Law #421: right after you go try on your backless wedding dress and decide, “eh, it looks good but I have absolutely no muscle tone whatsoever,” and vow to do nothing but eat protein and do lat pulldowns til the wedding, there will be a free Herrell’s ice cream buffet in the lobby of your workplace.

But I resisted! I am SUPER HUMAN. In another month or so, I will look like a SUPER MODEL. Yes, I’m shallow. Whatever gets you through. My inner bridezilla has ripped through my chest like one of those acid-drooling aliens. I had one woman down at my feet pinning my hem, and another woman with the most incredible face lift plying me with tiaras and yards of tulle, while still another clucked in indeterminate Eastern European at the one hemming my dress, no doubt commenting on the junk in my trunk. I gazed lovingly at myself in the gigantic mirror, tossing my hair this way and that, pausing only to kick Magda when she slowed her rate of pinning.

My bridezilla is tap dancing with a cane now, “Hello my honey, hello my baby….send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart’s on fire.” It’s oozing a trail of slime behind it as it goes off to form a kickline. I’m sunk.

-xxoo