I've officially run out of men to have sex with. I have to get married or move.
-Samantha on Sex & the City
God don't want no tongue.
Let me just say THAT on the subject of weddings. I don't mean to be a prude, but the consecration of marriage is a sacrament, not a sex show.
I'm glad I got that off my chest, since I spend at least every other Saturday in the summer watching my friends exchange vows... (Doesn't everyone?)
Hop Sing actually brought a grown man to tears this weekend - and I'm feeling especially proud, because, well (with all modesty), I did help. (Though usually this is an area where I prefer to work alone.)
I devoted a solid, oh, 20 minutes or so last week to helping him "gather" his thoughts for a wedding speech. (His real thoughts were that the bride should be marrying him, and not the groom - so you can imagine my challenge.)
Whenever I'm asked to stand up in front of a crowd and talk about True Love (which is predictably seldom), I always rely on the movies - because frankly, the closest I'm likely to come to the phenomena is via Cinerama and SurroundSound.
Fortunately, I had seen Moulin Rouge last weekend. And I remembered there being some line in it, which I tried to repeat, about "the greatest lesson you'll ever learn, is to love truly and be loved in return."
It made me kinda queasy (i.e. wedding-friendly), and I'm not even sure that's it, because I was kinda distracted by trying to figure out how the special effects guys had turned John Leguizamo into a dwarf (playing Toulouse Lautrec).
I gave him some more "talking points," added a few gratuitous comments about Elton John (for example, "Tiny Dancer" in Almost Famous was used to far greater effect than "Your Song" was in Moulin Rouge), and sent him off without a second thought -conveniently forgetting that, A. he hadn't seen the movie, so B. therefore, he did not know he was about to give an inspiring marital oratory that kicked off with a film about a prostitute.
I also told him it's a good idea, if your mind goes blank, to just stop and weep openly. It makes everyone think you're sensitive. (If that fails, start belting out Dionne Warwick tunes.)
I'd have spent more time, but I had yet another wedding to get to this weekend.
I can't really say much about it.
Legally... Because I'm pretty sure they made me sign some sort of "waiver" on the way in, "enjoining" me not to.
In truth, it was lovely. The wedding party stayed sober (at least through the ceremony). The toasts were all inspiring, rather than cheesy. (I refrained from giving my standard: "Never marry for money. Divorce for it.") And the bride was hardly showing at all.
If their parents are reading, I'm sure that - in spite of the fact that bride and groom were in their 30s - they were waiting till they completed the bonds of holy matrimony prior to enjoying any connubial bliss.
Too bad I can't say the same for us guests. Usually I'm a stickler for decorum, but it WAS a long ceremony, and we were seated WAYYYYY in the back
(Please...I wish...It sure would've livened up the evening.)
As it was, I got stuck (as usual) as the designated driver- maintaining complete sobriety and a haughty air of propriety at all times.
I frankly don't even KNOW how the band's bass player got my phone number (since my wingmen were all in attendance at yet ANOTHER wedding, in another city ).
And EVERYone knows I gave up rhythm sections in the 90s. (Fortunately, he had to get back to Chicago on Sunday- the city, not the band - so we've probably seen the last of him.)
In fact, by around 3 a.m., we were down to four tired girls in jammies, curled up on my bed, watching movies.
Then, of course, we all took a shower together
I just wanted to see if the guys were still reading. (Because it IS the sort of thing that ALWAYS happens, very spontaneously, on late-night cable.)
By Sunday, the usual suspects had all re-convened and reported from the front on the nuptials we'd witnessed.
After every big wedding-weekend, we always feel compelled to assess the state of our own relationships (and lack thereof), looking for some salient insight.
For example, I'm sort of tired of having a boyfriend named "and Guest." Eventually, I realize, I'm going to HAVE to let a guy stay in my life long enough to get his own name on the invitation. (Sweet T refuses to call ANYONE I date anything OTHER than "Johnny NewGuy," because he insists they're all, 1. replaceable, and 2. interchangeable.)
When I asked one of the guys from our crew to be more specific about whether he was looking for a hookup or a girlfriend (because that helps me in the screening process), he confessed, "I'm looking more for a place in RelationshipTown, nothing big, maybe just a little apartment, far away from the hustle and bustle of Marriageopolis and all the traffic and congestion of Familysburg. I need someone I can do stuff with as opposed to doing stuff to."
(Did I mention he's cute, tall, hilarious, and employed - and that I have his phone number, email, and home address - and I'm prepared to sell all three for the right price?)
I just told him when you're on that big relationship highway, be careful. Exit 68 is FriendshipLand. It looks ok from the road, but it's nothing but quicksand after you leave the ramp.
Don't ever stop there. Not even to use the deceptively clean bathrooms at Stuckey's. HibbityDibbityVille is just up the road at Exit 69. You can wait.
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