I am in the midst of a lovely dream.
Imagine me in my Seattle uniform (sneaks, jeans, zip front micro-fleece) on a bike with a basket and a bell (ding!) riding to and from work. Or the farmer's market, my basket brimming with fresh vegis and a baguette.
I call this my Ballardian fantasy.
If you would have told me in college that I would be working my ass off to get a job in the non-profit sector, in Ballard, so I could ride my bike to the independent grocery store to buy granola, I would kick your hippie ass. Then I'd pound a G&T.
In dream related news, last night I dreamt that myself and my nonexistent siblings were kidnapped. And the bad people made me eat at a buffet- which is not OK. And then I hit my kidnappers with a frying pan to escape. Let this be a lesson for those who might intend to make me eat at a buffet.
In buffet related news, last night I was asked to be a bridesmaid for the 6th time. I have a been a groomswoman once as well. I think the important thing to remember is that I hate weddings and I hate you.
3 comments:
Given that the odds of me ever getting hitched are slightly-but-not-much higher than a second virgin birth, I promise to never ask you to stand quietly in an ugly dress and show off your butt to family and friends.
You're welcome.
Even with your very kind promise, I still project being a bride's maid at least 2 but possibly as many as 4 more times.
That being said, I plan to have every female friend I have had stand in my fictitious wedding. All will be wearing an unflattering 300$ chartreuse dress and like it. You will have matching jewelry given as our gift to you, which will work nicely with the cheap and uncomfortable dyed shoes you will be forced to order.
The wedding will inexplicably be in Texas in the height of summer, in a Pentecostal church with no air conditioning- which will explain the hats and fans covered in feathers.
The flowers, which you will be allergic to, will show up late; which is fine because it will take Edna 3 hours to do your hair and makeup anyway. She will mutter about how your hair is not high enough, as though it is your fault. You will look like a hooker in a windstorm when she is done.
All of the groomsmen will be fat and possessed of unibrows. They will also be horribly drunk.
There will be a buffet with a lengthy line and rock hard, cold rolls. The cake will be expensive, tasteless & flavorless, and topped by a Precious Moments topper of two children in huge adult clothing exchanging rings while attended by a cat and a hound dog. There will be a terrible band to play the chicken dance and Macarena. I will announce the names of all single women and force them to fight for the bouquet. And YOU will catch it. The garter will be caught by a guy named Gunter, who is a 40 year old dishwasher from Des Moines with at least two teeth missing. He will call your meeting “kismet.”
We will purchase the most expensive photo package and you will be blinded by billions of photos, none of which we will ultimately choose.
You will be left to deal with everything after everyone else leaves.
You will spend 50$ on a brushed metal toaster, which I will use for two years, the length of the marriage.
5 years later I will ask you to stand again.
Is it worng of me to find that actually fun on some horrid level?
I mean, what a glorious horror story I'd have! No one could ever top it.
Actually, I think I'd need a written promise that you would act like Bridezilla, looking for small imperfections and claiming that your wedding, marriage, and life is RUINED, ABSOLUETLY RUINED at least once every half hour. And preferrably more.
Plus, I do not give toasters. I much prefer spending 40 hours working on a cross stitch, and $100 framing it, that shall be buried in the linen closet and thrown out within a year.
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