in an effort to secure additional income and a more varied social life, i am seriously considering placing a classified for my services as a "rent-a-date"; available for weddings, funerals and posh garden parties, although no additional escort services are included. last night i attended a baptist wedding (escorted by a couple of co-workers), several county lines away from the "louisville metro" area.
the ceremony itself followed the traditionally formulaic: lighting of the unity candle/teased and sprayed (not spayed) bridesmaids/cute flower girl chucking petals on a rolled out sheet down the aisle/bridal march on poorly tuned violin. fortunately, it was all condensed into about 15 minutes (baptists don't mess around), and the open bar (or as the other guests referred to it; "the reception"), followed at the claudia sanders' (mrs kentucky fried chicken) dinner house. mrs kfc's dinner house appears to be a popular, post-wedding locale, as this was the second time/reception that i have queued at the mac and cheese, creamed corn, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and breaded chicken buffet.
our table/party comprised of 2 dudes, a toddler, and a foreigner. or as we played off; domestic partners, their kid, and the mary poppins nanny. about the time that many of the guests were moving steadily towards inebriation, we invited another co-worker to crash the matrimonial shin dig; conveniantly coinciding with bouquet tossing, garter throwing, and cake cutting (although cake tossing would score more entertainment points in my book). she arrived in make-up, and stepford wife dress and heels, as the strawberry cake (who the bloody hell has strawberry? i thought cake only came in chocolate) was being dispersed (not tossed).
following the cake, came the public display of newly married affection, commonly known as "the first dance", which predictably gave way to a disco free-for-all, spanning the generations from the plastic hipped, box stepping crusties, to the middle aged chubbies doing the step-touch arm shuffle, and sugar powered flower girls and ring bearers tearing around the dance floor knocking over arthritic crusties like bowling pins. being the self concsious, reserved introvert that i am, it generally takes significant amounts of alcohol and coaxing, not to mention a little van morrison, to get my uptight, blue eyed self onto the dance floor. fortunately, we had an under 5 in our group, providing the excuse/distraction to get down on the dance floor and twirl around a shreaking, squealing infant to the point of nausea; far more effective than a couple of rum and cokes.
i will be available for social engagements through the remainder of "wedding season" (once my feet have recovered from spending more than 10 minutes in 3 inch heels).