Weddings are glorious things. There's never a greater sense of optimism than on a couple's first official day as man and wife. Optimism from everyone else, that is. The bride's nerves are usually frazzled and she's likely to be strung out like a Christmas tree from all of that preparation.
So the tiniest things can send her into a tailspin. If one thing goes wrong, a bride is disappointed and worried. If two things go wrong, she is probably livid. But if everything goes wrong I bet she just short circuits and forgets the entire day.
That last one was the weekend wedding we attended. I knew it would get interesting because the directions we printed off read like a Moebius Strip. "Take Highway X until it crosses Highway X." We tried one exit and were wrong but we had plenty of time. So we tried another exit and it seemed to be right.
Sweety points out a sign. "Look, there's even a sign."
"Where?" I can't see it. Oh, there it is. It's a notebook sized piece of paper. Someone has written in marker "C--- and S--- wedding" and taped it to a lamp post.
She looks at me. "I think we're overdressed."
I won't catalogue the entire list of things that went wrong at this wedding but it rained and things went downhill from there. They moved everything inside and the room was crowded and then they ran out of soda within ten minutes. So a guy who never acquired a taste for hooch is left without a lot of choices for amusement.
Even with the downpour we see people heading for the exit to go smoke outside. California, being filled primarily with health mullahs who not only want you to stop smoking but also need to make you repent for doing it, has made it as hard as possible on smokers. Smokers are truly ghetto-ized in California these days.
"I feel bad for smokers," Sweety says. "What more can they do to them?"
"I am opening a smoking club," I say.
"In California?" she asks. "How do you intend to accomplish that?"
"Well, how does Arnie get away with it? He smokes cigars all of the time."
"He sits in a tent on the lawn of the Capitol Building."
"He has to sit in a tent?"
"Yes. And he's the Governor. I am not sure how you are opening a smoking club when The Terminator has to sit in a tent."
"There has to be a loophole. Maybe it's because of having waitresses or something. They smoke in that cigar shop near the house. I'm telling you, I am opening a club where men can smoke cigars in big comfortable chairs and be served by scantily clad women."
"That just earned you a veto," she says.
"Why? Because of the chairs?"
"Yes," she replies. "The chairs are what got my attention."
I pull out my handy Treo and start thumbing the teensy keyboard.
"Who could you possibly be writing to?" she asks.
"I am writing to me," I say. "I am taking notes. I just don't have any paper with me."
"Let me see," she says.
So I did. And since she got to see the unedited notes on my phone in their raw form, I will let you - my blog reading public - see them also. Just this once:
scantily clad women not a factor. try again later.