I need a subject? Damn.
But that's neither here nor there. My cousin is getting married. And already the weirdness starts. Last time the weirdness didn't start until the bride and groom were on the four hundredth consecutive traditional dance with the parents and in-law parents (the number of remarried divorcees on the floor and their attached step-parents was impressive, you could have done combinatorics problems based on those combinations alone). And then they danced to Martina McBride's Concrete Angel:
A statue stands in a shaded place
An Angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
A song of a child who is abused so viciously her parents accidentally kill her. There's a fantastic wedding slow song.
But I digress a little. The thing is, we got the invitation in the mail the other day and the mother of the groom sent these little tiny typewritten slips of paper with directions on how to get to the town where the wedding is being held, how to get from the motels to the ceremony and from the ceremony to the wedding. I don't know about you, but this was the first time anyone has ever given me directions including the sentence, "Next you drop down a hill."
There's the curious statement that, when going to the reception you should, "Leave [the] wedding." That is the first direction on the slip, "Directions from wedding to reception." I can only assume she knows someone who once had difficulty figuring out that, on going from one event or part of an event to the next, you must first leave that event or you will not reach the second. I must assume there are many people who have this difficulty as my mother would often tell me something similar years ago when sending me out with the trash. "Go get the garbage. Go to the door. Open the door. Go outside. Go down the driveway to the garage. Open the garage door. Put the garbage in the garbage can. Close the garage door. Come back inside." I often wondered if my mother expected me to repeatedly bump into the door in an attempt to go through the doorway a la cartoon character.
Anyhow, then there's the cryptic direction, "Green 911 sign is 2345." I do not know what this means. I only know that it is the last direction on how to get to, "The house of the groom's grandparents." Which is where the wedding will be held.
Finally, the wedding registry makes me a little twitchy. Sears Canada and the Bay? Fine. They're pretty much the same department store. I mean, some of the brands carried are different, but fine. Canadian Tire? Well, for those Americans who may wind up reading this, I don't know the equivalent, but it's basically a combination hardware store, garden centre and sports store. I suppose, if the things they want are there then that's fine. But Wal-Mart? I'm sorry, maybe it's just me, but I find having your wedding registry at WalMart a tad too redneck for me. But then again, I recently discovered that large portions of my mother's side of the family seem to be a headlong collision of redneck and Newfoundlander. Every time I spend time with her half of the family I understand better and better her decision to flee to anywhere but Espanola. Which, despite its name, is a haven of United Church, Scottish ancestry hicks.
So anyhow, maybe this time I won't get tackled by another cousin telling me about how Catholics are evil or spend the whole evening wondering whether there was anyone around who I could talk to about something interesting. Like Star Trek or archaeology. Or who doesn't think that the last dance of the evening at a wedding should be something loud and stupid by Gwen Stefani. Of course, I don't like Gwen, so I'm biased.
Anyhow, I'm just interested in what foolishness may come of this.
SCWLC
A statue stands in a shaded place
An Angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
A song of a child who is abused so viciously her parents accidentally kill her. There's a fantastic wedding slow song.
But I digress a little. The thing is, we got the invitation in the mail the other day and the mother of the groom sent these little tiny typewritten slips of paper with directions on how to get to the town where the wedding is being held, how to get from the motels to the ceremony and from the ceremony to the wedding. I don't know about you, but this was the first time anyone has ever given me directions including the sentence, "Next you drop down a hill."
There's the curious statement that, when going to the reception you should, "Leave [the] wedding." That is the first direction on the slip, "Directions from wedding to reception." I can only assume she knows someone who once had difficulty figuring out that, on going from one event or part of an event to the next, you must first leave that event or you will not reach the second. I must assume there are many people who have this difficulty as my mother would often tell me something similar years ago when sending me out with the trash. "Go get the garbage. Go to the door. Open the door. Go outside. Go down the driveway to the garage. Open the garage door. Put the garbage in the garbage can. Close the garage door. Come back inside." I often wondered if my mother expected me to repeatedly bump into the door in an attempt to go through the doorway a la cartoon character.
Anyhow, then there's the cryptic direction, "Green 911 sign is 2345." I do not know what this means. I only know that it is the last direction on how to get to, "The house of the groom's grandparents." Which is where the wedding will be held.
Finally, the wedding registry makes me a little twitchy. Sears Canada and the Bay? Fine. They're pretty much the same department store. I mean, some of the brands carried are different, but fine. Canadian Tire? Well, for those Americans who may wind up reading this, I don't know the equivalent, but it's basically a combination hardware store, garden centre and sports store. I suppose, if the things they want are there then that's fine. But Wal-Mart? I'm sorry, maybe it's just me, but I find having your wedding registry at WalMart a tad too redneck for me. But then again, I recently discovered that large portions of my mother's side of the family seem to be a headlong collision of redneck and Newfoundlander. Every time I spend time with her half of the family I understand better and better her decision to flee to anywhere but Espanola. Which, despite its name, is a haven of United Church, Scottish ancestry hicks.
So anyhow, maybe this time I won't get tackled by another cousin telling me about how Catholics are evil or spend the whole evening wondering whether there was anyone around who I could talk to about something interesting. Like Star Trek or archaeology. Or who doesn't think that the last dance of the evening at a wedding should be something loud and stupid by Gwen Stefani. Of course, I don't like Gwen, so I'm biased.
Anyhow, I'm just interested in what foolishness may come of this.
SCWLC