Meet Virginia

I woke up to carrot shit, and hell if that isn’t a way to jump-start the day. I’d given Sunny half a carrot last night while making spaghetti sauce, and promptly forgot that it would, um, fly through her system, so when she cried at 5 a.m., I ignored her, thinking she was being dramatic, and Donna, her weekend caretaker at the doggie spa, had let her take advantage by catering to her neverending whining and crying whims. When I opened her crate at 7 a.m., an explosion of stencherous carrot filled the house, and I had to wade through half-digested carrot shit all the way to the kitchen. Screw carrots.

Other than in that sauce (which I have eaten for four straight meals), I no longer have any use for carrots. Or carrot shit. And please, don’t remind me that I am a piece of carroted shit myself, for I am a mother who lets her puppy wallow in carrot poop because she thinks her dog is capable of being dramatic. She should just go live with Donna. Donna probably would have heard her pleas, let her poop, and then served her another plate of freshly steamed kosher chicken because Sunny is a “Jewish pug princess from Boston!” (Donna was very excited that we were from Boston. And yes, she actually served Sunny kosher chicken all damn weekend.)

Speaking of, when I dropped her off, I ended up getting chased into my car by a giant pit bull with a huge set of balls, and what the hell, dude? I’m terrified of dog testicles. I hate the macho attitude they usually represent, and I hate the alarming number of assholes who refuse to neuter their pets. But mostly I’m just afraid of the way they dangle like a pair of plump, overripe plums. There is no reason for dog balls, and I’d rather if everyone out there could just have their damn dogs neutered so that I didn’t have to look at damn testicles. Please.

We went to Boston for the weekend for all of 36 glorious hours, and hell yes, it was fabulously gorgeous. And the wedding was bar-none the best wedding I’ve ever been to, and that’s saying a lot, given that I generally hate weddings. And brides. I’m not a fan of any and all things bridal, but all of this stems from the fact that I hated being a bride, so don’t hate me if you are soon to be, or ever were a bride. I’m sure you were/are lovely, and I would moon over you because I am a sucker, and I like you. And B. was the most stunning, gorgeous bride I’ve ever seen and I cried when I saw her about nine times because again: holy shit, she was gorgeous, as she always is.

So yes, I hate weddings, but I loved this one. My hatred stems from the fact that my engagement was a miserable mishmash of stressors and fights that involved screaming and food hurling – food fights, if you will. On more than one occasion, there was the wild and angry tossing of chicken fingers and lo mein and when we moved out of our apartment, there was a Chinese food stain on the wall that we couldn’t cover. No amount of scrubbing, painting, and by Jesus, not even that painfully mundane and ineffectual Magic Eraser, could remove the wall of duck sauce borne out of a screaming match that had something to do with whether or not we should bow to the pressure to have ice sculptures with the hors d’oeuvres. And dear God, if you’re wondering the answer, we didn’t. Or did we? I don’t remember, nor do I really care. The most important thing is that I drew first blood with kung pao. Remember that instead.

I think weddings are designed for women who like being the center of attention and all that, and despite the fact that I blog, which is strangely exhibitionist, you may or may not be surprised to learn that I would rather die than be the center of *anything* in real life. The only way to survive a wedding as an introvert is to down more Bloody Marys than you can squeeze into your gullet without breaking the seams of your dress, and did I ever. This is also the sad reason why I do not remember really, um anything from my wedding, and I’m actually embarrassed at the number of photos that depict me drunkenly hugging and kissing random people who were the dates of people I invited whom I actually had never met before. Oh, and there are lots of nice photos of me kicking back at the bar with my feet up while smoking cigarettes. I’m sure my parents are so proud.

But I digress, and the point is, B and M’s wedding was flat-out fabulous and would have been even better if we didn’t have to leave at 9 p.m. to get up at 3:30 a.m. for a 6 a.m. flight home. And wouldn’t it be great to have pictures of this wonderful wedding?

Yes, yes it would. Except I left my damn camera in the car, because I’d forgotten to pack my evening bag, and thus, had to bring my big bag for emergency purposes only, and then I left the bag in the car, because a giant canvas tote didn’t exactly flow with my outfit. And after a few Bellinis, does anyone really care where the camera is? The answer is no.

Here is the only photo I took, en route to the wedding.

If this isn’t one for the ages, I don’t know what is.

*Train. Around the time this song came out, the bride in question and I had a very deep drunken discussion about this song, and for a few weeks following, she left me me no fewer than four drunken messages on my voice mail singing that song in its entirety. I’d give anything if I still had them.

15 comments September 11th, 2006