Perfect Memory

While I was at the gym tonight, I happened to catch a glimpse of some movie or another starring Mo’Nique and a bunch of other people I recognized, but didn’t know their names. I’m not sure what the movie was, but I do know it wasn’t Phat Girlz and it certainly wasn’t Soul Plane (Never let it be said that Mo’Nique doesn’t do quality films). The identity of the movie remains a mystery, and it really doesn’t matter, because what struck me was the oddity of the scene that involved a co-star (that was not, mercifully, Mo’Nique) and a hot dude in some sort of sexual situation that involved corn on the cob – I mean eating corn on the cob, that is, and thank God I cleared that up, because I can think of a few naughty things to do with corn on the cob, and none of them I really want to do, or even talk about here. Actually, I don’t really want to think about corn on the cob and sex in any context except to say that I don’t really find eating corn on the cob even the slightest bit sexy, what with the corn casing kernel things getting jammed in your teeth and giant chunks of corn innards smearing all over everything, and we haven’t even covered the necessary butter and salt, which would make things vomitously messy. The whole thing was just so weird.

Honestly, what the hell am I saying? The point is, while I’ll never tell you what actually goes on in our bedroom, nor would you ever be interested, I would hope, I will assure you that there is not now, nor will there ever will be any eating of corn on the cob, and neither is there any butter or salt. No food, really, except when we eat pizza or Chinese food in front of the television.

Nor is there any dancing or mustard-eating. What? That’s not a beautifully smooth segue, you say? I’m trying to make it through your glorious questions, and Jamie asked a few non-sequiturs, including what my favorite condiment is, and what we danced to at our wedding. For starters, I have a passion for mustard. Mayonnaise certainly has its role in our society, not the least of which is to bind things like chicken salad and maybe a nice can of tuna. But it’s really foul, don’t you think? I mean, if you pull out a spoonful, it just kind of sits there, quivering like a bad bit of Jello, only the creamy kind that kind of resembles not-so-nice things that I don’t want to think about. Mayonnaise is gross. Ketchup is the poor man’s tomato sauce, and its bland sugary tomato-ness only works for me on burgers and French fries, and other than that, I have no use for ketchup, and that definitely includes hot dogs, which should be void of all things tomato, including tomatoes, which is why I find Chicago hot dogs so absolutely disgusting. Tomatoes on a hot dog? Seriously?

And then there is mustard, the most gloriously versatile condiment of all. It’s got flavor, for crying out loud! Pizazz! It can be spicy! Sweet! Smooth! Grainy! God, there is no end to the glory that is mustard, and I can think of very few savory foods that aren’t improved with a dash of mustard of some kind – salads, veggies, sandwiches, meats! Mustard makes the world go round. Incidentally, Ad and I differ greatly on our mustard choices – he is strictly a yellow kind of guy, you know, that neon baby poop mustard that tastes like nothing but vinegar and acrid powder? No, thank you. Give me cranberry mustard, spicy mustard, spicy and sweet mustard, Dijon mustard! Mustard, incidentally, doesn’t go well with corn on the cob. An exception to the rule! And it seems, by the way, that corn on the cob, is losing out at every turn. Will it ever regain its original sparkle? I think not.

Anyway, Jamie also asked what song we danced to at our wedding for our first dance. The truth is, I have no idea. I’ve mentioned it before, but I really hated everything about planning my wedding, and since I don’t dance, I put little to no thought into our wedding music or really, our entire wedding. Because towards the end (and music so came at the end, contrary to all the advice I received), we were becoming a little more budget-conscious, and also because we had an afternoon wedding, we went with a DJ vs. a band. I believe his name was DJ Bob Katzen, which never fails to crack me up, as he was this short little mild-mannered Jewish dude with a penchant for playing whatever anyone told him to, which pleased me greatly, as I was just petrified of having some loud entertainer-type whooping up our wedding.

I first met him in a Starbucks in Back Bay and I believe I was quite specific about the type of people we are (lame and self-conscious, non-dancing and weird) and that I did not, under any circumstances want anything wild and crazy like gangsta rap or thrash metal burning the precious ears of my beloved relatives. Apparently I failed to be specific when it came to sound effects, however, for when the best man finished up his speech, there were (oh my God) cymbal crashes and “ba dum BOMP!” punctuating every joke. I was furious, and in fact, told every single attendee at the wedding how pissed I was, so I’m told (I’d had a lot of Bloody Marys, honestly, to help me push past the introverted urges, which apparently were cured, as I was so damn chatty). I met a few people whose only memory of me is ranting in my wedding dress about the goddamn DJ and the goddamn sound effects and oh my God, did you hear the CYMBAL CRASH after Jeff made that joke?

I also recall quite distinctly, despite the vodka, being outside talking to my boss (who later found my shoes and a random piece of lingerie outside and uh, had to bring them inside for me and ask, was this bra-looking thing mine and how about these shoes? Shoes yes, bra no. I have no idea incidentally, whose that was) and walking back into the reception to the blaring sounds of Nelly’s Hot in Herre and thinking really, was this my wedding? With the cymbals and the sound effects and Nelly? Yeah. One of my bridesmaids requested the Nelly song, and to this day apologizes, for I was apparently tooling through the dance floor on my way to the bathroom shouting, “HOT IN HERRE? OH MY GOD. HOT. IN. HERRE. JESUS CHRIST. I’LL GIVE YOU HOT IN HERRE, ASSHOLE.” I guess I was still bitter about the ba dump BOMPs, because honestly, I wasn’t mad about Nelly really. I mean, people were dancing at 2 p.m. Nelly must have some kind of magical draw! (I still cringe when I think about that song, though)

Point being, I don’t remember what our first dance song was, but I do remember how we did it, and we would have no idea how perfect it would turn out to be. Because neither of us could dance, despite a variety of half-assed attempts at learning via a wedding dance DVD, and oh, how I wish I was kidding with that statement, we opted for a reverse wedding dance where all married couples got on the dance floor and year by year, DJ Bob asked those who had been married less than a certain number of years leave the dance floor. As we’d been married all of three seconds, we were off first, hence avoiding any dancing at all, and one by one, the couples peeled off, leaving Ad’s grandparents left to finish out the majority of our first dance, as they’d been married more than 50 years. I’ve talked about them before, so I’ll spare you the schmaltz, but they were/are some of the best people I’d ever known, and seeing them dance is one of my favorite memories ever. And about two weeks after our wedding, his grandma got cancer, and it was, sadly, the beginning of the end. And so our wedding was the last time they actually ever danced together, and we have a ton of pictures to prove it. She died two years later (he still lives in their house). I just have no earthly idea what song it was, but it doesn’t really matter, because it was perfect just the way it was. I hated having a wedding so very much, but that memory alone was worth every single second of misery.

Happy Tuesday.

*Remy Zero

21 comments December 18th, 2006