What gives? If I can get through another wedding...
...and turn right around and make the world safe for democracy...
(Dear Google: Please insert a picture of a certain terrorist whose name rhymes with Shmosama Shmin Shmaden here in such a way that a) implies that I was the bad-donkey who took him out in a daring commando raid right after my nap, and b) does not encourage anyone to blow up my house or my computer or my town and stuff. Thank you. p.s. Don't use that icky one of him all dead. Blech.)
...then I think you could have at least popped over and said, "Hey, you sharp shootin' wedding planner, how's it going?"
I mean, sheesh. Think that kiss up there just happened? No, you naive blog readers. I was standing behind the lace curtain hollering, "Look, people, any country that can produce the likes of Russell Brand along with an incredibly casual philosophy regarding nudity in the mainstream media can certainly come up with a royal couple - particularly one that has been openly cohabitating for two years - capable of kissing in public. Plus, I'm taking out a terrorist later and I don't have time for all this 'will they, won't they' nonsense. Kiss right now, dammit, or it's a live grenade under Granny's yellow sombrero."
So that kiss was good news for HRH Elizabeth.
I don't know about you, but because I was so terribly busy, I was only able to dedicate 36 continuous hours to watching
- the royal wedding pre-game show,
- the royal wedding car pool,
- the royal wedding van pool,
- the royal wedding parade of hats ("Oh, isn't this lovely? Princess Eugenie is wearing a spectacular design from the 'Dr. Seuss on Acid' collection."),
- the royal wedding parade of quaint innkeepers from what has to be the totally made up village of Bucklebury (Bucklebury? Really? They probably paid to have the name changed when it looked like Katie was going to make it big on the regency circuit. I bet it was called "Mudflap Shire" before they won the fifteen minutes of fame lottery),
- the royal wedding parade of folks who don't know the words to any Anglican hymns (I'm pretty sure Elton John was singing "Pinball Wizard" during that "Jerusalem" one),
- the royal wedding 'vows by ventriloquism' in which both bride and groom attempted to declare their undying love and devotion to one another without actually moving their lips,
- the royal wedding boredom on the faces of the happy couple any time one of the priests started in on all that religious talk,
- the royal wedding stuck ring,
- the royal wedding 'groom's not going to wear a ring because his dad says it just gets embarrassing when you lose it in your mistress's sofa cushions,'
- and the royal wedding 'go away now, we want to party and you're much too common to listen to Harry's toast in which he will have the audience in stitches by pointing out that - wait for it, this is really witty and observant - his brother William is losing his hair.'
And it doesn't look like I'll be any less busy this week. I'm heading north to the LDS Storymakers writers conference on Thursday, and I'm a teensy bit fearful that I may be stoned during a breakout session. I don't mean post-1960's stoned. I'm referring to something far more terrifying and biblical. When I used the word 'damn' in my manuscript critique group last year, they all joined hands, closed their eyes, and began singing, "We Love Her, O Lord, But We Hope She Gets Cancer," to the tune of "Pinball Wizard."
It wasn't terribly encouraging. I freaking hate that hymn.
So along with putting "not DeNae Handy, no matter what you've heard" on my "Hi, my name is..." sticky badge, I've opted out of the critique group sessions.
Still, I'd like to finish my manuscript and take it with me in case I run into any other subversives, and printing stuff on asbestos paper to prevent the fires of hell from consuming it takes Kinkos at least two business days.
So, you know, I'm going to stay pretty darn busy until next week. But that doesn't let you off the hook, peeps. You need to show your faces in the windows of my backordered life and let me know you're still out there. And first chance I get, I'll come by your places, too.
Rocket launcher in one hand, bridal bouquet in the other. Whatever you're blogging about, hey! I've gotcha covered.
In completely unrelated news, my bishop's kid barfed all over his mother and his grandfather during church last week, and I was the only one who saw it happen, so of course I had to come off the stand and clean it up. Everyone else in the ward - all 400 of them - faked a sudden and laser-beam interest in the ward choir's musical number, so it was just me and a ziplock bag of baby wipes from the generous dad on the next row. But guess what? I got Peanut Butter M&Ms and $10 worth of Baskin Robbins bucks out of it on accounta I caught the Bishop's eye at one point and mouthed the words, "You owe me." So maybe that selfless act of barf cleanage will produce a force field of karma, protecting me from the fiery darts of my fellow writers this weekend. If not that, then the extra layer of fat from the 'reward' can't hurt.
I'm not going to lie to you; I lead a complicated spiritual life.