I’ve got royal wedding fever and the only cure is seeing Kate Middleton’s dress! I’m gaga for England on the best day – I lived there for a blissful year, and I still feel like London is my second home. But this is beyond my usual longing for dear old Blighty. This is out and out mania about the royal wedding – and the royals themselves. I am DVR-ing all of the pre-game, the wedding, and the post-game. I’m talking to everyone I know about the lineage of the House of Windsor, and basically spilling forth like a Dutch dyke every evening, despite my efforts to remain mysterious on the subject.
Leave me alone, I am very happy.
This evening I called a friend who informed me I was making quite the to-do over nothing. He informed me he would like to get married at Chuck E Cheese. “The rat could marry us, then we’d eat,” he said.
My hair caught on fire.
But even his crass answer is better than that of my favorite Enron executive who simply refuses – REFUSES – to even utter the phrase “royal wedding.” I will bounce up to him and croon, “Isn’t it the most romaaaaantic thing, evar?”
He looks at me with calm equanimity and then returns to whatever task I’ve interrupted.
“What do you think her dress will be like? Large, right? It must be large because she must fill up Westminster Abbey!”
Bland look. Back to his book. Or filling a cup with water. Anything to avoid actually engaging in the subject.
“Darling, let’s make love! I want to um… lie back and think of England.”
No dice.
I fear something is wrong with him. Surely it can’t be me and the fact I keep slipping into an English accent or calling every female I know to lay wagers on the size of her dress, and whether her hair will be worn up or down.
I am the model of calm normalcy. Stoic as Catherine walking down the long aisle.
Oh I canna wait!
