If a cow ever got the chance...

Today my boss and the chick in the cubicle next to me spent large portions of the afternoon discussing the bridesmaids' dresses for her (the boss's) upcoming nuptials, and I took advantage of this momentary lapse in her vigilance to read Diaryland. Anyway: pale peach. Low-cut. Sweetheart neckline. I forget what fabric she is considering, but the multiplicity of choices made her "giddy." Have I ever mentioned that sound carries extremely well in our cubicles?

Ah, forget it. I'm just bitter because I wasn't included in all the girl talk. The problem is that I'm too irretrievably weird to get into it. After two or three minutes I start wishing I had something to proofread... Also, I suspect that the boss and I have very little in common on the subject of weddings, since my dream wedding (which I am enough of a girl to daydream about) involves spontaneity and pancakes...

Here's the scenario. How and where, I'm not sure, but I meet Mr. Amazing (or Ms.; I am not averse to this scenario but it is rather unlikely, given my basic sexual orientation). We call in sick to our jobs (or perhaps we are too rich to have any) and spend the entire week in bed. We occasionally have pizza delivered, because we don't want to get dressed. We discuss contemporary American poetry and the irritating footnotes in David Foster Wallace. There is nookie. After about four or five days of this, Mr. Amazing whacks me with the extra pillow and says, "You know, we should get married." I say, "OK." We grab a couple friends (identities sketchy at this writing) and drive to the courthouse as soon as it gets light outside. I think that I am wearing something red and velvet from the thrift store. Mr. Amazing is wearing a tie and my very favorite Descendents T-shirt, which says "Milo Goes To College" on the front. We sign the marriage license (I'm not sure how this part works exactly--does one have to say vows?) and head off to the local pancake house with our friends. We drink lots of black coffee and try to convince the waitress that we are really married. She does not believe us.

That's all.

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