Wedding anniversaries are a time to reflect, to pay tribute to the (wo)man of our dreams, to sit back and say, “I love you.”
Or, in my case, “You’re welcome.”
I’ve done so much for you, my hygienic, good-garbage-taker-outer husband; it’s really something special. I’d like to take this time to remind you of all the wonderful things I’ve brought to your life over the years. Why, just 3 years ago, I was willing to learn the Fox Trot for our wedding so people would stop talking about how I have all the class in the relationship. Then there was that time I told you your marriage proposal had to be top-notch because I wanted you to harness your creativity. Oh, and let’s not forget those occasional hormonal meltdowns, where I let you practice being sensitive.
It seems almost too obvious to mention how I graciously allow you to do all the grocery shopping and cooking so you can simultaneously develop your budgeting skills and palette. Or how I occasionally have you read my blog posts in advance so you can fine tune your sense of humor.
I do all of these things for you, ball and chain Spouse. I know sometimes you have trouble putting your gratitude into words and it comes out more like, “You’re so pretty” or “You’re perfect.” It’s okay. I understand. (It’s this same understanding that’s taught you to be so patient and empathetic. But no, no. No need to thank me for that.)
"Just keep smiling, Crumpet, or the Queen will poison you."
There ain’t no guilty pleasure party like a guilty pleasure party ensconced in quail eggs and corsets. But is marrying a prince really all it’s cracked up to be? If only I could get Kate Middleton in a room for five minutes.
"I am so very glad we're not the real royals. You should have seen the bong rip I just took in my trailer."
Kate, is the recently-aired Lifetime movie “William & Kate” remotely accurate, especially the part where you jump out of the row boat and swim up to meet William, who has finally come to beg your forgiveness for being such a whorish d-bag?
Is it true the Windsors take the phrase ‘stiff upper lip’ so seriously that you were not permitted to move your top lip while speaking to ITV News about your engagement, or did you suffer a minor stress stroke that day?
Why did you invite the convenience store owners from your home town of Bucklebury to your wedding? Don’t you already get free Cadburys and crisps just by being the future queen of England? And won’t you get crumbs on the throne?
Could you please settle a debate and confirm for my husband that the monarchy still carries great influence, and though it might not seem like it, you will be the direct link to the passing of the law that allows same-sex marriage?
My ivory tower.
How many royal jewels and/or hats are you permitted to wear at any given time, and can I have the ones you’re not using?
Is realizing you’re going to live in Buckingham Palace like realizing you’re going to live in a bi-level with a spiral staircase? If so, then I can totally relate.
100% Pure Inspiration.
What was your initial reaction to seeing this coin? Would you be impressed if I told you I have not one, but two draft blogs inspired by it? How many of these things would it take to hire a hitman to kill the guy who designed it?
…Because of the nature of [and likely answers to] these questions, along with many other reasons (e.g., curtseying, caviar, polo and having to find a tactful way to tell the queen piss off), I’ve come to conclude that I feel very sorry for Kate Middleton. She’s gone from Waity Katie to just plain screwed.
I like to think of myself as Old Money. Not because I have, or have ever had, any sort of real money, I just think if I did, I wouldn’t brag about it. I wouldn’t buy a McMansion on Millionaire Row and send my kids to ivy-covered prep schools, and I definitely wouldn’t drive a BMW. (I would buy a real mansion on secluded acreage, send my kids to boarding school, and have a chauffeur.)
What I’m trying to say is, I know I shouldn’t brag about my engagement. It’s just that, well, I’m so POSITIVE it’s better than yours (and am excited to read your comments to this effect), that it seems like I owe it to you to tell you that you can stop trying now. You’re welcome.
Four years ago, I said to my boyfriend something like, “My entire sense of self-worth is riding on how you propose, so I really need you to pull out all the stops.”
Unbeknownst to me, he took my words to heart and began plotting. When we flew to Las Vegas for my 25th birthday, he already had the whole thing planned. We arrived the day before my birthday, and on the morning of April 30, 2007, I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t let his decrepit-yet-metrosexual shoulder bag out of his sight. I started to become suspicious, but when he took a shower and I poked around, no ring was to be found.
I tried not to sound disappointed when he gave me a toothbrush as a gift. I’m very passionate about dental hygiene, so it was quite a thoughtful token.
I won some money on the slots and we went to the Paris restaurant for dinner. Things were looking up. We were excited to go see Amazing Johnathan perform at the Sahara. I’d been wanting to see him live for FOREVER.
When we arrived at the Sahara, my boyfriend made a big to-do about going to get our tickets, and someone ushered me straight to the front of the theater as if they knew me. The suspicion returned.
The show began and, to my horror, my boyfriend started texting.
“Who are you texting!?” I hissed, reminding him through my narrowed eyes that not only were we two feet from the stage, but also that I knew how to make his life miserable because only one of us could cry on command.
He put his phone away and Amazing Johnathan asked if there were any volunteers in the audience whose name began with “E.” My boyfriend, Ed, raised his hand and was selected to go on stage. Amazing Johnathan asked if Ed was with anyone, and he replied,
“Yes, my girlfriend, Julie.”
This is it, I thought, and smiled. As I gracefully walked on stage, I can assure you that I was not shaking in the slightest (because that would be the normal reaction, and I was clearly far from normal, living out the most outstanding engagement story that was or ever would be told). Amazing Johnathan asked me to put my hand on an orange while he cut around it. It would have been an embarrassingly unfunny trick -for both of us- except that when he opened the orange, there was indeed a diamond ring inside! It looked so sparkly…and sticky.
“Do you know what that is?” Amazing Johnathan said, rather dumbly if you ask me, because we all knew why we were there, and Ed got down on one knee.
“Will you marry me?” Ed asked, and I tried to think of something interesting to say. Why had I not been rehearsing this for the last 25 years?
“I suppose,” I replied, sure my wit would go unappreciated.
Amazing Johnathan congratulated me and then kissed me on the lips while everyone howled. Well, at least I can be the vehicle for someone else’s applause, I thought graciously.
For some reason, Amazing Johnathan decided to continue with his show after that, while I spent the remainder of the night grinning and cleaning orange pulp out of my new accessory.
Four years later, I’ve yet to hear a better engagement story, but if I do, I’m willing to give you my ring. I can’t wear it. It makes me break out.
Go Jules Go 