and now back to our regularly scheduled ramblings

It has been a while since I sat in front of my little iBook and went on and on about nothing in particular. I've been in Chi-town, the Windy City, the city with its own Ticketmaster. Chicago in July wasn't as miserably hot as Orlando, but it did hit 102 degrees the day after my cousin Michelle's wedding.

The wedding was very nice. In fact, it featured the best wedding cake I've ever tasted, the best wedding party gifts I've ever jealously watched being presented, the best conversation I've had with my sister-in-law, the hottest bartender I ever smiled at while sober and the scariest dance floor ever assembled for a reception.


That probably needs some explanation. At the rehearsal dinner, the bride and groom-to-be recognized their weddding party members with lavish gifts thoughtfully purchased for each groomsman, including an iPod Shuffle, an expensive assortment of hardware tools and an XM satellite radio. I KNOW!!! All of the bridesmaids received jewelry to wear at the wedding and a sweet, personalized photo collage of images of the bride and her maids.


The bartender reminded me of Jeff Buckley if he had not shaved in six days. *exhale*

The dancefloor had two victims. The squares that made up the floor started separating during "Who Let the Dogs Out" or "Brown-Eyed Girl," I don't remember. My cousin, an adorable toddler who was also the flower girl, cut her foot on the edge of one of the squares that made up the dance floor. My aunt got her heel caught in it, but recovered quickly. One of the groomsmen's girlfriends didn't fare as well and wound up spending the rest of the evening in an ambulance. It probably was more of her drunkeness and crazy dance moves than the San Andreas dance floor, but it was also enough to cause a huge scene, and the bride to cry, which was sad. I heard she broke her tailbone, but the next day, I heard she was fine.

If you know me well, you probably also know that I am not a huge fan of weddings, and I'm not even sure I believe in marriage, for that matter. I have nothing against happy couples everywhere who pledge their love, devotion and a check for thousands of dollars that could have be an outstanding down payment on a home. Seriously, if you step back and forget all the happily ever after tales you've listened to, you can start to believe that someone is behind the curtain laughing hysterically at the dollar signs ringing up at bridal stores, florists and bakeries around the world.

I believe it's everyone's right to have the wedding -- and the marriage -- he or she dreams about, whether male or female, gay or straight, young or old. If it makes you happy -- do it! It's the one day people will dismiss your crazy antics because it's your day. Although, I will never forgive the sadistic madman that thought adding a thimble to the cake pulls was a good idea. I pulled the thimble, and that meant I would be the "old maid." That was in the early '90s, and I have since pulled a heart, meaning I would find "true love" (which became true when Mr. Jobs invented the iPod), and I most recently pulled a diamond ring, which meant I would be the next to be engaged. I'll admit, it did make me feel kind of nice, like I was redeemed in some way. How sick is that?

I made up for it at my Chicago wedding, when I looked at one of my aunts, who is not married. I watched her dance with an array of different men, all good friends of hers she doesn't have to pretend to like. She was free to talk to whomever she wanted, leave whenever she wanted and eat as many chocolate-covered strawberries as she desired. Being single does have its perks. And although I did get the obligatory, "So Stephanie, are you going to be next?" it wasn't so bad. I have a terrific family that no matter their faults, always remind me how lucky I am to be in such a tight-knit, gossipy, lovable, sometimes indecent, exceptional family.

I'll write again soon with highlights from the rest of the trip -- including five-egg omelettes at Lume's, tornado warning sirens and a chance encounter with Bob Mould on Michigan Avenue.