Comment Box, Wrapped in Lace

Often times, seeing the hit counter and knowing that someone is reading isn't enough... it's nice to get a comment or two every now and again... kind of like a church collection basket... we like the kind that jingles, but we love the kind that folds.  For me, it's difficult to respond to them... mostly because I am on to something new already... or I don't feel like anyone is reading the posts, let alone the comments as well.  Sometimes I will respond directly to the person if I have their email address... or sometimes I will include my reply in a future post somehow.  This one I received in response to yesterday's wedding pictures and I thought it warranted it's own post...

In response to my previous post about being nervous about what to do with my hair for the wedding, Jaydog said...

"What happened to the suit, spray of baby's breath, and french braid?"

1.  No one could have possibly realized that, with me in a suit and not wearing a hat for the first time since the ice age, history was in the making... and nobody snapped a picture before I changed... much like the elusive Big Foot (with my hair looking only marginally better than it's).

2.  Showing up in a French braid with a spray of baby's breath, although timelessly classic in other applications, would have surely up-ended what was to be the bride's special day and it would have come to a screeching halt almost instantly... no matter how tolerant everyone was of the gays that were trying to represent.

3.  Jesse was doing his part to up-end the bride's special day in various ways:
 
a.  After trying to magically transform a sportsmen's club with dead animals on the walls into a fairytale field of Gerber Daisies (and reaming out his whole family for not banging out the perfect floral table spray (including his linebacker brother))... and after doing the whole bridal party's haircuts and colorings over days prior, he had to do all the up-do's that day as well, so he was tired and a little punchy, putting it mildly.
b.  Speaking of punch, he drank too much the night before and, from what I gathered, all but poured Red Bull and vodka on his choice of breakfast cereal the morning of, so he was not feeling any pain.
c.  What he was feeling, was me.  Being the last to get dressed, and considering his buzz, it was in his dressing room that he choose to profess his undying love to me, like we were on the altar ourselves... meanwhile I just wanted him to get into his tux and shiny shoes and get to the wedding, since it was being held up on the count of us... and although it still wasn't our wedding day, regardless, it was a hard concept for him to grasp, muttering something about they had to wait for the bride and he wasn't ready yet.
d.  During the opening walk down the aisle, he again forgot who the bride was... or at least who he was, as he gave a back-handed, Queen of England wave to the congregation like he was Lady Di, herself, and was blowing me kisses and winking throughout the vows.
e.  During the bridal party's getaway hayride on the way to the reception (don't ask, it's a Washington County thing (out in the sticks, and all))... he took off half of his tux and was flashing people... you can figure out who and with what parts of himself without any further description from me.  The flower girl was crying.  He is mysteriously missing from the picture below, as I would bet good money that he couldn't possibly have stood up long enough to be the one snapping the picture.  It's still a mystery.
f.  During the best man's (him) speech, his brother had to hold him steady and feed him what to say... this only after talking for ten minutes without the mic being on.  Thankfully (for us), he forgot the speech that he wrote down, complete with stage notes (raise glass, exit stage left (which didn't come soon enough)).
g.  With the emotional and physical build-up to the actual event, he had definitely had enough and had a mini-breakdown of his own, somehow in the ladies room (much like the academy award winning Miss Sally Field in Steel Magnolias, during the funeral scene, minus the brown helmet hairdo)... crying uncontrollably... because his Mom was going to pass someday in the next 50-70 years (who, btw... looked timeless in her taupe, scalloped taffetta dress with matching peep-toe, 2" slides (pictured, far left)).
h.  Finally, while wandering about the parking lot in a stupor, he managed to step into a hole up to his knee and fall down.

Although the baby's breath would have been really pretty, I instinctively didn't think that people would go for that sort of thing, so I went with my normal look... middle-aged, thinning, Farrah Fawcett-throw-back, feathery-bullshit, comb-overy, round-brushed, blown-out, back-combed hair-don't, and I pulled it off flawlessly... just sayin'. 

Perhaps this should have been one of those occasions where I just didn't reply to the comment... but no one would have believed it unless it was in writing.  This is why I love the guy though... how could I have possibly been nervous amongst all the clamor that he created (which I choose to believe that he orchestrated solely to make me feel better)?  Do I have my own Bridezilla in the making?