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One Helluva New Year’s Nightmare

Anxiously I peeked out from the curtains behind the pulpit as one by one the guests filed into the sanctuary. As those who knew each other seated themselves in clumps, the pews reminded me of a photo of a mange-infested scalp.  My awareness of the church’s ugliness was heightened by the fact that there were no blossoms cascading from the arch that wasn’t on its stage and that the only bouquet was the one my mother stopped off and picked up at Conroy’s.

But the florist wasn’t the only no-show on this, what was to have been the happiest day of my life. Well, granted it was the third wedding at which I’d been the blushing bride, but I’d intended it to be the happiest. However, my daughters were boycotting my big day because, not only was I marrying out of our Jewish faith, my chosen one – in all his Bombay glory — was ten years their junior.

Mascara seared my eyes as my screaming match with my sister – who had forgotten the poem extolling the virtues of love she was to have read during the ceremony – escalated. Our duet was silenced as the doors exploded and my brother – with his entourage of loud-ass, half-clad ghetto hoochies made their way down the aisle to the center of the front row.

What!? Who’s at the back door? Today? And before I could stop them, delivery men were hauling onto the stage the new pulpit furniture whose delivery the church secretary had forgotten she’d scheduled when she calendared my big day.

She forgot to put us in the pastor’s schedule as well.

Disappointed that what was to have been my final wedding day (third time’s the charm, or so they say) was now in ruins, I stalked over to the chair where my shoeless groom trumpeted loudly into his tissue to expel the mucous that had taken up residence in his nostrils.  I reached out and yanked him to his feet.

“Let’s just get this shit over with,” Linda Blair bellowed from somewhere deep in my chest.

With the speed of Maine molasses on a mid-winter day, he tucked his snot-laden tissue into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled Post-It onto which he had scribbled his vows. Slowly and oh so deliberately he smoothed the bright yellow note onto the lectern and cleared his throat, but by that time, I’d had more than my fill. I snatched the paper from his hands, ripped it to shreds and ground the bits into the pulpit carpet.

“Just fucking say ‘I do’! “

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Holy Crap!

Sipping champagne at bedtime? Nevermore …

Happy New Year!!


About PD Williams

Writer - primarily humorous women's fiction. My secret agenda is to help men become in actuality the visions they think they already are. I point out their many flaws in the kindest, gentlest, most supportive way I know -- gotta protect those fragile male egos -- so we can stop wasting our energy trying to change them. After all, as women, we have more important things to do.

7 responses »

  1. Why does it bother me?

    OMG! Hehehehe

  2. lmao! I don’t know if this is true, but this is what great comedies are made of! luv this imagery: “loud-ass, half-clad ghetto hoochies made their way down the aisle to the center of the front row.” I’ll be laughing all day Linda! 🙂


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