So, we are all about weddings today, here at Mrs. Spit's.
- I have to go to a wedding tonight. Now, I tend to believe that weddings form a sort of social contract. I agree to go, bring a gift, and dress nicely. I agree to tell the bride that she looks beautiful (haven't yet seen one that doesn't), and to put my best manners in my back pocket.
- The bride and groom agree to feed me. A 12 course catered meal, a buffet, cookies and punch, merely wedding cake. Oh, the wedding is a potluck. Hmm.
- So, I'm showing up with a nice dress, a gift, my good manners, and the main course. Right.
- But that's not actually the worst invite I ever received. Nope, that one was a few years ago, from some of Mr. Spit's family. It was a western themed wedding. The RSVP card asked if I was ponying up to the ranch, or if I was going to be a low down varmint and not attend. I marvelled over the invite. I marvelled over the use of the word "potluck" as a verb. Yep, they were "potlucking" the wedding. Which left me wondering, did they think I was going to plug in my crock pot to the car, and drive down to the state of Montana with the spinach dip bubbling away in the back?
- I couldn't bring myself to respond to their RSVP card. I hauled out the monogrammed stationary, and I wrote a nice response about how Mr. and Mrs. Spit had to decline the kind invitation of Mr. X and Miss Y. I sent a nice crystal vase. I know, I'm a closet snob.
So tell me, what's your worst wedding story?