My co-worker’s wedding.

My co-worker Mili got married two weeks ago, and it was a hoot. It was on the beach in Long Island at sunset, the gods were compassionate and the sun shone and it was so beautiful. Here, a picture to show the beauty.

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And right after the wedding, I took a picture of the seats with the ocean and the sand and the planks – see? SO beautiful.

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As soon as they were pronounced man and wife, Mili did a “raise the roof” dance complete with some shrieking of glee, because Mili is a free spirit and that’s how she rolls. Apparently so does M., the groom. Remember that, it comes up later.

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Anyway, ceremony’s over. Time for drinkies and snakkies and ice sculptures and melons carved as dolphins. Oh yeah.

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You need more melons? I’ll give you more melons.

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Then it’s excessive dancing and dinner time. I sat with some of my other co-workers. I work with some lovely ladies. Look at how pretty they are.

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So thin, so tan. And then there’s me.

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There’s me and the Cricket. Note the super-awesome drag queen/Vegas dancer makeup. I was just ROCKIN’ the liner and shadow. The hell with the natural look. For me, the natural look is no makeup. If it ain’t bare, slap on the paint, boys, I’m going to town. Oh, and you can’t really see it in this picture, but I matched my nail polish exactly to my shirt. I’m so proud of myself I could spit.

Moving on. There were a few things at this wedding which caught my eye. First of all, I loved the glowing octopus of lights that softened the ceiling.

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The other thing was this girl. She had nice straight hair but she had decided to crimp it, 80s style. I have nothing against crimping, it just… she just stuck the iron in her hair, clamped down and then moved on to a totally different chunk.

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See? Confusing. I spoke to Mili later and it turns out that CrimpGirl’s a total Luna Lovegood whackadoo and everyone at the wedding who knew her was just glad she wore a bra. Pick your battles, I guess. But I think it was a wonderful wedding and the food was delicious and the band was UH-mazing (I think AC/DC should from now on be sung only by black women with shaved heads, because that’s what happened and it was phenomenal) and Mili danced with her father to a song I keep insisting on calling Buffalo Kisses, because I am not bright. Terrific evening.

The whole point of telling you about this wedding is so I could tell you about this honeymoon story I heard today when Mili got back. Mili and M. went to Aruba and stayed in a Hyatt because Mili’s brother works for Hyatt and got them a bit of a discount. So the second day they get tanked on the beach and go back to the room and M. decides to dance. But he could not fully express his dancerly needs on the floor, so he proceeded to dance on the bed, where he smacked his hand against the painting above the bed and shattered the glass in it. His hand was fine, but now there’s this painting with a gazillion cracks through it. Mili didn’t want to pay $1000 or whatever the crappity painting costs, and she didn’t want to get her brother into trouble either, so she put the “do not disturb” sign on the door for two days while she thought of a plan. Then, when Mili and M. were on the beach, a guy offered them a cooler full of Heineken. She saw the cooler and was like, “Hello, solution to my problems.” They drank the Heinekens (of course) and then went back to the room, where she moved the bed, then laid a towel down on the floor. M. gently shook all the glass onto the towel, which they folded up and shoved in the cooler. Mili was like, “Good, great, find a dumpster far away and throw it in.” M. complies. He comes back white-faced. Mili asked what was wrong and M. said he carried the cooler out to a faraway dumpster and threw the cooler in, with some towel hanging out the side. Some people walking by looked at him like he was crazy and said something about “Oh my God, a baby in a cooler.” Mili said, “Well, what did you do?” M. said, “I ran.” So they ended hanging out in the room for a whole day, convinced that the cops would be looking for M. as The Cooler-Baby Killer. PERFECT honeymoon story. PERFECT. You cannot write stuff that good.

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