So, yeah, the wedding was pretty fun on Friday night. It was at some Henry Ford estate place in Dearborn -- fancy digs. I guess this Ford guy was a big deal in Michigan. I'm not sure but I think he had something to do with driving.
Very nice ceremony -- it went off without a hitch. For some reason, the old lady signed us up for a vegetarian dinner. Apparently, there were two you could choose from: 1.) The Vegetarian entree and B.) Chicken and Steak. Now that's not chicken OR steak, but chicken AND steak. Who the fuck serves chicken AND steak. What is that, turf and turf?! Or turf and... coop?! And since the crabbydad family doesn't eat red meat (or as Mr. Z likes to tell the wait-staff at restaurants, "We don't eat mammals!") we had to go for the veggie meal. As I guessed, it was a portobello mushroom, but that wasn't all, my friends. It was stuffed with something... it was kind of a cross between spinach dip and ranch dressing. And ass. And then the whole yack-inducing bolus was topped with melted cheddar cheese. And there were three, small over-buttery potato-lettes, too. Basically, the "chef" hated vegetarians. What a dick.
So we drank a lot of wine.
After dinner there was supposed to be a dj "spinnin' some wax," but the room full of musicians won out and started the jamming early. The groom played a very sweet song for his new "lady" on the piano and then the floor was opened up for "the rockers." There were a few songs by the groom's old band -- some reggae/ska stuff that sounded pretty good, but way too fucking loud. Now I get what people are always yelling at me whenever I played at a wedding. It was too fucking loud. I guess if it sounds good, then people don't really mind if it's loud. Apparently, we never sounded good.
Anywhich, the old lady and I were tired as shit because of the long drive and because of all the vino we had to suck down in order to choke down that fucking fartobello. So we were ready to leave but I had to stick around to play on that "California Stars" song. Finally, after an inconceivable reggae version of "Breathe," by Pink Floyd, it was my turn. The tune actually went pretty well -- I kept it nice and steady and people danced to it -- all in all a fine performance. Then we hightailed it outta there before the band had time to reform for the 90 minute version of "Mustang Sally."
We finally made it home and forked over ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS to the babysitter, who basically sat in our family room, ate pizza and watched "Cheaters." (I checked the channel the TV was on after she left.)
All in all, though, it was a good time. It was nice to get away and get all duded up and fancy-like. The old lady looked very nice and I cleaned up purty good. As we were leaving the house, Mr. Z saw the old lady and said, "Mom! You're wearing makeup! Come here -- let me see it closer!" The old lady said she felt a little bit like a female impersonator, but I thought she looked great. If that's what female impersonators look like, then she's one female impersonator I wouldn't mind sharing my cheese-covered mushroom with again.
Wait, that didn't come out right.