Emotional spackle.

In happier news, there was no fondling at the wedding last night, but there was this, so…I mean, holes were filled.

The MySpace Matchmaker

Around 6 years ago I introduced my Male BFF to one of my Female BFFs via the final flickering embers of MySpace. I thought they’d get along well and HAD to meet, even if only to screw each other senseless and call it a day. When your prudish friend tells you, “OMG, you two need to fuck,” I think you HAVE to. That’s a thing, right?

And fuck they did! But as I’d hoped, they also liked each other.

So last night I had the privilege of being among the friends and family invited to be there when he proposed to her on the beach, under a starry sky and accompanied by the sound of the waves rolling in nearby.

She accepted. I did good, you guys.

And because all roads lead to Friends — “I just thought you guys were doing it, I didn’t know you were in love!” ❤️

Now, moving on to what’s really important: Which of the groomsmen am I going to bang in the coat room at their reception? Instead of a finder’s FEE for my matchmaking, I should get a finder’s fuck, no?

I am why I cannot have nice things.

Shopping for dishes and realizing I will never be a fine china type. $140 per 5-piece place setting? Oh, OK. I’ll get right on that, Kate Spade. See also: blow me. 

I need to buy dishes because I’m a giant, spazzy klutz and I’ve broken most of mine. Even if someone else bought them for me, on the cold day in hell I ever get married and have a registry, I just can’t be trusted. That’s all I need is to break a teacup and envision $28 of Great Aunt Millie’s hard-earned retirement money in tiny shards on my kitchen floor. 

I am the person for whom they invented Corelle. 

Picture Past Perfect

I’m going to hell, but you know what’s pretty easy to part with when you’re cleaning? 

Divorced folks’ wedding photos.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to go ‘head and…get laid at my wedding… That’d be greeaaaaat.”

Barely 3 months at my job, I’ve been invited to my boss’s wedding.

How unprofessional is it to bang one of your boss’s relatives in a country club coatroom? Ahem. Asking for a friend…

Re-blog: Couple Excited to Start Planning Wedding Expenses

Via The Onion:
Couple Excited to Start Planning Wedding Expenses

Your joy enrages me.

Observation: I HATE overly posed wedding photos. When’s the last time you actually stood like that, with your hands all stupidly, intricately entwined? Not never.

I’ve seen some amazing engagement/wedding photos from friends, and I’d hire their photographers, but no one whose work I don’t know personally. I might just trust my wedding guests to take enough good photos to assemble a decent album. In fact, I have a friend who takes such good photos of his kids that I might ask him to do my photos as a wedding gift. (Also, the wedding photo booth trend is one of my favorite things.)

Yes, I’m also massively cheap, but I can’t stand shitty, unnatural posing. My favorite photos of me and my ex were taken by our families or friends, usually while we weren’t even paying attention. All the pics taken by wedding photographers look like someone literally told us to say “cheese.” The best part of those is remembering how, behind the big, fake smiles, we were muttering about what a jag the photographer was.

Meeting people organically/orgasmically

A friend and I discuss the possibility of her meeting her new Person at Whole Foods.

“Damn, I gotta move back to the suburbs. I’m not meeting my soulmate at the Shoprite in the ‘hood. I can’t even find frozen mango there, let alone someone worth sleeping with.

“Personally, for my meet-cute, I’m biding my time until the next wedding I go to. I have some friends who are dating — maybe they’ll work out and I can go to their wedding in a couple years and find love with the guy I let finger me in a country club’s coatroom. (What do you mean, ‘That’s not love?’ Ah, shit!)”

You’re damn right I “take this man.”

Last night I saw porn that made me want to get married.

No, wait… Actually, I think I just want to wear a pretty dress, and be pleasured orally then taken from behind by a man wearing remnants of a tuxedo.

And then we’d eat cake.

Yeah. That sounds way better.