Bon Appetite!

After an hour or so of J., his girls, and the remaining cast of thousands making painstaking trips down the 10th-of-a-mile aisle, unwilling bridesmaids meeting unenthusiastic groomsmen, repeated uninflected readings of "love is patient, love is kind, blah blah blah" and queries about who presents this woman, everyone retreated to the relative safety of their cars to trek to the oddly awkward social convention known as the Rehearsal Dinner.

I had a colleague once who referred to the rehearsal dinner as "when her family and his family get together and sniff eachother's butts." Ew. It was heinous enough without adding anyone's butt to the equation.

I am of course, sitting out this ritual as well. Not in the bridal party, not coming to the party, a party of one, really.

During one of J.'s readings of the intercessions, his guardian angel interceded on his behalf. Something at work had come up and he'd have to miss the dinner. Lord hear our prayer. So his girls went it alone, the teen leading the way for the tween and piling into Sheila's family's cars, not yet dripping with tin cans and streamers, to make their way to a nearby strip mall for franchise Italian food and, well, butt sniffing.

Oddly, they were seated with people they'd never met, but took their places and waited for their meals to be microwaved, reconstituted and warmed to perfection. I was imagining the menu - a bountiful array of dishes renamed for the occassion; Chicken Caccia-Chuck, Eggplant a la Em, and perhaps Mickey and Minnie Mousse for dessert.

The event, from all accounts, seemed to go as smoothly as anyone would have expected, saving one ill-tempered guest with way too much Chianti and an insufficient sense of humor.

But there was one show stopper.

After the dinner plates were cleared and coffee orders taken, the chef proudly wheeled out an elaborate three-tiered cake. A three-tiered cake decorated with the likenesses of a dozen or more Superheroes.

Even now I am unable to adequately comment at having to have written that last sentence.

Even though the cake had a few folks undoubtedly wondering if there was a 9-year-old celebrating his birthday on the same night, it would somehow explain the bizarre choice of honeymoon locations and at least a few of the famous couples being used to identify the tables at the reception.

I can't imagine what other surprises await the wedding guests. Maybe at the double-ring ceremony we'll learn that Chuck's wedding band is actually a Secret Decoder Ring.

My Spidey-sense is tingling.

Up, up and awaaaayyyyy!