Hail to the Queen

But before the Scouts, there are the Royals.

Not the Kansas City Royals.

Not the Royal Tenenbaums.

The Royal Wedding. As in Prince William and Waity Katie, adorable couple that they are.

I had set my DVR to record hours of pageantry. I'd resist the urge to get up at the crack of dawn to watch what I could while primping for a day at the office. (I know, I know. Why bother? I could show up in my bathrobe and still not win the Worst Dressed contest.)

I woke on the morning of the wedding when my radio alarm went off, and the morning news person said "Kate Middleton and her father have just arrived at Westminster Abbey..."

And I was out of bed - just as I had been the summer Di and Charles were wed - only then I was running down the street to Scott's parents' shore house from the one where I was staying.

This time I tiptoed into my daughter's room - deftly avoiding the nail polish collection. the array of Polly Pockets, and the 6 or 7 stuffed animals assembled for a tea party- and touched her golden hair.

Her eyes opened ever so slightly - and I whispered "The bride and her father have just arrived at Westminster Abbey. Do you want to go watch?"

And she was out of bed and down the stairs before I could give her the option of video playback with popcorn at a more reasonable hour.

It was lovely.

The Queen Mum in a lovely shade of buttercup yellow. Prince Philip looking regal.

Charles looking constipated as usual and Camilla's lovely outfit distracting attention from her hound dog face.

Handsome David Beckham with his miserable botoxed wife bearing their fourth child in an impossibly skinny torso.

Elton John and his husband must have gotten a babysitter for the big event because Junior was nowhere in sight.

Horse-faced daughters of former Duchess Fergie - one in an ill-advised bubble skirt ensemble and the other in a Lady Gaga-inspired hat, both very enthusiastic as royals go, inspite of their equine appearance.

And then Waity Katie. Or shall we say Easy Breezy Katie. A wisp of a thing in a gorgeous gown that reminded us all of a regal Princess Grace of Monaco. A demure tiara and veil, gorgeous in their simplicity. Nothing could compete with her radiance. Composed. Relaxed. Smiling. Wore the dress instead of the dress wearing her. Perfection.

Though I am sure, had I been her, I might have been having murderous thoughts the minute sister Pippa arrived threatening to become the breakout star in the fabulous creamy dress skimming an unbelievably smacked together bod - which had surely never touched anything by Spanx. Beyotch.

God Save the Queen.