The Royal Wedding, Part Two

I am momentarily so distracted by my own reaction to Lars's Big News that I almost forget to wonder about the kids.

Part of me wants to be The Bigger Person and send a lovely sincere Congratulations on Your Engagement card - from me and Scott. But that would not only be suspect, it would be false. I could really not care less. No skin in the game. No horse in the race. No money wagered. Yesterday's news is already tomorrow's fish-n-chips paper, to loosely quote Elvis Costello.

But I am wondering how the kids handled the news. But I'll have to wait for them to return to get the deets. I am sure there would be fierce hairy eyeballs aplenty if either of them were overheard talking about Lars's private matters to the enemy.

In the mean time, I feel compelled to share the update with friends and family.

I send an FB message to friends I worked closely with who had a front row daily ticket to the misadventures of my unraveling marriage. Tell them not to be too heartbroken, Lars was Oh-ficially Off the Market.

The response is universal disbelief that anyone would take on such a charity case, and speculation that Liza is one float short of a parade herself. Straight from the Land of Misfit Toys. A Clearance Bride.

I text Charlotte. Get a prompt "WTF?" followed by "Eeeewwwww." And then finally, "Does this mean you can stop paying so much child support?"

Email my Besties, mentioning the inkling that I had that he was gloating. The responses are supportive and immediate:

"What an ass."

"No seller's remorse there!"

"OMG it's hilarious that you both have the same name. Gross."

My office pals are filled in on Monday. Yoga Liza and His Royal Nastiness would become Mr. and Mrs. Nastiness sometime soon.

Practically rolling on the floor with laughter, they describe their visions of a hippy wedding Liza in a gauzy lace A-line, bell-sleeved get up and a daisy chain in her uncolored, home cut, wildly untamed hair. Lars would be in a Nehru jacket and Birkenstocks, for sure. So flattering on his troll feet.

Through tears of hysteria they imagine bridesmaids all in Chantilly lace dyed in all the colors of the chakras. A barefoot mandolin player. Chanting. Patchouli. Officiation provided by the religion Liza practices that favors doughnuts and bowling.

I realize that this could be great fun to watch my rigid and opinionated yet unprincipled and unconcerned with tradition ex-husband attempt to abide by Liza's life-long dreams for her counterculture hippy-dippy nuptials.

Move over Will and Kate. It is a reality show in the making.