Sherry's Royal Wedding

The Royal Wedding is a week behind us, yet much of the world is still nibbling scones, clinking teacups and sighing over the pomp and romance.

I slept during the nuptials. I tuned out the stream of TV reruns, choosing instead to drink beer and watch season four of Doctor Who. I didn't purchase any commemorative coins, cups or condoms--though I did contemplate the commemorative royal Pez Dispenser.

Before you label me a cynical bah-humbugger, let me explain my disinterest in this momentous occasion: I'm far too busy planning my own wedding festivities (round two, for those who are keeping track).

First, I need to work out a couple preliminary items. For example, no one has *technically* asked for my hand in matrimony. And I haven't had a real date since a downtown street-dweller offered me a drink from his bottle. But these are mere details I expect to resolve while I'm planning my to-die-for ceremony and reception.

I have no complaints about my first wedding. Yes, I suffered from a severe case of laryngitis and couldn't actually say my vows. And the groom did have to nudge me and tell me to look at him during the ceremony, since apparently my gaze was fixated on the priest, Father What-a-Waste. (Seriously, ladies: What. A. Waste.) Yet the entire event was really quite lovely, and even if the whole marriage thing didn't exactly work out, I wouldn't change a thing about that magical day.

But the second time around will be so, SO fabulous. The New York Times has already reserved a full page for coverage, and Oprah hinted she'll extend her last show date for an exclusive interview. Meh. I'm holding out for a bigger offer.

Meanwhile, I'm pleased to share some of the wedding details with you, my beloved readers.

As most of you know, I'm the traditional type. So I will be married once again in the Catholic church, if they decide to allow me back in. I'll insist the Mass be performed in Latin. It's such a beautiful language, plus I don't care to fully comprehend what I'm consenting to. And if Father What-a-Waste won't agree to be the groom this time, I hope he'll at least agree to officiate.

The wedding party is still under consideration. Positions shall go to the highest bidders. Do I hear one dollar? Anyone? Anyone? However, I do know my dog, Ringo, shall serve as ring-bearer. (Ringo. Too perfect, yes? Just cross your fingers that he doesn't leave a little offertory gift of his own at the altar.) Sadly, my father isn't here to walk me down the aisle, but I can guarantee my two sons are all too willing to give me away, especially if it means I'll never again nag them to mow the lawn.

I will forsake the gorgeous satin wedding dress and heels this time around. Shouldn't one celebrate the most special day of one's life in blissful comfort? I will be attired in sweats and my favorite fluffy slippers. My hair will be tied back in a Chicago Cubs scrunchie (2011 is the year, Cubbie fans)! Makeup will be optional, depending on just how late I happen to be running that day. Regardless, I am the bride, so people will tell me how radiant and ravishing I look!

The band for my first wedding reception was so wonderful I'd hire them again. Except I'm not up to hearing one single more rendition of the Chicken Dance or Proud Mary. So instead, we'll opt for karaoke. Wedding guests will be forced to have their names checked against my "Approved Singer List." (Sorry, Mom, but you'll be noted on my "HELL NO List.") I will likely climb on a table and belt out American Pie at least three times. The crowd will applaud with gusto no matter how off-key I am because, again (see the previous paragraph), I am the bride and this is my damn day.

We will dine on crab since it's my favorite food. Besides, when I dribble crab bits and melted butter all over my dingy gray sweatshirt, it's certain to be less conspicuous than the red blobs of mostaccioli all over my white gown at reception number one.

You are all sure to buy me spectacular wedding gifts, and I am good with that. No worries about trying to be creative. I will gladly accept obscene quantities of cash.

I've given the honeymoon little consideration. A fleeting one-week trip seems rather insignificant when the rest of my life with my new billionaire husband will be one permanent vacation. (Is it too premature to offer my boss my two-week's notice today?)

The wedding invitations shall go out soon. All I'm waiting on is a confirmation on the date. Oh, and a proposal from a prospective groom.

Please clink your royal teacups together in my honor!

And sharpen up those karaoke skills! I'd hate to put any of you on the "HELL NO List" with my mother.

(Mom, you'll still attend though, won't you? Free crab--and all the wine you can drink! Plus you're certain to want your very own collectible Bride Sherry Pez Dispenser! OK, and I promise a bit of lipstick for the occasion. But the sweatpants are totally a deal-breaker. Sorry.)


Were you glued to every moment of the Royal Wedding? Team William or Team Harry? Any personal wedding day bliss or wedding bell blues you care to share?