I have never really enjoyed weddings. I usually think of weddings as funerals with dancing. I used to think weddings had better food, but then I went to a funeral that had the most divine smoked salmon platter. I once explained to a girlfriend that weddings were the last meals served to death row inmates. That once upon a time, women were nothing more than property and marriages were contractual agreements between two wealthy landowners. The wedding itself was a way of softening this truth to the bride. In exchange for a life of servitude, she’d get a big fancy wedding where she’d be treated like a princess for a day. One last hurrah before the inevitable. If I were on death row — probably because I bore an uncanny resemblance to a political prisoner who was the love of a woman I didn’t deserve and then switched places with him so he could be with her and I could kneel before the guillotine — you can bet I’d order a huge ice cream sundae served in a mop bucket. Keep reading »