Lavender Wedding I'm convinced that I'll get married in the gym of my old high school. The ceremony will take place on a beautiful spring afternoon on Saturday 'cause Saturdays are for weddings. My suit will be "virgin" white with a shirt of lavender and ruffles at the collar. The shoes will be plat formed. I'll reek of Brut and Afro-sheen. My husband to be will look stunning in his lavender Christian Dior wedding dress imported from Paris. I'll mow the hair from my legs like newly cut grass with a Lady Bic. Pluck my chest hairs like feathers from a chicken. Paint these lips with apple red lipstick. I want all my closest friends to come ornamented in those dresses like they wore in Footloose. The lesbians will come as Wall Street tycoons constantly reminding me how expensive all this shit is and how much it's going to set me back no matter how many times I tell them that money is no object. I want my daddy to give me away if he promises to keep his hands off Aunt Tillie. My mama will be the barer of rice and punch spiked with whiskey. The priest will be a Michael Jackson impersonator. The reception will be held at the house of Chicken and Waffles. where Debbie, employee of the month, will catch the bouquet. Wally, the four hundred pound, stubble- faced cook, who smokes stink cigars, where the ashes occasionally fall in the blueberry pancake mix, will have the pleasure of pulling the garter belt from my husband's thigh with his teeth. There will be no limousines 'cause if a Pinto was good enough for my sister and her husband, it's good enough for me and mine.