Fashion faux pause

If spring is when a young man's fancy turns to love, summer is the time for wedding guests to worry about what to wear to all those summer weddings they're invited to. Not to fear! We recently attended an outdoor wedding, so we are now experts on what to wear to such an occasion, at least in a Maryland garden in the evening in July. As a bonus, we've thrown in some other etiquette rules. Of course, if the wedding you are attending is indoors, somewhere else in the country, or at a different time of day, there are a different set of rules. And don't ask me what they are.

As women are most often the ones in charge of attire in the household (including of any animals, if present), these guidelines will be addressed to you females. Males, you may choose to print this out and give it to your female counterpart for future use, or you can use it for a placemat.

And here, without further ado, is our Guide to Attending Summer Weddings (Based on Experience!).

1. (This first recommendation is entirely optional, but since we took this step we highly recommend it.) Have your spouse take a summer course in the evenings that will interfere with any weddings you may be invited to. This will ensure that you will have no end of conversation with other guests, because they will constantly ask nosy questions about where your spouse is. Arrange the class time, however, so that your spouse can easily make the reception, which is all he is interested in anyway.

2. Before the wedding, search the Internet for appropriate attire for the type of occasion you will be attending. If their advice does not agree with what you privately want to wear, ignore it. For instance, express disdain for those Web sites suggesting suits for men attending evening garden weddings. What do they know?

3. Wear white sandals. When you arrive, notice that all the other women (except possibly the bride, whose shoes you can't really see anyway) are wearing black sandals, and wonder why they would wear such a dreary color in the middle of the summer. Feel superior to them, until your sister explains, a week after the wedding, that white shoes are generally considered inappropriate for an evening garden wedding in the East.

4. Choose a casual outfit for your husband to wear, believing that "garden" is merely French for "casual." Those French! They are always trying to trip up stupid Americans. Throw in a tie so your spouse can feel superior, too.

5. Immediately notice two things upon your arrival. No one is bearing gifts, except you, and all the men are wearing suits, with jackets. And not sports jackets, either. Suddenly realize that you should have gone with the Maryland interpretation for "garden," which means "the same as a church."

6. Ditch gift in car, reasoning that you can always give it to the couple later when it will be less obtrusive, like on their fifth anniversary.

7. Politely excuse self to a secluded spot to frantically call spouse and tell him to wear suit coat. Emphasize the point that if he comes without it he will not be allowed into the reception, because you will hide his place card.

8. Arrive at your table at the reception to find two seats open. One is directly in front of an overzealous air conditioner, which may, if you are situated just right in front of it, offer other guests a good view of your undergarments. Thoughtfully leave this seat for your spouse, whose only moveable garment will be his suit coat. If he remembers to wear it.

9. Answer more questions about where your spouse is from your table mates.

10. In conversation with others at your table, discover that you attended high school with the brother of one guest. When he asks your name, say it indistinctly to avoid having the brother make any connection between the person you are now -- suave, perfectly etiquetted -- with the gawky, pimply teenager he might have known in high school.

11. Chat amiably with the monk seated next to you until your spouse arrives -- happily, wearing his suit coat -- and asks the monk, who is clearly garbed in a monk's robe (and the only male guest over the age of 4 who is not expected to wear a suit coat), what kind of work he does. Bury yourself in the tablecloth, which is conveniently long for this sort of purpose.

12. Ahead of time, arrange for your spouse to go out of town the following morning, necessitating your both being at the airport at 5 a.m. This will ensure that you will look like duds leaving the reception early, and will prevent you from experiencing the best part of the evening: having cake.

13. Breathe a sigh of relief at escaping without committing any further faux pas (faux pases?). Now that you are an expert at wedding etiquette, confidently look forward to your next wedding: a Jewish-Christian underwater cowboy-and-Indian themed affair!

Hear ye! Hear ye! Reader poll results

Our secret sources tell us that since we posted the reader poll -- whose results could have far-reaching implications not only for this blog but also for the country, although we doubt it -- roughly 73.5 people (and 2 cats) visited the blog. There is a slight discrepancy between this number and the number of those who actually responded to the survey, which was a grand total of: 4.

Dividing the number of respondents by the number of actual readers by the average commute time in Gillette, Wyoming (18 hours, 26 minutes), and multiplying by 1.5 Euros to account for our international readers, we arrive at a fewer percentage of readers responding to the poll than that of eligible cocker spaniels voting in the last presidential election. (How they voted continues to be a closely guarded secret.)


These findings confirm what pollsters in national elections have long suspected: more cocker spaniels than people vote. No one knows why this is, although spaniels are strongly suspected of receiving Kibbles 'n Bits kickbacks for their votes.

We also have it on good authority (mine) that one respondent took the survey twice. In other polls this would be grounds for disqualifying both the respondent's answers, and possibly grounding of the respondent as well; in this poll, however, we can't afford to be too choosy, so we will just assume this person has a split personality and is therefore eligible to cast a vote for each personality.

So without further dithering ("qualifying" in scientific language), let's analyze our 4 votes and see what imaginary results we can come up with.

Now, it is very important that the respondents of a poll represent the total population in general in characteristics like age, gender, like or dislike of Martha Stewart, etc. Our first survey question indicated two people who admitted to an actual age range, and two people who said that they are not as young as they'd like to be. By 2020 (a year arrived at totally through experimenter license), there will be as many baby boomers as people of all other ages put together -- although given boomers' tendency to be high achievers, they may get there sooner -- so I'd say that our sample, two sort-of-young and two not-so-young, adequately represents the general population.

We could extrapolate ("make up") all kinds of additional information about these respondents who did not admit to an age, but in the interest of continuing to have people take part in these polls, I think it wise to move on to the next question.

We here at Slightly Humorous like to know how our readers found out about us. We also like to think that it was through a segment on David Letterman, but what we like isn't really important. At least that's what our mother always said.

But one person did say he or she learned about the blog through Oprah. Since -- and I know this will be shocking news to you -- this blog has never been mentioned on Oprah's show, I assume that this respondent has some sort of direct, personal connection to Oprah, or that the person has a computer-literate cocker spaniel named Oprah.

One reader apparently has been forced to read this blog as punishment for not doing his or her homework. I would be most interested in speaking with this person's parent or other person of authority on the topic of alternative ideas for "punishment."

There was 100% agreement on "reading this blog more than once," which leads to a scientifically significant question: Did you people study together? One of these people, however, must not have been there for all the study sessions, as he or she went on to answer the next question about why he or she does not read this blog more than once. Again, in the interest of keeping people happy enough to take future surveys, we will refrain from making extrapolations about this person's mental capabilities.

And so this ends the scientific analysis of our third (fourth? We're not all that good with numbers, even though we are very scientific) reader poll. As soon as we can come up with some more questions that are totally meaningless, we'll have another survey. Watch for it on Oprah.

Whose job is it, anyway?

They say the #1 topic over which couples express a difference of opinion is money. I can't say that this is true in our case, although it is not because we have a great excess of it.

Fast approaching #1 in our household is the question of who is in charge of killing spiders and other unwanted residents. Those, we do have an excess of. Joe is dubious about this, but I clearly remember the minister including this duty in our marriage vows: "And do you, Joseph, promise to always protect Holly from insects, spiders, and basically anything that moves, including ugly, hairy creatures that are bigger than you?"

I'm sure that Joe looked lovingly into my eyes and answered that yes, he would do so even if a spider's bite doth us part.

But as I said, he does not remember this, and the issue remains unresolved.

"You kill things when I'm not here," he says.

"But you're the head of the household," I remind him. "I wouldn't dream of usurping your authority when you're here." Especially the authority to deal with spiders.

"I did it last time," he will often say, as if it is a household chore we have agreed to split.

But to me this is a clear case of gender distinction. I find the offending creature and scream, he kills it. I am sure this is in the Constitution somewhere. "We hold this truthe to be self-evident, that the husbande shall assume responsibility for the slaying of all dragons and otherwise dangerous creatures within his domaine. If he refuse to discharge his duty is this matter, his wyfe shall be given authority and impunity to use a fry pan upon his head."

"You should be able to take care of it by now" is another of Joe's responses when I find a spider, as if killing things is something one grows into.

But after much discussion of the matter -- only to find that whatever bug we were discussing the dispatching of has taken advantage of our inattention to wander away -- I have found a rather simple solution. I gaze trustingly into Joe's eyes, give him a tender touch, and say in a sweet, caressing voice, "Do you want this to become a blog?"

And generally this strategy works, but it is good for only one spider or bug per day. If I happen to find another one before we go to bed, all the blackmail and sweet talking and begging will not move him. He is the Implacable Non-Hero.

In the great tradition of wives everywhere, I want him to deal with these nasty invaders, but I also want to tell him how to do it.

If the bug is on a wall, I caution him to move everything sitting on the floor underneath the bug. Sometimes this necessitates the rearrangement of an entire room, a reasonable precaution to me. Joe does not view this as reasonable, and watches while I do it. Then I place a wastebasket in the expected projectory of the bug after it is hit, to minimize cleanup.

"Now don't lose it," I warn as he gets ready to deal the blow.

The frequency with which he does seem to lose them, even with a wastebasket the size of the bed of a Dodge Ram placed right underneath, makes me suspect he is doing this on purpose, out of spite. He is unperturbed and unrepentant when this happens. I consider a dead bug with whereabouts unknown almost as disturbing as a live one in plain sight.

"Okay, cleanup time!" he announces when he does locate it.

"I'll get you a Kleenex," I say, but by the time I return with it, he has retreated far from the scene.

"There's a dead arachnid on my rug!" I yell, thinking maybe he has forgotten and is already off to another adventure.

"So clean it up!" he yells back.

I go to find him. I bestow upon him a look of disdain and express, by means of stuffing the Kleenex in a strategic place on his face, just what I think of the idea that I clean up eight legs -- give or take a few, depending on how hard the blow was -- and a squashed torso.

And I tell him to consider himself lucky that I did not exercise my Constitutionally guaranteed rights by using a frying pan.

Tomorrow

"TO----morrow, to-MORROW, I'll love you tomorrow..." Joe sang at the top of his lungs one evening.

"You'll only love me tomorrow?" I inquired. "Not today?" It's good to clear up any misunderstandings early, like before they start.

"Well, isn't that how the song goes?" he said.

"Not quite...it's I love you, tomorrow," I said.

He frowned. "Why would someone sing about loving tomorrow?"

I sensed that he hadn't really been paying close attention when watching "Annie." It was a long time ago.

"Because for the orphans, there was always the possibility that tomorrow would be better than today," I explained.

Unless, of course, they happened to read Matthew 6:34, in which case, no matter how horrible the current day was, they would know that compared with what tomorrow might bring it was paradise. Everything from there on out was headed downhill, probably fast, so they had better enjoy mopping those floors.

Matthew 6:34, in case I have not adequately expressed my feelings about it, is a verse I personally find to be one of the most depressing in the Bible: "Each day has enough trouble of its own." This verse is widely quoted by many -- my mother included -- as a reason not to worry. What comfort such people find in it, I do not know. Personally, I think it's the best argument for worry that anyone could possibly make. How can the knowledge that tomorrow will be just as bad as today not make you worry? Not only does it make you worry in general, it makes you worry that tomorrow's worry will be worse than today's worry.

I picture a big Worry Meter somewhere, and at the end of any given day the needle is pointing straight at More Trouble than Job Had. The next morning it drops to Free as a Bird, but inevitably, it will reach Job status again.

I wonder what Abraham Lincoln thought of this verse. There was a man who had a few things to worry about. He was also a man who read the Bible. I picture him seeking to glean a bit of comfort from the Scriptures on, perhaps, the eve of Gettysburg, and reading the first part of Matthew 6:34: "So do not worry about tomorrow." His mind is greatly relieved. "What did I tell you?" his aide says. "Everything's going to be just fine."

But then Abe keeps reading. And when he gets to the last part of the verse, the part where he is warned that tomorrow may be worse than today, his earlier worry seizes him again with such intensity that his beard -- which he has been carefully cultivating after receiving a rather pointed suggestion from a little girl who didn't even know him -- just gives up hope and and droops in a heap all over his chin. And sure enough, the following day is worse.

Nope, you never hear Matthew 6:34 set to music. Maybe, after all, "I'll love you tomorrow." Unless I'm too worried.

Your chance at the polls is almost over

Today's Reader Public Service Announcement is...

Remember to vote in the reader poll at left!

Vote once!

Vote twice!

Vote and win a pizza slice!

(OK, not really, we just got carried away in the spirit of Dr. Seuss. I'm sure HE never meant anything he wrote, either.)

Reader poll!

While the Prissy Princess is gearing up for holiday festivities, including sending the Gallant Hero to see his family while she ventures off to see hers, she may not have much time to spend in thinking up funny things to write. In the meantime, please take some time to fill out the reader poll in the left column! As always, your answers will be scientifically analyzed and the results reported in a future post. We regret that prizes cannot be awarded; that would not be very scientific.

We hope you enjoy the holiday; if you do not have a holiday this weekend, I'm sure you'll have one coming up soon. Every day is a holiday somewhere in the world.

Saving Daylight Savings Time

You may have noticed that Daylight Savings Time keeps getting longer. Last fall, it was extended one week, and in the spring we sprang forward three weeks earlier than usual, with the result that millions of children all over America were awake long after their parents stumbled to bed in a daze. "They'll get used to it sooner or later," they mumbled to each other, as their children, unable to fall asleep an hour earlier, gleefully glued bits of paper to the family dog as an "art project."

Although I appreciate the sun rising at 6:00 a.m. in the middle of March as much as the next city-dwelling person who must arise three hours before the start of work in order to get there on time, if the DST people really wanted to be helpful, they would address a more pressing issue facing the average American in the summertime: when to fill our cars with gas and water our lawns.

Consider these facts and resulting dilemmas:

Fact 1. We are not supposed to fill our gas tanks during hot, humid weather lest we allow harmful ozone-eating gases to escape. In this part of the country in July, hot, humid weather is pretty much with us the entire day and night, leaving approximately the hours of 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. to safely fill our cars with gas.

Dilemma 1: Relatively few -- say, 0 -- gas stations are open during these hours.

Fact 2: These hours are also bad for watering our lawns and gardens.

Dilemma 2: Although those homeowners blessed with automatic sprinklers can easily set them to come on between 2 and 4 -- and frequently did where I used to live -- it is a little more inconvenient for those of us who have to deliver water via cupped hands to our parched flowers to do so in the dead of night.

Therefore, I propose that we institute an Extreme Daylight Savings Program, wherein the time allotted for necessary activities, like putting gas in the car or watering the yard, is stretched to 12 hours, and work time is reduced to between the hours of 10 and 1 daily (with an hour for lunch). Whatever time is left over from your Necessary Activity Time Allotment could be used for Leisure Pursuits. After all, experts are always saying that we work-driven and sleep-deprived Americans need more time for ourselves and our families.

Even better, we could establish work hours between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m., and leave all the rest of the time for other pursuits. Any actual work done during this time would, of course, be on the honor system.

Now, some do-gooder worried about the most vulnerable members of our society is going to say, "But what about the children?" To which I say, What about them? Most of them like to stay up late, so I'm sure something could be worked out so that they do not fall behind in their studies. The average public school only delivers actual education for about an hour a day anyway, so in my model -- the 2 to 4 a.m. model -- the little ones would be doubling their time of learning. Why, they'd get to be so smart, someday when they are grown up they'd only have to work from 2 to 3.

In the meantime, my body is on Sleep All the Time Time, so you'll excuse me if I bow out early. I have to be up at 2 to go fill my car with gas.