Unrest of the '& Guest'

Last week, using the Happy Aquarium application on Facebook, Jason sent me a message in a bottle indicating that I have a very dirty tank. It was ended with a winking semi-colon/left bracket ;). As a result of his lame-o, albeit sweet attempt at flirty innuendo I fell in love with him all over again. As you may have surmised, I am not much of a traditional romantic and most things floral or Hallmarkie are typically met by me with a snicker or a guffaw; its not that I am opposed to romance as a concept, I just have an issue when it comes in the form of a rhyming haiku or overpriced foliage.

That being said, as you know, the season for weddings is currently in full swing. Keeping in line with my deep-rooted sardonic attitude towards all things requiring an up-do, I find myself thinking not about the momentary heartfelt proclamations of everlasting love and devotion wildly buzzing around like irritating mosquitoes, but about the ‘& Guest’, (i.e. Mr. Gerrard Butler & Guest are cordially invited… ) who attend the nuptials.

How does someone find themselves in the unique position of becoming an ‘& Guest’ you ask? Typically it happens close to the beginning of a relationship, or else you would have your actual name on the invite. Couples have approached the stage where the woman is pretty sure he will call after work but have not yet entered the phase where she has stopped automatically assuming he wants to break up with her if he forgets or is a bit late with the dialling. In my experience, the conversation where the invitation is extended to become an ‘& Guest’ has generally gone something like this:

Him: Oh hey, I have a wedding next weekend. You wanna come with me?
You: What kind of wedding?
Him: The kind where people get married
You: Will I know anyone?
Him: How do I know who you know?
You: What are you wearing?
Him: Pants
You: What should I wear?
Him: um, something that makes you look hot!
You: Helpful. Thanks.

Now, as most women know being an ‘& Guest’ at a wedding is a double edged sword; a colossal pain in the ass but also an opportunity like no other to show off your unique brand of sparkle. Where else in the world do you get to stuff yourself into a pair of Spanx, toss on your best poly-blend dress and sashay your way into the hearts of your new b.f.’s friends and family in one foul swoop, proving how much (prettier) more compatible you are with him than his last girlfriend? Being an ‘& Guest’ is similar to a job interview but with whimsical mini bubbles, garish floral bouquets and horse drawn carriages decorated in white tulle… and a lot of automobile honking. Weddings, unlike job interviews, are typically very horny affairs.

Besides looking like a tastefully dressed vamp, there are still a few key elements to be aware of in order to fitfully survive the ordeal of attending wedding as an ‘& Guest’. More importantly than feigning the appropriate amount of swooning over the giant back-side bow on the bride’s poufy gown or looking acceptably moved for the customary ‘first kiss’ an ‘& Guest’ must also be able to pull out all the stops at the reception. .

Successful ‘& Guests’ can never look up and wave to the ceiling when the groom sends out a weepy shout-out to recently deceased Aunt Enid who is with everyone ‘in spirit tonight’. They cannot look around for the hidden Candid Camera film crew when the brother of the bride threatens the groom to ‘be nice to his sister or else’ and a proper ‘& Guest’ must not, under any circumstances, drink more than 2 glasses of wine during speeches. This rule is especially important to remember during the Maid of Honour address where there is a lot sobbing as she nostalgically recounts every waking minute of her relationship with the beautiful bride, noting several times that they have ‘been through so much together’. (Once during a particularly difficult personal ‘& Guest’ experience the Maid of Honour’s speech started out like this, “ My relationship with [the bride] has been like a book. Chapter one: Kindergarten…”. By Chapter 8: High School Prom, the taffeta-clad speaker was so overcome with emotion by her recount of childhood inspired memories that she was weeping inconsolably and wiping snot from her nose. I, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by the idiocy and sloshed on the freebie homemade wine that was sitting unguarded on the table. I found myself laughing like a hyena and had to leave the room before I peed myself. Chapter nine: Accidentally drunk ‘& Guest’!)

An ‘& Guest’ must be the best soberish, small-talking, Bird-Dancing, bouquet catching, glass-clinking, stranger wedding speech enduring dynamo in the room. A pretty hefty responsibility I’d say.

Looking ahead, I think a section in the planning guides and the overpriced magazines should be devoted exclusively to ensuring the ‘& Guest’ needs are taken care of. Perhaps a nice generic Calvin and Hobbes or Far Side comic could be tossed into the photo montage slideshow, maybe at the designated seating for the ‘& Guest’ there could be a word search or Sudoku puzzle book to keep them amused or at the very least, recognition in the wedding program would be nice. Something along the lines of this: ‘Thank-you to all the ‘& Guests’ for attending our wedding today. We tried to put cheap things on the registry, that we will likely just return, so you could easily meet social etiquette standards without breaking the bank. We hope you enjoy your chicken dinner.”

I think my aversion to weddings stems from my belief that it’s not really possible to pre-plan the best day of your life. Is it possible though to set yourself up to be the best damn ‘& Guest’ in the history of weddings; weddings can be your day to shine. Everyone is looking at you, talking about you and evaluating the kind of mate you will be for your partner. When you look weddings this way, the day really is all about you and your aforementioned sparkle. Well, kinda.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service

The other day I was having lunch with my dear friend Elane. Over our tomato soup and toast, she recounted a particularly disturbing incident that recently took place at her house. Living on a busy downtown street, it’s not uncommon for Elane to have numerous ‘cold-call’ door-to-door business solicitations. Just like a dozen times before she heard a knock and noticing a work truck in her laneway, opened her door expecting to find someone with a flyer or buck-note standing humbly on the porch. In this instance however, she was not greeted by a modest entrepreneur, but rather a found herself staring into the naked sunburned Sasquatch-like chest of a wannabe roofer asking to be hired to re-shingle her garage.

Now, I don’t profess to be specialist on the cooling effects of nakedness versus those of say for example, wearing a cotton or dry-wick tank-top but I can’t imagine that the temperature difference would fully explain the extreme inflation in chronic seasonal male upper-body nudi-ness which seems to have taken over not only our parks and bike trails but has infiltrated into our business community as well. Something much more sinister than the sticky atmospheric condition is turning up the heat in our metropolitan centers; what we have on our hands is a full-blown pandemic of mipples, moobs and man-cans.

Before you jump to conclusions about my overall view of nakedness, please know that I firmly believe in promotion of positive body image to our children. I support people’s rights to proudly hold Naturist values and I would be a liar with[out] my pants on fire if I said that I watched ‘Twilight New Moon’ just because of the top-notch, Oscar caliber acting capabilities of Taylor Lautner and his Native band of vampire slaying werewolves. I am no prude, (I think I fall somewhere in the middle between Tootie from the ‘Facts of Life’ and Blanche Deveraux from the ‘Golden Girls’) but I do firmly believe there is a time and place for everything and that the occasion for undress is not necessarily when one is riding a bicycle, strolling in the park or asking for a job.

I have given this disturbing shirtless trend some thought and the only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that men have somehow received highly classified, top-secret instructions (perhaps from the Masons??) indicating that the time has finally come for some hard-core payback. In simpler terms, men are serving up some not-so-subtle comeuppance for the fashion blunders which women have been subjecting them to for decades. Namely: camel toe (or moose knuckle in extreme cases), nowhere-to-hide shiny spandex, low-rider back-end jean cleavage, extraneous worship and mimicking of Beth Chapman, and of course, the current problem sweeping the nation best known as ‘muffin top’. Quid pro quo ladies. In (be)hindsight, I suppose we should have seen this coming.

Men, I acknowledge you have given us fair warning of this skin themed uprising. You have consistently shown us women that you have the moxie to answer our unspoken challenges with comparable flair. I admit, our choices have been like one giant ‘double dog dare’ and you have risen to the occasion every time, counter striking with enthusiasm and nervy gusto. The jelly shoe fiasco of 1983 was matched with Don Johnson mesh loafers (toe cleavage is not just for girls), Sue Ellen Ewing inspired giant shoulder pants were handily trumped with MC Hammer pants (demonstrating bigger is not necessarily better) and two-inch airbushed fingernails were nicely responded to with an influx of wallets on chains (teasing us with the bait all the while knowing we were rendered dexterously incapable of actually being able to access the actual money inside the wallet). I get it, I really do… and I’m sorry for our disgraceful attire judgment, but c’mon… enough is enough; things are obviously now wildly out of hand. Get dressed so we can work this out like rational people.

I wholeheartedly agree that accountability must be taken for our misguided hellcat fashion exploits. Men have indeed suffered through some real doozies both current day and in the past. However, as inexcusable as these female ‘humped and lumped’ fashion faux-pas are, they do have one element in common… fabric. This absentee cloth element is what has caused the necessity for me to address the pink mipples elephant in the room, in sincere hopes of calling a truce.

How ‘bout this…. on behalf of women everywhere, we concede you as the pack leaders, alpha males and dominant gender…. You win. You are right, we women are wrong. Thank you for demonstrating so clearly the error of our ways. (I’m sorry Gloria Stienman).

Final score: Masons (?) - 1, Women - 0. Men are superior players, proving to womankind that without a doubt the glorified showing-off of body parts is not desirable, or sexy… it makes you appear desperate and laughable. I assure you, your selfless and cleverly executed display of nakedness has brought this fact to our attention loud and clear. Now that we have conceded your point and named you victorious, please for the love of all things evolved, I beg you… put a shirt on! Not only have we learned our lesson but also, and I say this in the kindest way possible, the townsfolk have seen enough of the moobzilla frenzy to last a lifetime.