T-minus three days

Disconnected observations:

• Given the fact that everyone in M's parents' house knows we're already legally married, it's all the more absurd that they insist on us sleeping in separate rooms. Argh.
• Nevada: even the postal abbreviation is a deadly sin.
• After watching 118 minutes of evenly matched, if flawed, football, I shouted myself hoarse at the TV yesterday when Italy avoided penalties in the closing seconds of extra time. Holy great galloping Yahweh, I love the World Cup. It was, of course, the Fourth of July, and deserting the in-laws' picnic for such an unAmerican thing as watching two former Axis powers play some faggoty foreign sport for two hours when I should have been celebrating blind patriotism and eating sausage was clearly a suspect decision.

Speaking of the wedding, it just might be endurable. There will be a bagpiper. There will be a bunch of the hag-in-law's dance club people line-dancing every other song at the vaguely-bean-smelling reception. There will be Chex Mix and fake flowers. Nevertheless, I think the ceremony itself will retain some of our voice. I slapped an extremely dense Donne passage onto the back of the program almost as much as a gleefully highbrow jab of contra-vulgarity vengeance as a celebratory gesture of love. Metaphysical poetry and Chex Mix are like matter and antimatter.

I'll be happy when this weekend is over, but I will also enjoy myself immensely. My sister and I will finally realize our dream of having matching black pinstripe suits. We've decided to go with a summer stock Guys and Dolls look for the wedding party. What the hell; maybe I'll break into "Luck be a Lady."