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R. Linda:
All this malarky began to ebb on Mr. Weasil's end. He had finally accepted the idea that he had engaged himself to be married to a formidable woman. Oh the responsibility! It made his head ache it did, but never let it be said, our Weasil couldn't tell if the headache was from hangover, or pre-wedding stress. However, Weasil did see a last ditch opportunity in this headache business.
Yes, ladies and laddies, Mr. W decided he had enough medical experience to be able to self-diagnose himself with brain tumour. Okay before you go all off on me, this wasn't me idea. I wasn't there when he hatched it.
Imagine if you will, Mr. Weasil back in the States, taken to his bed when the fiancee' comes home from a day of well spent shopping and happy, happy is she until . . . yes until she walks into the bedroom, shopping bags in arms, and as she puts them down on the bed she discovers the bed is 'occupado' with a Weasil in it. Yes, there he was ladies and laddies, looking limp, wane and downright sick I say.
Poor lass was clearing bags of expensive honeymoon clothing off the bed and grabbing the ailing Weasil's hand, she asked him what was wrong? In a very faint voice he answers, "Ima dyin."
As you might imagine this put the lass into fits of concern for her beloved and even worse, all the invitations had been sent out, responses were pouring in and oh my God like totally, the wedding would have to be postponed! Begorrah me.
Beside herself she finally had presence of mind to get out of Weasil the exact nature of his malady. BUT when he said brain tumour, she instantly knew something was smelly in Weasil-land. If one is stricken with brain fever, one is in hospital undergoing surgery or worse embalming. That was the last straw, she picked up her new Prada evening tote and with every ounce of force she could muster in her right arm, proceeded to beat the Weasil over the head with it, shouting at him that if he didn't have a brain tumour, he was sure to have one now!
I'd let us dwell on that scene for a wee bit, but then it might get bloody and messy and brain tissue all over the bedroom would make us lose our appetites, so let us move on.
As September began to wane, the looming date of marriage started to rear it's number in Mr. Weasil's brain. There was nothing more to do, but go forth as a brave man to his single man death. Like a man ready for the gallows, Mr. W had one last rip roaring single man party for the Gipper and then . . . I'd like to say he sobered up for the occasion, but you know he didn't.
Yours truly had been asked to be a groomsmen for the big event. One of -- I was told 24. It was really 10. Ten men in kilts all different clans, so was very festive looking, like multi-coloured Christmas tinsel. And 10 bridesmaids all in burnt orange gowns looking like pumpkins run amuck in a dress shop. Now only two bridesmaids could fit in the gazebo, and two groomsmen as well. The rest of us were lined up along the gazebo like guards. I think the effect was to intimidate Mr. Weasil so he knew he couldn't get away once up there . . . on the gallows of wedded and no longer single guy.
We had a rehearsal and there was much direction by the wedding planner, a Ms. Abercrombie, a well renown wedding planner employed by the Weasil's frustrated father. Ms A was in charge of who does what and where one stands, and all case of emergency except one -- rain. Rain. Yup. What if it rained? Then what? Do we have enough bumbershoots? Do we stand outside getting drenched dressed in WOOL? For the lassie's sakes, do they worry about their just done up hair? How about the dye in their dresses bleeding through? Will the horses and carriages get stuck in muddy ruts after too many trips to the gazebo? Will the mother-of-the-bride appreciate the water stains on her Stella McCartney original? Will the pond over-flow and drown everyone on both sides of it?
These and other questions were all postulated by . . . you guessed it, a hopeful for rain Weasil.
Copyright © 2005 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
All this malarky began to ebb on Mr. Weasil's end. He had finally accepted the idea that he had engaged himself to be married to a formidable woman. Oh the responsibility! It made his head ache it did, but never let it be said, our Weasil couldn't tell if the headache was from hangover, or pre-wedding stress. However, Weasil did see a last ditch opportunity in this headache business.
Yes, ladies and laddies, Mr. W decided he had enough medical experience to be able to self-diagnose himself with brain tumour. Okay before you go all off on me, this wasn't me idea. I wasn't there when he hatched it.
Imagine if you will, Mr. Weasil back in the States, taken to his bed when the fiancee' comes home from a day of well spent shopping and happy, happy is she until . . . yes until she walks into the bedroom, shopping bags in arms, and as she puts them down on the bed she discovers the bed is 'occupado' with a Weasil in it. Yes, there he was ladies and laddies, looking limp, wane and downright sick I say.
Poor lass was clearing bags of expensive honeymoon clothing off the bed and grabbing the ailing Weasil's hand, she asked him what was wrong? In a very faint voice he answers, "Ima dyin."
As you might imagine this put the lass into fits of concern for her beloved and even worse, all the invitations had been sent out, responses were pouring in and oh my God like totally, the wedding would have to be postponed! Begorrah me.
Beside herself she finally had presence of mind to get out of Weasil the exact nature of his malady. BUT when he said brain tumour, she instantly knew something was smelly in Weasil-land. If one is stricken with brain fever, one is in hospital undergoing surgery or worse embalming. That was the last straw, she picked up her new Prada evening tote and with every ounce of force she could muster in her right arm, proceeded to beat the Weasil over the head with it, shouting at him that if he didn't have a brain tumour, he was sure to have one now!
I'd let us dwell on that scene for a wee bit, but then it might get bloody and messy and brain tissue all over the bedroom would make us lose our appetites, so let us move on.
As September began to wane, the looming date of marriage started to rear it's number in Mr. Weasil's brain. There was nothing more to do, but go forth as a brave man to his single man death. Like a man ready for the gallows, Mr. W had one last rip roaring single man party for the Gipper and then . . . I'd like to say he sobered up for the occasion, but you know he didn't.
Yours truly had been asked to be a groomsmen for the big event. One of -- I was told 24. It was really 10. Ten men in kilts all different clans, so was very festive looking, like multi-coloured Christmas tinsel. And 10 bridesmaids all in burnt orange gowns looking like pumpkins run amuck in a dress shop. Now only two bridesmaids could fit in the gazebo, and two groomsmen as well. The rest of us were lined up along the gazebo like guards. I think the effect was to intimidate Mr. Weasil so he knew he couldn't get away once up there . . . on the gallows of wedded and no longer single guy.
We had a rehearsal and there was much direction by the wedding planner, a Ms. Abercrombie, a well renown wedding planner employed by the Weasil's frustrated father. Ms A was in charge of who does what and where one stands, and all case of emergency except one -- rain. Rain. Yup. What if it rained? Then what? Do we have enough bumbershoots? Do we stand outside getting drenched dressed in WOOL? For the lassie's sakes, do they worry about their just done up hair? How about the dye in their dresses bleeding through? Will the horses and carriages get stuck in muddy ruts after too many trips to the gazebo? Will the mother-of-the-bride appreciate the water stains on her Stella McCartney original? Will the pond over-flow and drown everyone on both sides of it?
These and other questions were all postulated by . . . you guessed it, a hopeful for rain Weasil.
Copyright © 2005 All rights reserved
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