I'm not dead yet

A small matter of a three-day weekend paired with a cousin (once removed)'s wedding luncheon was all my mother needed to decide I was coming home for a substantial amount of my life. And I confess that I didn't protest too much. I actually like being home for the 24th. Because that's a holiday. You can blow stuff up. But before we get to that, the play-by-play of my weekend.

Watered Down Lady
My weekend actually began around 3:30 on Friday when I picked Tolkien Boy up from his place of employment. He was all sweaty and smelly. . . very masculine and all that. En route to his apartment, we decided to catch a matinee before I left the world of Provo.

I'm not sure if TB chose Lady of the Water based on schedule or M. Night's past credits, but that's where we wound up. Scary movies, well, they scare me, so I was all tense and waiting for creepiness and scariness, etc., but I'm afraid the movie lost its edge when it was revealed that the subtley-named Story was a "narf." They're Pinky and the Brain, Pinky and the Brain. One is a genius, the other's insane. There were elements that I enjoyed--some characters and several of the actors. But a "narf"? Just call her a nymph. And we'll discuss the rest when you see it. Because you know you're going to.

Fireworks
I got home just in time to go see the fireworks with Maryn and Dad. We were there for forty minutes before they started and then the thirty minutes that they actually had the show going. I think Dad and I were both thinking we were there for M, but about ten minutes into the works, she asked why we were there.

Kids these days.

Food, glorious food
M and I decided to check out the Bountiful Handcart Days festivities Saturday morning. It's your basic carnival set up, except this year there were no rides or games due to construction. So basically it was food and entertainment and face painting. M got a tropical sunset painted on the right side of her face--a large flower was already occupying the left side, courtesy of her trip to the carnival the day before. And then we proceeded to eat our way through the five dollars of tickets I had foolishly bought. Cotton candy (which was the only reason I was there), smoothie, fry bread, and an ice cream bar. And we just happened to be there to hear Carmen Rasmussen sing. . . I hate country. Oh, and I had a slightly-less-than-awkward run-in with a guy from high school. What made it slightly-less-awkward was the more awkward situation of explaining to a group of women in RS today that, no, that wasn't my boyfriend, that I in fact don't have a boyfriend, and the reason I don't have a boyfriend? Well. . .

I just don't think of poetry as a turn on.
So the reason I was in Bountiful in the first place occured at 2:30 p.m. My cousin's wedding luncheon. Actually, it was my mom's stepcousin's wedding luncheon. But this chick is younger than I am and we kind of grew up in the same group of "cousins," so I was invited too.

The luncheon was actually in Bountiful, which was nice. And there was a table that had three seats available (for my parents and me), which was also nice. I hate sitting through these things while sitting next to someone I don't know.

And then the guy who I sitting next to and who I assumed was another cousin raised his head and I realized I was sitting next to someone I didn't know.

The panic wore off eventually as my aunt (well, my mom's stepaunt) introduced him to me as my cousin's (mom's stepcousin's) fiance, Brian.*

Panic and introductions over, we ate our salads and then began the main course (chicken or pork) as the "program" began. I know they're a necessary evil, but I hate these programs. And as much as I love the bride and the family of, this was excessively evil. A brother from each side, a sister from each side, the parents, and then the bride and groom. Apparently none of them had ever heard the expression "Brevity is the soul of wit." It was extensive and painful. And it led to a bit of inspiration on my part. No, not a poem. But the solution to these dreadful programs: scripts. Just tell people what they're going to say. For example, I'm limiting my father to Shins lyrics at my luncheon (provided it ever occurs).

The luncheon and program finally over, we excused ourselves to the shop located next door to the reception hall. . . and found everyone else from the luncheon there, including the engaged cousin and her fiance (and parents, but they're not important to this story).

It had been briefly touched on during lunch that Cousin's Fiance enjoyed poetry. So as his significant other was shopping, I decided to pursue this topic. He, of course, likes the "classics": Walt, Emily, the Brownings, etc.

"Do you write any poetry yourself?"

Usually this questions receives some mumbled answer and the conversation is over. But Brian lit up. "That's how Callie and I got together!"

Wait. Poetry actually worked for someone? I had to hear this story (and not the "narf").

During some institute function, Brian mentioned that he dabbled in poetry. C said that she'd love to see it, so he showed her some light verse. I guess she went coocoo for poetry, because he decided he'd write a poem about "a good friend"--which was C, who was quickly becoming the girl of his dreams. He called C to tell her he had another poem for her to read. She read it, along with the dreadful dedication attached (okay, so I added the adjective, but still). And the rest is history. They started dating, and they'll be married in 32 days (his count, not mine).



*I am now the last of the "cousins" to live the single life. I should feel ashamed. Or something. Right?