I said, I wouldn’t drink at home alone anymore, a decision I’ve not betrayed, however…I’ve popped into Morinis for a glass of Prosecco after bouncing on that wagon for well over a week. What can I say, it feels apt to celebrate not drinking with a drink…
I’ve encountered a wedding party who look 12, with happy parents and a little girl the bride had out of wedlock, according to Gwyneth the barmaid. I immediately congratulate them watching the balloons, as if they’ve had one too many, bobbing in the air like loose debutantes. Must be nice to be so happy, I think, till seeing the stomach of the bride, round and full, of pre-nuptial nookie.
Was this a shotgun wedding well attended, the groom with its muzzle aimed at his crotch? Yes, the guilty party, so to speak, commencing from the waist down.
The little girl sat fully occupied pulling the blooms from her mother’s bouquet…he loves me, he loves me not, looking rather sweet with petals all around her, her tiny rump in the air hugged by lacy pink panties.
When Gwyneth finally fills my glass after making a slew of daiquiris for a table of 8, the whole wedding party toasts me. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a bridesmaid.
I hope it’s another girl whose big sister might make a great florist.
Bottoms up, as they say.