Wedding bell blues

I'm a reporter, but I have the misfortune of being the poor sap who types in the engagement and wedding announcements for my newspaper. It's a job no one wants to do, sort of like scraping the wads of gum out of urinals or from underneath restaurant tables.

It's dirty.

Today I hit the end of my rope with these buttery, syrupy, sickening tales of high-and-low-end weddings. It never fails — some debutant feels the need to describe every last detail of her wedding dress, even how her panties look as they are draped daintily over her butt cheeks, although no one can see. And they were her grandmother's panties — you know, the ones she wore at her wedding, and the same ones grandpa nearly ripped apart trying to get at grandma's goods.

And, of course, good ol' grandma had to sew a dozen pretty pink pearls right on the bottom so they'd stand out for her granddaugther's soon-to-be husband. Yes siree.

Then there are the announcements from people who could care less about how or when they got married; they just want their name in the paper.

One announcement today proclaimed that the couple is "Searching for a 2-to-3-bedroom home in town." No shame there. That same announcement gave way to at least three phone calls to the family to confirm the spelling of names like LaKenthia and Ka'Quishia. And at one point, the lady said, "It don't mattah, they married now anyways, so it don't mattah at-tall."

"OK," I said. "I'll do my best."

And that's what I always try to do.

Days like today make it hard to muddle through, knowing that I could be writing an important article for Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone, or going back to school to get my masters degree. Ahhh, it's good life experience, though. Right?

I also got a call today from a very cute sounding girl who wanted to know if our paper publishes gay and lesbian wedding announcements.

"I would if it were up to me," I told her. "But our paper's policy is that you have to have a marriage license."

Can you imagine if we printed a gay or lesbian wedding announcement in small-town South Arkansas? I'm sure someone would firebomb the office, or at least find me and hang me up by my toes on the courthouse lawn right by General Robert E. Lee's statue.

I'll bet Lee's wife never wore pearl-covered panties, though.