The bride is registered at Taco Bell

I wish I could have my reception this weekend. A full wedding reception, one at which I’ll put the money others would invest in butter cream frosting into more hors d'oeuvres. There will not be a sit-down meal to waste our socializing time, impinge upon our tipsy dancing. There will be tiny stuffed mushrooms for Mom and spanakopita for me. And spring rolls with peanut sauce. A cotton candy machine that will turn our hands and fingers into sticky pink messes; fine linens and heavy silver and a fair amount of taupe in the room, and most definitely almond hand soap in the bathrooms. The lighting will be kind. And there’ll certainly be more wine than I can shake my old maid fist at. Sparkling, cabs, pinot grigio. And the infamous fountain soda machine I so desire. Those who want beer will have to get it out of a cooler in the parking lot.

I’ll be tan, sprayed on or not, and wear a white strapless dress. No tulle, no crinoline, just a cotton beach dress bordering on seersucker. My highlights will be recent and my PMS nonexistent. Aimee will be in charge of music, and when not mocking my play lists she’ll be blasting Thriller and early 90’s pop that will be sure to prompt me into embarrassing motion. I can say with some certainty that my arms will spend a fair amount of time over my head, the way they do when I’m dancing after one too many. Stacy will snap photos of said movement for blackmailing purposes, and in my tipsiness I’ll beg her to Photoshop my chin. Erika will bring me Stoli Vanil and Diet Cokes and express disbelief at the Meximelts on the buffet. Holman will insist on buying rounds of shots for the entire room despite my assurances that the bar is indeed open. You'll probably make out with the bartender, just as you did at the last wedding. Jenny will beg Aimee to play something, anything remotely resembling rap and Kim and KB will giggle and dance to it anyway. The lovely Mrs. J will pass her husband to me for a slow dance, and halfway through I’ll change out partners to dance with her. Between glasses of red, Heather B. will live blog the whole damn thing.

There won’t be a groom, obviously, just me and my mother and sister and my people. San Francisco, Seattle, Tallahassee, Toronto. New York, New Jersey, Mass, DC, a smattering of less popular states and all parts Northern Virginia. They’ll arrive with the hope of a wedding, the belief that Kris finally found someone who appreciated her sick humor and tendency toward watching Oprah during bouts of insomnia, and there I will be, alone and shoeless in a sundress getting my triumphant groove on.

And I’ll stand by my white lie. Because while people love to plan to get together, nothing makes them actually follow through like a funeral or the promise of nuptials. I’ve had enough death this year; seems like a bottomless platter of puff pastry and some Village People might do us all a little good.