This happens to be one of the Mr’s favorite stories. I have to assume that’s because in this story he comes off as composed, funny and not at all profane. Sadly–but not shockingly–I come off as none of these things. I believe this has something to do with my theory of the limitations of crazy in a marriage, previously mentioned here, but I digress…

So last year, the Mr and I were guests at the wedding of one of his childhood friends. It was your average nuptial affair, including a bride and a groom. Except that the ceremony started at 11 and ended around 1. We arrived around 10:40–because I live in constant fear of arriving during the bride’s walk down the aisle–and waited for the show to begin. And what a show it was. There were songs, translators (part of the bride’s family spoke only spanish) and even pyrotechnics. Sort of.

Now, I’m not here to knock anyone’s wedding planning choices. I got mine; now you get yours. That’s the deal. And because I know the deal, I will sit and smile through mostly anything. But my blood sugar was a little low, because they were “I do”-ing right through my typical lunch time. And like most toddlers and bears, I get a little cranky when my blood sugar is low.

If you’re thinking to yourself, who’s cranky? All you have to do it sit there and be quiet. You’re mostly right. And I was holding my own until…oh, until.

They broke out the candles.

We were supposed to do the thing where you turn to the right to have your neighbor light your candle and then turn to the left to light someone else’s candle until the whole room is full of candle light–never mind the fact that it’s the MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON and it takes a good 10 minutes for everyone to perform this task and I’m starving. No, no. Never mind that.

So, I’m lighting and turning and doing my best not to giggle, because I’m pretty hungry and everyone’s quiet and I happen to be one of those people who laughs inappropriately (I do not admire this about myself, but my father–who once grounded me for laughing during the thanksgiving prayer–and I can tell you it’s the truth.)

So at this point, I’m going to have to go ahead and recommend that you NOT laugh while tipping a candle toward your husband in hopes of lighting his candle and getting a marriage ceremony over with. Because, in my case, here’s what happened next:

Between the giggling and the turning and the looking at him like I would marry him all over again for just half of a delicious Triscuit cracker, I failed to keep my burning candle settled, and the result was a waterfall of wax down the front of my brand new, silk Ralph Lauren dress. (Did I mention it’s black? Yeah, I wear black to weddings, but only because I wear black to everything.)

And then, I let out the most terrible hiss: “shit!”

Did I mention the bride was the daughter of the minister? Did I mention the entire congregation of very serious Christians had turned out for this affair? Funny, I must have blocked that part out until now.

Well, this is where the Mr’s and my version of this story differs. I maintain that, while the woman sitting in front of us probably heard me curse, everyone else carried on as if nothing had happened. The Mr’s version leans a little more toward children crying while their mother’s cover their ears and an old lady with a thin nose shouting “I never!”

The truth probably lies somewhere in between our two accounts. But regardless of the fall out, I spent the rest of the ceremony scratching and twisting the fabric to try to diminish the visibility of the stain. I mean to tell you: It. was. awful. The Mr said it looked like I was wearing the Monica Lewinsky dress. At that point, my giggles were practically audible to the wedding party. Thanks, buddy!

Well, up next was the reception. Did I mention it was a dry wedding? So there I was. Stone cold sober, starving and wearing “the Monica Lewinsky dress.” I’m sure my dress looking lovely through the sober eyes of the church goers whose sanctuary I had ruined with my potty mouth. Needless to say, they all know I’m going to hell.

But the afternoon was not a total disaster. I learned a very useful household trick that everyone should know. Here’s the tip (you’ve earned it): To get wax out of any kind of clothing, put a paper bag on either side of the stain (shopping bag, grocery bag, whatever you’ve got so long as it’s paper and not coated in any kind of gloss or wax.) Take an iron warmed to the highest heat setting, and press the stained area. The wax will heat up and stick to the paper, and you and your Ralph Lauren dress will live to ruin another wedding.