I once dated a guy named Charlie for a while. (Well, I dated him for a while. I’m pretty sure his name is probably still Charlie.) His last name, unfortunately, did not play well into my favorite name game.
But, if we had gotten married, I would have insisted that he take my name because then he would have been…
Yes.
CHARLIE BROWN!!
It was too good. One day, a bunch of friends and I were sitting around in fits of giggles fantasizing about what the wedding would be like:
The bridesmaids would wear yellow, tea-length, A-line dresses with big, black zigzags around the bottom.
I’d be walked down the aisle by a beagle.
The music would be played by someone on a tiny, tiny piano.
One of the groomsmen would carry around a threadbare blanket.
The minister would say much of the ceremony like this, “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah.”
Instead of those popular picture booths at the reception, there would be a “Doctor is IN” stand!
In place of flowers, there would be sad, little Christmas trees.
The altar would be a giant pumpkin!
Rather than shoving cake in each other’s mouths, he’d hold it, I’d pretend to go in for a bite and then not, and he’d fall flat on his face! (You know, like Lucy and the football.)
We’d ride away from the reception on a flying doghouse piloted by a little, yellow bird. No wait, that wouldn’t work.
Our kids would have had to be named Linus and Lucy.
Ha! It’s almost a shame it didn’t work out with Charlie Brown! Well, for the sake of the wedding, almost.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
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