I have been going nowhere with posting on this blog lately, it’s almost as if I were a giant spider who suddenly realized she’s in the middle of a mine field.
That sooo did not make sense.
Maybe I should just keep quiet and post photos instead. Like these shots from an Indian wedding we attended on our trip to Trinidad almost two months ago. Yes, it’s been that long. So long, it’s almost as if I were a a giant roll of dough in the hands of an expert noodle maker in China who—never mind.
This past weekend, two songs kept playing in my head. Billy Idol’s White Wedding, and The Psychedelic Furs’ Pretty In Pink.
I guess I could explain that by saying that pink is the new white, yes?
Last Saturday, we gathered to celebrate the wedding of two dear friends. I have yet to get permission to post their photos, so for now, these lovely details from their wedding will have to suffice.
Rhetorical question of the day: What is the bride’s favorite color? Quick! Take a wild guess.
They even had a signature drink for the wedding – a pinktini. It was more red than pink, but a flashing pink ice cube made sure you got the point.
Which, I guess, is helpful in case you’ve had more than a few refills. The flashing cube serves as a homing device to help you figure out where in the world you left your drink.
Of course, it doesn’t help that almost everyone had flashing drinks. But after your third or fourth refill, these are the kinds of details with which you just can’t be bothered.
In case you were wondering, I only had one. I was saving room for dinner. And cake. Which could very well include a few dairy products.
You see, my stomach can’t take the co-existence of alcohol and dairy. They stare each other down for the longest time, then when I least expect it, alcohol lunges for dairy and takes it down for the count. But dairy plays dirty, and squirts lactose in alcohol’s eye, and all of its henchmen lurking in ice cream, heavy sauces, and pastry fillings come out of hiding wielding pipes, bats and nunchuks. And because alcohol is too proud and stupid to know when it’s beat, it releases a war cry, beats its chest, and goes all GI Joe all over the place. (Get it? GI? Gastrointestinal? I swear, sometimes I crack me up.)
It’s pretty much all downhill from there. Downhill on a steep slope with no brakes, lubed tires, and those extra pounds you put on after an ill-advised dessert binge.
It ain’t pretty.
So I’m sure you’ll understand why, after seeing the menu card, I wisely bid the beloved pinktini, flashing cube and all, a hasty good-bye.
Individual plated cheesecake. Tiramisu. Eclair. All known accomplices of dairy, and masters of the triple threat offense. The pinktini was just way out of its league. I was glad I threw in its towel and refused to let it inside the ring.
It’s this preemptive strike against abdominal crises that makes eating in public a lot more enjoyable.
And finally, for the men out there who haven’t yet melted from the pink overload, the following photo is for you.
Yes, I know there are candles and petals and such. But look, more blue than pink. That counts, right?
Or would you rather watch an intestinal smackdown instead?
Don’t answer that.
