4:45 p.m., and I’m live blogging from Ariel’s wedding–

Lance, our groom, looks awkward without his glasses, like he just woke up from a nap beneath a large, moss-covered rock.

Vince, Ariel’s dad, looks like he’s mailing this one in, as though Ariel could have done much better, like with me, for instance He looks peeved, like his cummerbund is poking fun at his gut.

Ariel. Oh. My. God. I’m getting light-headed. She looks like she’s spun from copper. Ordinarily, I’m against outing the cleavage at a wedding, but this, oh heavens, no wonder Lance always shows up late for his shift. She has camas blossoms in her hair. Wow. Awesome symbolism there. She’s part Shoshone, you know. You so go girl. But she can’t hear me. That can’t be a swamp green mist fabric on the maids of honor. Tell me it’s retinal damage from the glare off Vince’s pate.

Carol just walked in, wearing Tina Fey. Oh, and Bruce is with her, looking surprisingly gay I must say. Skinny tie. White shoes. Jeezus. White shoes?

It’s clearly not helping matters for Vince that Gail brought her other husband, and this guy looks like he was born on a bow-flex machine. God, I feel sorry for Vince. Everybody feels sorry for Vince. Sorry Vince.

Billie’s trying to flirt with me. Knock it off Billie. What’s with the suit jacket? You look like you’re trying to hustle for Re/Max. Go text yourself.

Adorable flower girls. Looks like my sister Betsy’s First Communion, only without Betsy’s horrible sneezing fit.

Oh, shit, Lance just glanced back and saw Ariel. You should see the look on his face. Yeah, he knows he’s over his head now. Duh. He’s gonna pass out. Watch. Okay, I’ll watch for you.

The priest has a comb-over. I repeat for emphasis. The priest has a comb-over.

To have and to hold, yeah, yadda, yadda. The photographer lady just knocked a big row of irises into the choir box. Awk. Ward. Sure gonna want that one in the album.

Until death do you part? That’s a little final, isn’t it? How about giving her an escape clause for when she finds out the real reason Lance lost that job at the convention bureau. Don’t worry Lance, your secret’s safe with me. (Billie’s prone to gossip though.) Just kidding. Just kidding.

What are we throwing? Is it rice or quinoa? Oh god it really is quinoa. Vince is already looking for the bar. Poor Vince. Gail’s other husband actually looks just like Roger Federer. Eeeesh. That’s gotta smart. Vince I mean. But good for you, Gail. Billie wants to drive but I’m not getting in her BMW until she takes off that jackety, blazery thing. Deal she says. Buckle up.

Oh, great, now we’re at the post-apocalyptic Sheraton down by the intercoastal and Alex has the mike. Oh, pleeeease doooon’t. He’s telling a story about an ant and a grasshopper. He’s choking up, but he doesn’t know how the story ends. This is what Alex does, driving with his foot to the floor of his mouth without the headlights on. And he’s the one with the inheritance.

So now the ant is insulting the grasshopper. Groan. I can’t listen to this. He’s forgotten the story, if there even is one. Okay, now the grasshopper says he’s had an erection lasting more than four hours. That’s classy. Nice Alex. Someone take the mike. The comb-over priest just ducked out. Probably instructions from Rome. See ya padre.

Skewered bacon-wrapped duck in peanut sauce. That’s pretty rich. Is that really Velveeta? We’re joking, right? Alex is now doubled over and spewing because he just accidentally gulped a big ball of wasabi. Probably thought it was guacamole.

Oh god, look at Marcy. Talking Heads. Simple Minds. Rare Earth. Green Day. She’s dancing ’til she drops, or knocks a maid of honor into the punch bowl. That burgundy punch won’t blotter well with that green swamp misty thing. This all could go on too long; it is going on too long. For some reason Alex’s bullshit and the hot mustard from the barbecue pork is making me want to start smoking again. And I forgot my nicotine gum.

Water taxi. Come hither. Ciao.