When Pigs Fly
My more astute readers may have noticed that I did not post a blog last week. I am loathe to leave all twelve of you dangling without good reason, but I think I have a fairly good one this time: Olive Oyl and I were in Texas up to our moist eyeballs at the small family wedding of some dear friends…ourselves!
Indeed, after nearly six years together (and eight years of personally swearing to anyone within earshot that I would never get married again! ) we declared publicly that our hearts had been won and we dedicated ourselves to being the best partners it is in our power to be.
May 4, 2019—The happy couple, still single but for a few more minutes, holding the champaign and piece of original art that my good friend and partner, Wayno, gifted us.
While O2 and I have been through three marriages between us, this is the first mature relationship either of us have been party to. If I may get personal and gooey for a moment, by the time my beloved Olive Oyl and I met, I had become as cynical about relationships and the human species as people ever get. I told her early on that dating was fine but that I’d never live with anyone nor marry again. She wasn’t anxious to jump into another relationship either, so we proceeded slowly.
Over the subsequent years, we challenged one another to broaden our perspectives and grow in many ways and in doing so, we slowly built trust in each other. Around four years ago, we moved in together but I was still unconvinced of the value of a ceremony the likes of which did nothing for either of my first two attempts at marriage. Eventually, mostly for the practical and legal benefits that come with marriage, I decided it was safe to try it again; Olive had proven to me she was a person of great integrity and someone I could safely commit to. But while I felt good about marrying her and had no reservations, I still had very little respect for the ritual of it. Until the wedding.
It was a very small gathering of family and friends on the backyard deck of my daughter and son-in-law’s modest home. The weather was sunny, breezy, and perfect. We’d chosen a longtime friend to officiate and she wrote the perfect ceremony for us with a masterful combination of humor and poignancy without, in her words, “making anyone roll their eyes”. As we spoke the vows we’d each written to the other, an amazing thing happened that I’d not expected.
By the wedding day, we were very familiar with each other’s vows and had almost wondered if they’d seem stale by the time we said them aloud. But, quite to the contrary, we found we were overwhelmed with emotion. In fact, everyone was. The power of saying important things in front of those who know and love you is formidable. Olive could barely make it through her vows without succumbing to emotion and I was even worse, stopping regularly to catch my breath and wipe my eyes and nose. A glance at everyone else scattered about the backyard shade showed me that we weren’t the only ones; virtually everyone was tearing up. It was as if an invisible force had overcome us all.
For me, this was the first time I was aware of experiencing the power of ritual. Ever the reductionist, my first thought was that for pack animals, there is enormous power in numbers—dogs would embrace weddings, cats wouldn’t show up for them. This power can be used for good or evil and everything in between, of course, but there is certainly a special magic in togetherness and we truly basked in the feeling.
After the wedding, we had a dandy party with food, drink, and karaoke. (My daughters and their friends are hilarious geniuses of karaoke and it’s always a blast!) It was simply a perfect day and I hope you Jazz Pickles don’t mind my sharing a bit of it.
That brings us to what Wayno was sharing last week in his marriage of words and pictures. Let’s find out…
Say what you will about the ignorant persistence of anti-vaxxers, they are doing more than most of us to alleviate the problems of overpopulation. After the world’s human population is devastated by diseases we’d already beaten (and the new ones the planet devises because we’ve been such rotten houseguests) and the few who remain survive the subsequent apocalypse and begin rebuilding society, they may erect a statue to them.
As the old saying goes, “Once you go jester, you’ll never go bester.” (It’s kind of hard to imagine why that saying ever caught on.)
Let’s just hope the judge isn’t full of self loathing.
But then the Apricot Assfruit began haranguing him on Twitter until he was forced to resign and he began to wish he’d read the report more carefully and helped blow the mofo’s house down. #WhiteHouseOfStraw
I hate to contradict Wayno but studies repeatedly show that decorations do little to mitigate the absolute terror of being confronted with a talking human skeleton with a farm implement. Wayno defends his position on this in his weekly cartoon blog here.
Wayno and I have both been in bands and we agree that there could likely be a very nice living made by a therapist specializing in bands. Being in a band is alarmingly similar to being in a romantic relationship except that (usually) you can’t use make-up sex to reset the playing field.
Since today is Mother’s Day, I’ll close this post with a picture of us with our parents from our wedding last week. We’re both happy to have new moms this week!
My dad, Fred; my mom, Carol Lee; some jackass in a funny hat; my ex-girlfriend, Olive Oyl; Olive Oyl’s mom, Gayle.
That completes our testimony for this week, Jazz Pickles. Thanks for judging us. If you like what we do and that we do it WITHOUT ugly ads, please consider dropping a morsel into one of the links below. It really helps keep the bunny fed at Rancho Bizarro. Who knows, we may even save up enough for a honeymoon!
Until next week, be happy, be smart, be nice, and resist ignorance and fascism.
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