Yesterday my brother told me he planned to bring five random friends from Corvallis, OR to the wedding.
"As long as they don't eat any food," I replied.
Five pregnant friends, he clarified. They'd each be eating for two.
I don't care anymore. Want to ditch the ceremony and reception and only come to the cocktail hour so you can catch your favorite Saturday night TV programming? Go for it. Care to completely scrap our centerpiece plan and replace it with macrame jugs filled with radioactive fluid? Be my guest. The glow will be lovely after sunset. How about five...20...57 more flower girls? I'm so game. I've always wanted an army.
The mushy state of my brain leaves me in no condition to make any further decisions, so I hereby crown my Future-Step-Father-In-Law (FSFIL) the Master of Ceremony. You hear that, Pat? You're in charge. Go wild.