costume ball

I just learned (much to my chagrin) that when you get married, you can either be yourself and have a funky party at a 156-year-old synagogue on the Lower East Side with creaky stairs and decrepit walls and give your grandmother a heart attack (god forbid), or you can pretend that you live on the Upper East Side, act like you used to take tea with Jackie O., feed everyone filet mignon... and make a lot of people comfortable and happy.

Those acting classes from seventh grade are gonna pay off. (Even though they were horrible and oddly experimental. And I actually opened a show by walking in a circle slapping a metal spatula against my hand to the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer." Yes. I. Did. Ask Geoff Gibson. Qu'est-ce que c'est, indeed! And you ask me why I am the way I am. Ha!)

The good part is that no matter what it's gonna be a swell affair. Besides honeymoons are for shaking off the glitter from the costume ball and getting back to what's it's all about: lurv!

Right?

Now on with show.