So I would write a long, drooling, ecstatic, fawning post about how my husband was the officiant at our good friends' wedding on Saturday, but I won't. He likes to be anonymous in the blogosphere; I therefore never type his name or post his photo here.
So I will just tell you this very short story about how, 10 minutes before we were supposed to leave for the wedding, my husband's brand new pants broke. Not the whole pants -- just two of the back belt loops. This made blood run out of my eyeballs and steam blow out of my butt. I bet you thought I would say "ears."
I vow that the employees at the Schmens Schwearhouse shall pay. Oh, they shall pay.
I had to sew those mothertruckers back together so that The Commissioner could wear his new suit. And I had only the wrong colors of thread, not to mention a real and frightening lack of know-how when it comes to sewing anything onto anything. The Commissioner would probably have been better off if I'd decided to use a stapler.
In any case, I got those bastards sewn on, and we got to the wedding and when The Commissioner officiated that shit, everyone fell on their faces because they couldn't believe how freaking awesome it was. And The Commissioner smiled beatifically and waved like the pope and dropped his mic like Chris Rock. Just kidding -- there was no mic.
And then he danced in his broken pants. Sober. And the pants held together. He is my hero. I pretty much love that guy.