Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Illustrate the meaning of "It's No Use Crying over Spilt Milk" (without using the actual phrase or literal exampl (02/07/08)
TITLE: Mrs. Mackeyhackey's Perfect Day
By Sheri Gordon
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My dad and I are standing at the back of the sanctuary, waiting to take the slow walk toward my beloved. I am going to relish this moment. After all, I have planned long and hard for my perfect day, and I deserve to be the center of attention.
At my prodding, the flower girl and ring bearer start down the aisle. “Don’t forget to throw the rose pedals,” I instruct five-year-old Kendra.
Oops, wrong words. Kendra is doing an excellent job of throwing the pedals … straight at the guests. No, this can’t be happening. This is not in my perfect plan. People are laughing. No laughing allowed. Uh-oh, my future mother-in-law does not look amused. It figures. Is she scowling? Can’t tell now … she just got a fistful of pink rose pedals in the face.
Okay, one little glitch in my perfect plan is doable. Besides, the kids do look cute. And my beloved is smiling radiantly at me from under the perfectly decorated lattice arch.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered … blah, blah, blah”
“… May I now present, Mr. and Mrs. Boyd Mackeyhackey.”
I know. Not the perfect name – Becky Mackeyhackey. It’s not what I planned, but it is what it is.
After an almost perfect wedding ceremony, we arrive at the almost perfect reception site. It should have been perfect, except it’s outdoors, and we are having an unseasonable high of 108 degrees. So … not so perfect.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mackeyhackey, you really need to cut the cake.” The meticulously dressed, albeit sweating profusely, wedding coordinator ushers us toward the cake table, where I see my mother frantically shoving pink carnations into the side of the cake.
“No, no. There aren’t supposed to be flowers all over the cake, just at the bottom.” Instantaneously, I turn into a bridezilla, unceremoniously flinging carnations away from the cake table.
“You don’t have a choice, dear. The cake is melting.” Mom steps away from the table, revealing a pile of pink frosting.
“We’ll put flowers on the front, cut it quick, and get it out of the sun. The photographer can touch up the pictures.” The wedding coordinator pushes carnations back into the messy glob.
Okay, another glitch. This one is God’s fault. What’s He thinking … 108 degrees? But, this will not stop me from enjoying my perfectly planned day.
As Boyd and I begin eating, I turn to wipe a spot of barbeque sauce from his face. (Boyd loves barbeque, and although that was not part of my perfect plan, I decided to let Boyd choose the menu. And he chose barbeque. What’s a girl to do?)
As I wipe his almost perfect chin, I let out a gasp of horror.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Boyd, forgetting he has barbeque sauce on his fingers, strokes my face to try to calm me down.
“The napkins. They’re supposed to be pink, with our names and the date on them!”
“Relax, honey. Our names are right here. See?”
“Yeah, I see. Right under Bobby’s Flying Barbeque and the pig with wings!” I wad up the pig-infested napkin and throw it at Boyd.
“Well … the pig is pink.”
“Everything’s ruined. Rose pedals in your mother’s face – and she’s still scowling at me. A cake that looks like a post-eruption volcano. Barbeque sauce on everything. And now flying pigs. My perfect day is horrible.” I grab Boyd’s pink pig napkin and begin sobbing hysterically.
“My perfect day isn’t ruined. My perfect day is still perfect, because at the end of the day, I’m married to you – Mrs. Becky Mackeyhackey.” Boyd licks the barbeque sauce from his fingers and proceeds to tenderly wipe the sauce from my tear-streaked face.
“Come on. Let’s eat some cake; then we can leave on our honeymoon.” Boyd picks up a fork and cuts a piece of cake to feed to me. “I got plenty of the banana cream on here, ‘cause I know that makes your tummy-wummy happy.” Boyd is so cute, and so thoughtful.
The sound of gagging and spitting interrupts our romantic moment. We look up to see guests frantically expelling cake from their mouths and gulping sparkling cider straight from the bottles.
“The banana cream filling went rancid in the heat,” Boyd’s scowling mother cries.
“This perfect day is over,” Boyd whispers as he reaches for my hand and pulls me toward his waiting red Camero. “We’re about to start the perfect night.”
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