Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche

I have to admit, I never thought I would get married. Wait, that’s not entirely true. When I was a sophomore in high school I remember thinking that in the year 2000 I would be 25 and married because all Mormons are married by they time they turn 25. That’s just what Mormons do; they get married before they turn 25 and they plan the worst weddings. And they drink Sprite.

By the time I graduated college I’d figured out that I wasn’t the typical marriageable Mormon woman. In fact, by the time I graduated college I was no longer a Mormon at all, and since I was still living in Utah the odds of my finding anyone with whom to foster a long-term relationship were about as good as Steve Young turning out to be a raging heterosexual.

Most of the Mormon weddings I’ve attended have been really cute and sweet and irritatingly harmless. The whole myth about Mormons and Jell-O � you know you’ve heard it, that Mormons have a very special relationship with Jell-O � is really not a myth but a sad, sad reality. What’s worse is Mormons love to serve Jell-O at wedding receptions. Jell-O topped with marshmallows and diced carrots are a common element of the potluck wedding buffet intended to feed all of the annoying extended families. When you take into account that Mormons have an average of 42.3 kids per family, we’re talking about A LOT of fucking Jell-O.

I don’t want any Jell-O at my wedding, or diced carrots for that matter. I also don’t want fake ivy intertwined into anything resembling wicker. I don’t want fruit punch or finger food or appalling Celine Dion hits playing on a portable CD player in the corner of the room. I don’t want my niece to stand up at “intermission” and wail a heartfelt but sickening rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings”.

I want fresh flowers and edible substances not made from the hooves of horses. I want tablecloths made out of woven fabric, not perforated butcher paper. I want my friends and family to boogie down all night long, to shake their asses like they’re breaking a commandment, to pop-and-lock, shimmy shimmy, show me their Darrin’s Dance Grooves.

And most important, I want people to enjoy a meal that they couldn’t get at home or at the local soup kitchen. I want people to unbutton their Dockers and go back for another huge helping of roasted dead carcass. Why can’t my mother understand that quiche just doesn’t fit into this?

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