Escort Service

Of the eleventy billion weddings I have to attend this summer, Jason has opted out of one of them.

So I'm looking for a date.

Interested?

That's right - I'm pathetically pimping myself out because I have no friends and my husband doesn't love me.

Or something like that.

My strict requirements:

Bullet Point - Must be a snappy dresser (please, no actual snaps...I'm sort of phobic). I'll be looking fab, no, make that ultrafab, and I wouldn't want you to feel dowdy beside me. Good: fake eyelashes, stilettos, polka-dot pocket squares, italian leather, a classic three-button. Bad: polo shirts, flip flops, loafers.

Bullet Point - Must be able to hold liquor well (in your tummy/bloodstream....the sink does not count). Copious amounts of wine is just about the only way I don't slit my wrists while the third uncle in a row feels the need to tell the room about the cutesy-wutesy thing that the bride used to say back when she was 4 and someone cared, while I eat my obligatory 4 roasted potatoes and 3 baby carrots...and god...don't get me started on the cheesy photo slideshows that are all the rage these days. The point is: we will be drinking. The drinks are on me. I'm very generous. I will drink you under the table. Don't try to compete, just try to keep up.

Bullet Point - Must know first aid. I am deathly allergic to the following: pew bows, flower girls, sugared almonds, and little plastic people often found on the tops of cakes. Also, I am known to choke on my own tongue in the vows involve the word "obey."

Bullet Point - Must be a dancer. Oh, you don't have to be good. You just have to get up. But not for any song by anyone who has ever been a Mouseketeer. During those, we either go to the bathroom to pee out $38 worth of rye, or we sit and scowl at the hairy aunts who are trying to steal flower arrangements out the back door.


My preferences:

Gender: Not fussy; I go both ways. Kill the Goat is an equal-opportunity pimp.

You should nod your head at: The Dandy Warhols; Johnny Cash; Buckcherry; Switchfoot; Hawksley Workman.

You should roll your eyes at: any man who has ever referred to, or spoken to, his biceps; camouflage as a fashion trend; how long I'll fuss with my hair, which won't do anything anyway.

You should be irritated with the following wedding cliches: the monogrammed paper napkins; the weepy spotlight dance; the 16 hours of super-necessary photos of the groom looking stunned and the bride looking tired.



Of course, travel will be necessary.

I will be departing from central Ontario (Union Station, Toronto, to be exact), and traveling eastward. You can either travel with me or meet at the destination, but just know that the hours before noon are not my best. Chocolate milk helps, but, you know, not enough.

So....any takers?







Disclaimer: If you are my friend and are getting married this summer, I obviously am not referring to your wedding.