Month: February 2013

Why I Hate Wedding Receptions

Ladies and gentlemen,

I found this in my archives and cracked up at the irony. I’ll let you know how my own wedding reception (which I refuse to call a reception. LOL) goes when I get round to getting married.

I’m still very finicky about wedding receptions but since writing this eons ago, have discovered that some of them are out of this world fun. Just depends who’s getting married!

Must have just returned from a disastrous reception when I wrote it so read with a pinch of salt! Lol.

xxx

Waila

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Everyone around me is getting married and exciting though it is, I’m reminded of why I hate wedding receptions so much.  Yes, I am not a fan of weddings. Not unless it’s a destination wedding. I love travelling and have a long list of places I want to visit. If you really want me at your wedding, do the deed as far away as possible. You want to drastically slash numbers? Pah! Go as far away as possible, I’ll be right there waiting for you. You can’t slash me!

Anyway, back to the topic at hand; why I hate wedding receptions.

Guests arrive and wait a million years for the couple to turn up, all the while, slowly dying of starvation. The couple finally show up but before they can enter the venue, both sets of parents must spend at least 30mins dancing to their seats. Why they never do that while we’re sitting and waiting, I know not. Couple finally dance into the venue and this bit I must admit, can be fun. They take their seats and then some MC who rates himself quite highly on the comedy scale takes the mic and dulls the crap out of us. Just as your brain cells are beginning to dry up, the chairman of the occasions takes the stage. He collects all the drying cells, arranges them in a neat pile and crushes them with the soles of his feet. Only then do the gods feel sorry for you. The smell of jollof rice fills the air.

A hostess stops you as you attempt to rise up from your seat.

“We’re going table by table. Please wait till your table is called before approaching the serving points.”

Otherwise, you have to haul your behind up and stand in line to get served. By the time you get to the front of the buffet queue, all the good stuff’s gone. All you’re left with is a few grains of cold jollof rice, an anorexic chicken drumstick and a few squares of shrivelled up plantain.

You really should have gone to McDonalds before coming.

You’re so hungry you’re grateful for whatever is left and you wolf it down like a starving urchin.  Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you register that the food is crap and you bank the knowledge for a day when you are well fed and gossiping with your girlfriends.

A couple of friends give mildly funny speeches and the bride’s sister balls her eyes out as she proclaims her love her irreplaceable sister. You’d think the poor bride was suffering from some sort of terminal illness. (No Imeme, I’m not talking to you. Muhaha).  Okay okay, I’ll be honest; speeches are one of the few things I like about wedding receptions, even the emotional ones. You need a few tears shed at a wedding to make the day that bit more poignant.

Just as I’m managing to convince myself that it’s not been such a bad reception, some strange aunty wheels out the wedding cake and annoys the crap out of me by insisting the bride has to kneel and feed her husband. Sure aunty, why not insist she spend the rest of her life crawling after the man?

The bride and groom take to the dance floor for their first dance and this bit is dicey. They have the power to either redeem my mood or send me plunging into the abyss of manic depression.

By the time the party starts, I’m so out of there. That’s if the bride and groom failed that pivotal test. If they succeeded, you’ll find me dancing off my sorrows… assuming Mr DJ doesn’t fall my hand!

Free Writing: Write About Your Feet

feet

You don’t want to see what my feet look like at the moment. All I can say is thank heaven it’s winter! Every day I tell myself I need to get rid of the chipped beyond chipped red nail varnish and trim my claws but do I do it? No. Action Waila, action!

On a good day I have quite pretty feet if I say so myself. I reckon I could be a shoe model, well if not for the corns on my two little toes; my reward for stuffing my feet in undersized shoes. It’s not my fault most stores in Blighty don’t do half sizes for those of us with abnormally sized feet. That aside, my feet look nice in shoes. I can pretty much wear anything and they’re guaranteed to look hot. I can think of other gifts I’d have preferred (long full hair, longer leaner legs…) but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Trips to Nigeria are my saving grace because they’re the only times I get pedicures. Those Nigerian nail salons sure know how to transform crusty feet. Call me stingy but I can think of better ways to spend £30. A bowl of designer stew from Lekki Kitchen, those animal print sandals on sale in Zara that I can’t seem to find anywhere, new nighties so my hubby to be never finds out he’s marrying a tramp…the list is endless.

Have I mentioned that the nails on my little toes are abnormal? They look nothing like nails. I inherited the strange looking things from my darling mother. Many years ago I thought it would be a good idea to rip out the entire nail on my little left toe. I was convinced it would grow back looking the way a nail should, just like some girls whose parents are thoroughbred Africans go natural thinking their hair will grow out looking like Corrine Bailey Rae’s.  Now now, I’m not hating on natural haired girls, I’d quite like to go natural myself. I’m just saying be under no illusions that your hair will grow out looking like your father married a white woman…or vice versa. The same way that relaxing your hair won’t make it look like Giselle Bundchen’s. How crazy is that woman’s body?!

I digress.

Yes, foolish me ripped off my little toe thinking it would grow back looking normal. The pain was out of this world and I bled like a ram at slaughter. Surprise surprise, the nail grew back looking exactly how it did before I yanked it off.

Lesson learned? If you want perfect lookingtoe nails, tell your father not to marry my mother.

Love,

Waila