Last Saturday our church did one of those “How to Host a Murder” parties. The setting was a wedding reception, so lots of people could participate.
After much waffling around, I was chosen – on Thursday – to be the bride. Oy! I went to the local Good Will, but could not find anything that would zip up, and the local thrift shop wanted $230 – for a dress which had been donated! They could have sold it for $10 and still made a profit! As a last resort I stopped at a new shop called “Abbey Rose”. I’d been told the shop has consignments as well as overstocks from other stores, so it was worth a look-see.
I told the young lady why I needed the dress, and didn’t want to spend an arm and a leg, and she pulled four dresses off the rack. First one fit fine, and I was delighted. I dug up Youngest Daughter’s wedding veil, which was still gray after two trips through the washing machine, and I was all set. The Squire, on the other hand, flat out refuses to wear a suit, so he wore a black T-shirt with a tuxedo jacket printed on the front. (I swear, we never look as if we are going to the same place.) 
Lots of mingling and asking questions, and suddenly, in the middle of our first and only dance, a shot rang out, and I fell to the floor. Kaboom! Someone raced over and tried to find my pulse, but I was pronounced DOA. Fortunately, our church isn’t named Resurrection “fer nuthin'”, and I was able to get up and sit down at the table, looking pale and interesting.
After I had recovered sufficiently, The Squire and I had a chance to cut our wedding cake, although I don’t remember us feeding each other a slice.
The original plan had been for me to fall over dead in my spaghetti, but I nixed that idea very firmly. Over my dead body, or something.
thisendoftheswamp 
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