The Boy will be happy to know that both of his parents dance like Professional White Boys. We were reminded of this Saturday night, while at a wedding reception for one of the docs the Spouse Thingy works with. The music was good, but our moves were not smooth and were glaring evidence of a complete lack of rhythm on either of our parts.

You’d never know we grew up in the era of disco.

The wedding was nice; short and to the point, with the obligatory vocalist missing 52.7% of the notes of the psalm she was trying to sing, and there was a spiffy military honor guard (of whom we were quite impressed, as the guard was made up of medical people wielding swords, and no one lost an eye or cut an ear off.) The bridesmaids actually had nice dresses, black satin strapless gowns that were truly nice, unlike the traditional the-more-hideous-the-better-the-bride-looks dresses. Both sides of the family were just too freaking good looking, though.

Now, normally the Spouse Thingy and I would have ducked out of the reception after dinner (which was, frankly, awesome and worth the ride out there) because we’re stick in the muds, but our neighbors were also there, and they’re fun, and there was an open bar…so we stayed. And danced. And drank (well I did, he had to drive home), though apparently we did not have as much to drink as the neighbor, who knows how to appreciate an open bar, and who was able to teach a whole bunch of people how to do the Chicken Dance.

Yes, evidently the Chicken Dance is a Canadian wedding staple.

No, don’t ask me why.

And, evidently, Canadian wedding receptions go on well into the night; this one petered out around 10 pm, the bride and groom long gone (wonder why they were in such a hurry to leave…?) and the restaurant worked not so subtly clearing things away (which was nicer, I suppose, than a busboy standing on a table shouting, “Get out! Get the phck oooouuuut!”) and we were informed that a Real Canadian Reception would have broken up sometime around dawn.

My fellow Americans, we are not party worthy. This was quite clear.

I should mention the neighbor is Canadian. But we still like her.

I have to admit, for something I did not want to go to (and would not have if the neighbors had also not been going), I had a blast. And even though I dance like a Professional White Boy, I just might do it again sometime.

And, BTW, that freaking Chicken Dance Song gets stuck in one’s head for a very long time. Dammit.

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