I've gotta call Dad

This morning, my mother called to inform me that I needed to Save the Date in October, because she has reserved a table for us at a "vintage wedding gown fashion show and tea" at her church. My sister will be modeling my great-aunt's wedding gown.

"DOESN'T THAT SOUND FUN?"

"Well, not really, no."

"Women LOVE going to teas. It'll be lovely."

Oh, holy mother of God.

Those of you who knew me (way back in the way back of 1988) will remember that for my own wedding, I was leaning towards running off to the justice of the peace, and having my best buddies meet us for nachos, afterwards (Yes, Andrea, that means you!) To keep the peace, I pretty much agreed to anything and everything my mother wanted, for my wedding. I was just glad to live through it.

And those of you who know me now, know that I'd sooner have dental surgery without anesthesia than sit for tea. Chug iced tea while screaming and jumping up and down in front of my favorite bands, yes. Eat cucumber sandwiches with my mother's church friends while Mom pretends my sister is getting married? No.

I will either have to enlist Dad in the "explaining to Mom that Christine would rather strap weasels to her face than go" effort, or I will have to fake catastrophic, contagious illness on the day of the event.

OK, readers, I have less than 3 months. Can you give me some tips on how to feign something really gruesome and communicable? Gimme your best shot.

'Cause Mom, Dad, and Denise share a phone.