It's Laughter We Remember....

When I think about our wedding day, the first thing I think about is how it was gloriously sunny the day before and the day after.

On our actual wedding day, it rained. It wasn't just overcast. It wasn't a romantic light sprinkling. Or a sun shower. No, this was a full-fledged, 10-hour, unmerciful, you-and-your-white-gown-are-so-screwed downpour. And someone needs to tell Alanis Morrisette there's nothing ironic about the situation. Rain on your wedding day just sucks.

The photos in our wedding album show me going into the limo wearing boat shoes. The dark and gloomy day translated into photos that looked like they were taken at 10 at night, not early afternoon.

People were really nice -- telling us that rain on the wedding day means "showers of good fortune." Okay. I'm still waiting for that. But there's still time. It's only been a couple decades or so.

Meanwhile, when Mike thinks about our wedding, he talks about that day's Jets game. He remembers the score, who got hurt, who had a good tackle.

Apparently, he casually went out to the bar, ordered up a Coke and just stayed there for a while, unbeknownst to his family, my family, our friends. THEY were all making good use of the open bar IN the ballroom. Which might explain why his extended absence went virtually unnoticed.

I was too busy circulating among the guests to eat or drink. And Mike kept to his Coke regimen. So you'd have thought we would have had more control over the party games.

Me & Mike (during wedding planning): "The deejay must not play Kool & The Gang's 'Celebration,' there will be no bouquet tossing and don't even think about the garter-throwing mess."

Cut to the reception: Party deejays in da house. We didn't realize we even hired PARTY DEEJAYS. We never heard of the term, but next thing we knew, one was spinning tunes while the other was stomping around with his portable mic, singing about how we all needed to celebrate and have a good time.

Mike: "Good lord."

When MC Get Down announced the bouquet and garter toss, I mouthed to Mike, "No WAY!"

But drunk people dig that stuff. They were all like, "WOOOOOO!" "YEAH!" "DO. THIS. THING!!!" We were definitely on a runaway train. It was so not a "Bridezillas" or "My Fair Wedding" deal.

This weekend, we mark the 22nd year since we exchanged marriage vows. A hurricane is also blowing up the coast. (I'm giddy thinking about all the good fortune that'll be showered upon me.)

The NFL kickoff usually goes hand-in-hand with our anniversary. But this year, pro football doesn't start until next week. I think I need to go remind Mike. Let's face it: no NFL + no Jets = no mental reminder of the awesome party that rocked our wedding day.

Bustin' a Move... Or Not Really

I went to the gym on Thursday, Friday and Sunday. I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself.  Two Zumba classes and a kickboxing class.  I am woman, I thought.

Then, I go on Facebook and see one of my high school friends is going to be in an Ironman competition in Kona, Hawaii.  I was wondering, “Hmm, I wonder if that’s, like, a big deal,” because his wall post just said, “Kona!”  At first I thought he was talking about his morning coffee, but all his buds were like, “You rock!” “You worked hard for this, you deserve it!”

So, I Google up Kona Ironman and it’s something like THE HARDEST TRIATHLON IN THE WORLD — “2.4-miles of swimming, 112-miles of biking, and a 26.2-mile marathon run through tough ocean waves, and challenging lava-covered terrain.”

Talk about feeling like I just got flicked in the forehead.  I’m sitting here, all “I’m not a national obesity stat… yet — so booyah to me” and “I’m not on heart, cholesterol or blood pressure meds yet — so chalk one up for The Cath!” (that’s right, I was feeling so good it was NFL-like, third-person reference time), and here’s my friend Eric in an Ironman.  KONA Ironman.

It would be easier to swallow this news if he was a single guy, living with the ‘rents, jobless with nothing better to do but train all day.  But that’s not even it!  He commutes to a magazine job in NYC every day, has a wife, a daughter, a house to take care of.  And the phrase, “Back in ’82″ is more than just a “Napoleon Dynamite” reference; it’s when we graduated high school!!  So, I’m like, “Daaammmmnnnn!”

At this point, rather than berate myself for not having Ironman energy that inspires 70-mile morning bike rides in freezing temperatures… or whatever!… I mentally gave myself two options:

• Option One: Get more mojo by drinking more morning joe.
• Option Two: Crank up the ol’ metabolism by launching a coke snorting habit.

Since I didn’t like the idea of running to the loo any more than coffee already has me in there, Option One: DENIED.  And since I don’t cotton to the idea of a cocaine-induced heart attack, serving jail time or giving my kids any more bad examples or ammo to use against me, Option Two: DENIED.

That brought me to Option Three: Stop the crazy talk and just tear into frat-housesized bags of Fritos and Snyder’s Buffalo Wing pretzels, get cozy in a corner of the sofa and call it a day. Of course, that would have me growing out of my clothes in no time, thus mandating a clothes shopping trip — and who has the energy for THAT?!

Maybe I’ll just buy some Kona coffee, get my ass to Zumba and take it from there….