There was karaoke at the Gaffney Country Club following my cousin's wedding. The bride sang "Strawberry Wine"; the groom sang "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." Her cousins on the other side of the family knew the words. We danced.

Other highlights of the day included the bridal luncheon hostess remarking that my aunt, who has lived in the South for thirty years, still has "a lot of North in her". I proudly displayed an arsenal of flowry print dresses that were no match for fake tans, pedicures, and maybeline foundation (shade: very tan) but I had fun, tried to add a dipthong or two, swam at the Hampton Inn's pool (with its spectacular vista of I-85) and was pleased to hear that my cousin has joined the local bridge club, preserving an important family tradition.

Yes indeed, it was a time for family. A time for processed foods we normally avoid and pimento cheese, for Coor's Light and my favorite nuptial item, a culinary event that occurs only at weddings and never in society at large: the genius of the stuffed mushroom.

Nobody caught the bouquet. With family friends muttering that it was a bad omen under their breaths it soared, descended, brushed someone's shoulder and fell into a forest of high heeled flip-flops and pedicures. Then someone picked it up. She was blonde and tan. There were only a handful of us anyway, with most of the girls complaining that "this ree-yung means ah shouldn't be in hee-ah." So.

Also (how could I forget?) mid-way through the reception a tiger mascot entered the dance floor pumping fists as the d.j. played the Clemson alma mater, a chorus joined by 300 of the guests, also pumping fists. And we envisioned football, and victory, and men and pigskins and glory, and there was much rejoicing. I'll be in New York City tomorrow, y'all.