When husband-man and I got hitched, we did so with the notion that we wouldn't do a fancy-shmancy wedding thing, but rather do something low-key, intimate, and much more meaningful to us, alongside our closest family members and friends. We did just that. We found a little church in Greenfield, Indiana that seemed perfect for us and the kind of "non-denominational, female-minister, 10-minute, no-tie-for-the-groom and a red-dress-and-leopard heels for the bride" ceremony we had in mind. It was small, cozy, historical, and a rent-by-the-hour place that coincided with our laid back, jeans-and-flip-flops post-wedding party. Just plain quaint. And perfect.
So, when we were sitting on our butts today, enjoying one of the guilty, mindless pleasures we have of watching the third season of "Rock of Love" (this time, it's on a tour bus), we were both doing double-takes at the setting of this week's episode. You see, Brett Michaels is taking all of these lovely working girls on tour with him this season, and they happened to be traveling through to one of his shows in Indianapolis. They stopped at a little chapel on the way to do an official skank challenge, where all the train-wreck, silicone-happy trampalicious chicks had to come up with their personal vows should they ever get the honor to marry Brett Michaels (I just threw up in my mouth a little).
Husband-man noticed it first. He looked at the TV and said, "Hey hon, that looks like the chapel we got married in."
I answered, "It does! It's cute just like ours, and has the same exact architecture. Huh."
And after enduring the lingerie and clear stripper heels in the church for a few more minutes, we saw the shot of them all walking out to a crowd full of people on the street...
Holy crap, that's OUR church.
Here I thought our little chapel was this revered place of history...built in the late 1800s, right in front of James Whitcomb Riley's childhood home. Quaint and small-town and very simple in its architectural beauty. But I guess it's just the Vegas chapel of Greenfield, Indiana. Well, according to VH1, anyway.
While one of the gals promises Brett to "never wear panties," I promised Husband-man to never, ever force him to eat anything that I cook. I suppose she and I are both givers, but there's the end of the similarity. After all, I think the panty thing would've put my God-fearing aunt and uncle over the edge.
Our chapel is famous - by way of mindless trash TV. If we ever renew our vows there, I still won't wear clear stripper heels. Well, maybe I will if Brett Michaels takes off that eye liner and ridiculous bandana (we know there's no hair left, dude...just embrace it already)...