< by Jill >

Tomorrow night, Nate and I are driving to Lombard, Illinois to meet with a wedding deejay. In my head, the meeting goes something like this:

We transition from daylight to black-light as we enter a studio that resembles a 1990s skating rink. A gum-smacking redhead with a high ponytail meets us in the reception area and points us to a vinyl banquette, instructing us to hang tight until the deejay is ready. After browsing through some crumpled issues of MAD Magazine, we’re interrupted by a man with greased black hair. We follow him into his office for a zesty presentation on his services, which consist of introductions, dedications, and Elvis impersonations.

It’s pretty obvious that my conception of wedding deejays stems from Hollywood portrayals. Robbie Hart of The Wedding Singer comes to mind first — he had a penchant for blue polyester suits and the song “Love Hurts.”

I hope to heavens that our deejay has a little more skill and a little less cheese. But at the end of the day, I’ll be satisfied as long as the following conditions are met:

1. I get to dance with my dad for a good, long song.
2. I am musically transported to the 1950s and 1960s as I twirl the night away with my new husband.
3. The deejay adheres to our strict ban on Ke$ha, LMFAO, and anything else with swearing, autotuning, and/or lyrics that consist of “shots shots shots shots-shots-shots shots shots shots-shots-shots shots shots shots-shots-shots — everybody!”

This week, you’ll read stories about song and dance. Annie and Brennan will pop in with a memento on the topic, and then later in the week, I’ll share an update on the deejay situation. See you then!