Oh joy! I am getting married! You’ll never believe how it happened!
I first set eyes on handsome Smolden Farlington, world renowned British row-boat archeologist, whilst he was boating down the Thames in his luxury yacht, Diana Who? a hand-me-down from Prince Charles himself!
I just happened to be sailing by in the opposite direction — seated coquettishly in my restored, side-seat, sculling rowboat (once belonging to King Richard III) — with Hargrove and Mabel – a couple whom I had recently hired to be my traveling companions and a couple whom, I might also add, were proving themselves to be excellent rowers!
But perhaps I should back up momentarily lest I confuse you, Pamela darling.
As you know, my name is Elizabeth Plinkton. But I never told you that I am the Elizabeth Plinkton – of the famous hair-comb-empire Plinktons! My great-grandfather, Sir Randolph Plinkton, having invented the comb with the tapering teeth from large to small — yes, Pamela, darling, just like the one you currently have in your bathroom drawer right now!
In fact, I’m so rich I’m nearly a freak, Pamela! But alas, being exceedingly rich makes one want to die from shear boredom. You’re lucky you’re poor, Pamela, darling, for restoring historic rowboats as one’s only purpose in life turns out to be rather dull I’m afraid.
Which is why I had just slipped gently and quietly into the water – unbeknownst to Hargrove and Mabel — to end my life when, at that precise moment, Smolden Farlington and I passed each other like two ships in the night and our eyes met – his peeking out from beneath the bill of his borrowed captain’s hat and, mine – peering through the murky waters of the Thames.
Oh Pamela, darling! It was love at first sight!
I shall be married Sunday next, Pamela, darling! I would dearly love your presence- but, alas, you’re much too poor to invite– a fact that nearly breaks my heart but not quite.
I’m not usually a lucky person. The slot machines I play are sure to be clinkety-clank-less, the numbers on my raffle tickets go unannounced, and, truth be told, I’ve never even had an opportunity to shout the word “Bingo” . . . unless, of course, it was his name-o.
So when I got kissed by Bill Murray at the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-am Golf Tournament, they had to call the fire department to get me down from Cloud 9.
The whole thing would have never happened had I not stepped on the toes of a good-natured, somewhat tipsy Englishman while trying to get a glimpse of Clint Eastwood at the fifth hole at Spyglass -; breaking the ice between the Englishman and I, while simultaneously breaking most of his toes.
Clint proceeded to hit a ball that landed squarely on the green. Now, for secretive, humorous reasons known only to the British, this sent my new Broken Toed Buddy into a fit of laughter and ear-splitting wise-crack-ery; the likes of which can only be achieved after enjoying a hearty three-martini breakfast.
Take a Mulligan, Clint!” The English One advised and began to chant. “Mulli! Mulli! Mulli!” Finally, Clint turned to him and assuming his famous Dirty Harry persona (at least that’s what I assumed he was assuming) replied, “Yeah, OK,” a comment to which the gallery responded with an explosion of laughter so uproarious, I was left to conclude that everybody there was British.
Then . . . suddenly . . . like a Cinderella story out of nowhere – weaving his way through the throngs to the tee—appeared The Great and Powerfully Funny, Bill Murray, Himself.
“Look! It’s Bill Murray!” I observed with all the subtlety of Lucy Ricardo spotting William Holden at the Brown Derby. My English Buddy didn’t miss a beat. “Hey Bill!” He screamed over the crowd. “This lady would like a kiss!”
Bill Murray responded by slowly turning around like he was Moe Howard hearing the dreaded phrase “Niagara Falls!” As he headed my way, the crowd was giddy with anticipation. I know it’s weird and maybe I’ve been watching too much I Love Lucy but what was running through my head at that exact moment was, “Wait until Ethel hears about this!”
Then, Bill Murray positioned himself in front of me and politely waited for the crowd to get their cameras ready and when the time was right . . .
. . . suddenly the AT&T golf tournament faded away, and it was just me and my lips and Bill Murray kissing me . . . with his lips. I don’t know how long we kissed. It could have been an instant or it could have been an hour or possibly four or five hours (but I doubt it) that I was suspended in the bliss of Bill Murray’s kiss.
On the drive home, I suddenly realized it was February 2nd which meant – that’s right – I got kissed by Bill Murray on Groundhog day. And in the immortal the words of Carl the Greens keeper — after he was granted total consciousness on his deathbed by the Dali Lama –I thought:
“So I got that going for me . . . which is nice.”
Until next time . . . I love you (and that goes double for Bill Murray)