Roswell
To Have And To Hold

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It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished 'em well

Props to Liz. No. Not that Liz.

Morning time at The Interplanetary House Of Evanscakes. An exterior shot of the house is accompanied by a subtitle in Microsoft Word Font MS Alien Bold Sans "Sustaining Viewer Interest In This Show When At This Very Moment Just One Channel Away Tom Welling Probably Already Has His Shirt Off" Bold that reads, "3 days, 6 hours, 24 minutes until the wedding." We cut to inside the adobe manse, where a ringing alarm clock reads 5:45. The clock itself is the quirky shape and the shiny metallic design of the not-too-distant future, and its presence is meant to reassure the uneasy six of us that, though Isabel is about to leave singlehood and chastity behind, she's still enough of a hometown girl to have set up her wedding registry at the Crashdown gift shop. That's why I got her gum. Alien gum. But gum nonetheless.

Reaching over and turning the alarm off is Isabel "Where's Samantha! She-a at the church. The church? She get-a maddied. Maddied? Maddied! Jeez!" Evans, who is stirred suddenly wide awake, preventing us from having to stare all fetishistically into this weird Isabel's-armpit close-up for one more second. She sits bolt upright in bed, apparently roused to attention by the music supervisor's painful (and not at all clichéd) decision to use "The Wedding March" on the soundtrack to connote, of all things, the approach of a wedding. I guess said music supervisor couldn't procure the rights to the even more blatantly illustrative WE GET IT ditty "Isabel Evans Is Getting Married (Do You Need Me To Draw You A Goddamn Picture)" on account of that song doesn't exist at the moment. Incidentally, I can't wait until the end of this episode, when the self-serious monotone of Jason Behr voices over the closing credits with, "Tonight's episode of Roswell featured music by Fuel, 3 Doors Down…and Felix Mendelssohn." And the album cover is a picture of Mendelssohn in a big ol' powdered wig, celebrating his sudden, Tony Bennett-esque career resurgence all, "Look at me! I'm famous on the Roswell show!"

Cut to the Crashdown by light of poorly-lit dawn. Isabel stands outside the closed restaurant, reaching the height of impatience, employing that Stella Adler-esque "I am impatient!" constant shifting of her weight. She falls slightly short of her emotional goal and ends up communicating more of an "oh man oh man I really have to pee oh man" thing. I feel you, Isabel. My bladder always tends to weaken before all of my own sham sweeps-dictated weddings. From inside the Crashdown, Maria "Find Me A Find, Catch Me A Catch" DeLuca turns the "Closed" sign around to signify that the Crashdown is now open for business. She then fiddles a bit with the lock (my God, man, can't you see how badly Isabel needs to pee? Move it along!), opens the door, and wishes Isabel a "good morning." Isabel slams past her with a curt, "Don't you guys open at 6:30? It's 6:42." She barks a breakfast order at Maria, and Liz "Always The Bridesmaid, Never The So Much As Vaguely Believable Actress" Parker hops to attention. Isabel sits at a table and flips open a notebook, dialing her first number and bizzotching into the phone that her invitations company in Dallas (who, considering time zone concerns and the likelihood of a printing company being open before eight o'clock on a weekend morning, must be located in Dallas, England) has failed to overnight her the invitations she'd been expecting. Which, as conventional wisdom dictates for a wedding Nazi such as herself, would have gone out, like, six weeks ago. And not 3 days, 6 hours, 24 minutes, and it-will-still-be-two-weeks-'til-we-say-we're-sorry ago.

Time lapse, and the Crashdown goes from closed to open to closed once more. It's dark outside now, and Maria and Liz sit at the counter while a beleaguered Isabel continues to maintain some small level of believability with that pretending-you're-on-the-phone-listening-to-someone-else-talk thing, like, "What? What's that you say you'll do? You say you want me to shut up? Well, listen, buster! What? What's that? You say I won't have my flowers in time? But what about…? What?" Isabel finishes up another round of general meanness, slamming down her cell phone as much as one can slam down a cell phone, and turning her anger on Liz when The Waitress Bot fails to take into account the emotional needs of her customer and kicks back to her default setting of just offering her some pie. Isabel snaps that, no, she does not want some pie, but she quickly collects herself and apologizes for, as the UPN so allows, "being such a bitch today." Liz tells her not to worry, saying that she can't imagine the stress Isabel is under, plot-developing not at all awkwardly, "Are you nervous at all? Not about the wedding, but about getting married. I mean, it's for the rest of your life." IT IS? Man, everything I ever needed to know I learned from watching Roswell. Isabel claims she's not nervous at all, that she knows he's the right guy and so on, and Liz and Maria crow on about their own romantic interests until Isabel slips right into a coma (I so feel you! I'm over here! Feeling you!) right there at the Crashdown table. She's asleep in the booth. And then…oh, my, what have we here? Isabel slips into a dream state, whereby she is standing alone in a room with dozens of French doors, open to allow wind to gust in from an indeterminate off-screen locale and blow many billowy curtains around. Oh, my God. Isabel has fallen asleep in the Crashdown and dreamwalked Celine Dion right though the storyboarding process of the video for "It's All Coming Back To Me." All she needs now is the giant mirror and the two-thousand-year-old husband. Then a beefcake-y dude walks into the billowy wind room. He doesn't look two thousand at all.

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Roswell

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