I had to read the online, European headline twice before I believed my eyes but there it was: ‘Oligarch’s billion dollar wedding for 28 year old son.’

Billion.

If you were a contestant on Wheel of Fortune you would pretty much bankrupt yourself buying vowels to pronounce anyone’s name or country of origin (one of the guests was the former president of Ingusheita. Go ahead- I’ll wait while you Google) but there were tons of Ks and Zs and Ns and the lavish do was held in Moscow for the bride and groom.

This is where we all say at once, “A billion?? Think of all the good that money could have done for the needy!” But perhaps the oil-rich media-mogul father already gives an enormous amount to the needy, for all we know. What I do know is that Papa hired J Lo, Sting, and Enrique Iglesias to perform, the bride (whose family must have wept with relief upon learning they weren’t expected to foot the bill) wore a beaded creation that was both $25,000 and 25 pounds (necessitating an extra strong antiperspirant, I’m thinking), diamond earrings, tiara and enormous pendant and funnily enough, a matching beaded purse, just in case, I guess, she needed to show ID upon approaching the altar.

Six hundred guests were whisked to the reception in a fleet of white Rolls Royces and dined upon ‘European cuisine and sushi,’ surrounded by walls of fresh flowers and a nine tier wedding cake that was easily eight feet tall. J Lo, it was reported, was inappropriately attired in a scanty bit of costume that was frowned upon by the largely Muslim audience and she was horrified when she turned her mic towards the audience for everyone to join her in singing the lyrics, only to find no one knew them.

A billion bucks. Even if I were ordered to, I couldn’t spend a billion dollars on a wedding. I mean, even if you drop 50k on a dress and fly 500 people on private jets to the destination on a remote island you purchased just for the occasion, that doesn’t even make a dent in a billion.

Even if you had Goldman Sachs handle the venue and catering, you’d still have millions and millions left. Even if you paid, in lump sum, all the alimony owed to the ex wives of Paul McCartney and John Cleese … OK, you get the idea.

And you know what else? Had I been invited to this wedding, with all expenses paid, I still wouldn’t have gone. How could I afford to? I mean, what on earth do you then buy this couple as a wedding gift that won’t be looked upon as pitiful? Listen, each guest was given a solid gold box as a keepsake. You can’t just give them a salad bowl from Crate and Barrel.

I would have liked to have heard Sting sing (not really, I just couldn’t resist that alliteration). And have a piece of that giant cake. And maybe hobnob with the former president of Ingusheita: “I understand, sir, your republic borders on Georgia. Now, isn’t that a coincidence? I’m originally from Marietta, myself, about 30 miles north of Atlanta,” before being wrestled to the ground by security and breaking the heel off the pumps I’d bought specially at Fred’s for the occasion.

No, billion dollar weddings are not for me. Or a million dollar one. It’s just too much stress to do anything that doesn’t involve groupon. Besides, I can’t find anyone to feed the horses and take the dogs out every 30 minutes to pee. I can go into Landrum for some sushi and while its not a solid wall of flowers, I can stand in front of Paul’s freshly mulched rose garden in the morning with my coffee and pick up the heady, dew laden scent of early blossoms.

No pressure. No problems. No consonants.