We were all enjoying the quiet stillness of the post-wedding gloaming. Nothing to check on a list. No appointments to keep. Nothing to decide, count, arrange, approve, pay for, comply with, stuff, fold, tie, paste, or squeeze into a specially designed undergarment.
A return to relative normalcy. But not Relative Normalcy.
The O’Malley-Scungili Extravaganza – and its runway – all 730 days plus one for Leap Year – had left the Earth scorched. Its plant life parched. The creatures in its path spent and clinging to life by their French Manicured fingernails. It was like the green fog that Moses conjured up in The Ten Commandments. Only pink.
J. was hoping that an olive branch had managed to survive the apocalypse and was ripe for the picking. Convinced that now that the levy-breaking pressure of the Big Day had subsided and no one was going to feel compelled to square off and take to their respective corners, that no one was going to have to give in the to the other’s logic or (God forbid) change their mind, or have to admit to their own defective reasoning in a fit of snots and tears and hand wringing, --- that there might be some enlightened, peaceable recognition of what the other side’s position had been.
I am sure there were Hatfields and McCoys with the same optimistic pipedream.
For J.’s sake, I hoped that there would be some covert or implied acknowledgement – whispered in the kitchen, in hushed tones, concealed from view by an open refrigerator door – that Sheila et al had been wrong not to consider his feelings about who his family was, and who among them would be invited. Wrong to expect so much understanding, and commitment and contribution from him with only narrow-minded inconsideration in return.
I had said out loud (and admittedly, at times, overly loudly!) that I understood their position. It was insulting to me and hurtful, personally, but intellectually I could grasp the logic, though I believed it to be flawed. Emotionally it missed the target – and would for our children. My decision had to favor the emotional side of the equation. Not some technicality or Bride’s Magazine how-to column. Truly – had no one been able to grasp that? Or was the failure to see it just a convenient act?
But with a graduation on the horizon and celebrations to be planned, there were relationships to massage. Perhaps resuscitate. Crow to eat. Swords to run on. Who would be cast in what roles and what the chances of survival are remain full blown mysteries to me.
I was curious but not kill-the-cat curious. I could live with the unknown for a long time. The Kennedys did. Why not me?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Facebook and Twitter and YouTube, Oh My!
I am truly a child of the 60s. I write letters. I open my windows. I place photos in photo albums. I go to the store and try on clothes before I buy them. I set the table. I write appointments on a calendar on my refrigerator door. Despite the fact that I am blogging, by today’s standards, I really am a throwback to a bygone era. Last year’s model. So last season.
(I am hearing the All the Family theme in my head again.)
So this is why I am in complete amazement that there are wedding photos on Facebook already, posted only hours after the bride and groom’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Two Left Feet.
What does that mean? Did all of their friends race home from the reception to upload photos and update their pages and write on each other’s walls? Is that what they were doing while the over 30 set retired to the hotel bar for more drinks and more dancing and more laughing about when we were kids? Has the social networking site taken the place of actual social networking?
Aren’t we missing the point here, people?
What’s next? The cyber wedding? Where we all get dressed up and sit in a wired restaurant and text each other from little carrels while watching the bride and groom IM their vows? And then send happy little emoticons?
Or was it Em and Chuck who posted the pictures? Did the happy couple spend their wedding night with lap tops instead of lap dances? Uploading instead of undressing? Friending instead of –--- nevermind.
It is just too demented and sad to let percolate in my head for too long. Imagine the update:
“Got married today. Now me and the little missus are in the honeymoon sweet (sic). Em put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so no one would bother us because her wittle feet hurt from her shoes. She’s still got the hair all boufed up and the veil on. Don’t ask me how she managed to get the turtleneck on over it all. But she’s all cozy in her bridal Snuggy watching Gilmore girls. Me, I’m going to take the USB for a spin and see what Kodak Memories we made today. Thanks for the loot. I’ll upload video from Disney!”
Oh my.
(I am hearing the All the Family theme in my head again.)
So this is why I am in complete amazement that there are wedding photos on Facebook already, posted only hours after the bride and groom’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Two Left Feet.
What does that mean? Did all of their friends race home from the reception to upload photos and update their pages and write on each other’s walls? Is that what they were doing while the over 30 set retired to the hotel bar for more drinks and more dancing and more laughing about when we were kids? Has the social networking site taken the place of actual social networking?
Aren’t we missing the point here, people?
What’s next? The cyber wedding? Where we all get dressed up and sit in a wired restaurant and text each other from little carrels while watching the bride and groom IM their vows? And then send happy little emoticons?
Or was it Em and Chuck who posted the pictures? Did the happy couple spend their wedding night with lap tops instead of lap dances? Uploading instead of undressing? Friending instead of –--- nevermind.
It is just too demented and sad to let percolate in my head for too long. Imagine the update:
“Got married today. Now me and the little missus are in the honeymoon sweet (sic). Em put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door so no one would bother us because her wittle feet hurt from her shoes. She’s still got the hair all boufed up and the veil on. Don’t ask me how she managed to get the turtleneck on over it all. But she’s all cozy in her bridal Snuggy watching Gilmore girls. Me, I’m going to take the USB for a spin and see what Kodak Memories we made today. Thanks for the loot. I’ll upload video from Disney!”
Oh my.
Friday, May 7, 2010
My Name is Mudd
The kids and I had a wonderful time shopping and eating our way through my college town. Bellies and shopping bags full, we piled into the car and hit the road vowing to be tour guides for J. and the girls on a return trip this summer. Then they dozed off into much needed naps.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
I was fading on the ride and called J. to be talked the rest of the way home.
He told me that he'd mentioned to his teen his inkling about Em returning from Disney pregnant; what isn't a surprise you can be prepared to be disappointed by.
She was not surprised at all even now. "Dad, everyone in the bridal party is already taking bets on how long it takes. Want in on the pool?"
So much ado about nothing, my derriere. If there was a will there would be a way. So long as it wasn't too icky. She could close her eyes and do it once.
Like I said in my very first post: Nothing brings out your family weirdness like a wedding or a new baby. And now we might have both. A double header. The family dysfunction shotgun was loaded for bear.
But J. was feeling a little better - relieved actually, now that the O'Malley-Scungili Affair had taken its place in the history books. And personally, I was feeling, in a twisted way, better about the Big Snub to my kids. And me. And J.
Em had openly disrespected her father in front of scores of family and friends and strangers while he poured his heart out, and evidently the contents of his wallet.
She had chastised a bridesmaid - who had paid for a dress, alterations, shoes, a mani, a pedi, an up do, plane tickets, a hotel room and a gift, all to honor her friend on her wedding day. And I'd bet there were Spanx and a really decent bra involved for the new mom, too.
She had disregarded, disappointed and dismissed her sister, her maid of honor, who had given her a personal, creative, meaningful gift she'd toiled over even while she finished her degree, studied for and aced her boards, held a full time job in her chosen profession and a part time one just for extra money, and managed to hold up her end of a thriving relationship - all while herding the cats on this vaudeville show.
Hell, Em had flexed her Alpha Dog muscle with Chuck in full view of his posse. She may as well have removed his penis and stashed it in her loot bag before dragging him down the aisle by his earlobe.
I was on the periphery of her world. An easy snub. In hindsight, J. and I should have anticipated the snub. It would have saved me the aggravation and thousands of words, and J. could have told her to go s*** in her hat when she asked him to read. Then we both could have skipped the whole shindig.
There is one thing that leaves me a little unsettled though. It would have been a glaring departure from the norm for J. to be at this event, at any event, without me. Yet not one person inquired as to my whereabouts.
Perhaps they ignored the elephant in the room and did not ask because they thought maybe we'd broken up. Not wanting to be nosey. Not wanting to harsh anyone's mellow.
But I don't think so.
No. I think no one asked because they knew. In a not so unexpected circling-of-wagons war tactic, Endora had gone out and poisoned the well. A smear campaign against me so no one would find fault in their abominable social faux pas.
Family weirdness aplenty.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Love American Style
The next morning, J. awoke famished. Not eating the Chicken Whatever and replacing it with Necco Wafers and Jujubes had been a mistake. Though he wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the hotel to leave this incident behind, he’d have to join the girls – who were joining the bridal party – for breakfast downstairs. Pancakes with a side of aggravation.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.
And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.
No word on the presence of a Superman cape.
Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!
The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.
Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.
J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.
He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.
Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.
They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.
Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.
J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.
Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.
If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mary and Half Pint, Or Nellie Oleson and Half Pint?
The wedding waged on and my weekend with the kids was underway at last. I was so excited to show them the dorm where I'd lived, the dining hall (where I'd packed on the Freshman 10) the buildings where I took my classes. I felt like my Dad with all my "When I was here that was an orchard" and "this building wasn't here when I was a student" and "We played frisbee where the library is now" statements. The town had evolved from a cute little hamlet into a thriving college town with restaurants, brew pubs, boutiques and vintage shops all inviting our patronage. The kids had plenty to see and do and I loved the nostalgia of it all.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
While we were on our ghost hunting walking tour through the historic town, J. called from the reception. Our storyteller was mid-story and the tension was building so I clicked the call directly to voice mail. Then on one of the next more walky than talky parts of the tour, I picked up the message. J. had said nothing but he had clearly been moved to place the call by the song being played. It was one we'd claimed as our own - one we always thought we'd have for our first dance some day when time and money and custody issues and extracurriculars and other vicissitudes of life subsided, however temporarily, but just long enough for us to get ourselves down the aisle. And it was not just playing, it was Em's dance with Tim. The very man she'd so publicly dissed not an hour before.
I could feel J's disappointment. We'd find another song. One that isn't scorched with the searing images of Em dancing as graceful and light on her feet as my refrigerator, fakey smile frozen in place for the photo ops alone.
J. made one more call to me. Not long after the last call but long before the reception was over, he'd handed his older daughter a copy of the hotel room key and given her her latitudes and limits. Then he said his brief goodbyes and ascended to his room for the night.
He related one final story to me. The one that made him take leave of his obligation to stay. The Maid of Honor (Maid of Horror?), Em's sister Cassie, had presented Em with a special gift. For the two years Em and Chuck had been engaged she'd worked on a beautiful scrap book chronicling their life together. By all accounts, it was a gorgeous book - lovingly prepared and no expense spared on pictures and beautiful paper and trimmings and such. It was something Cassie was clearly proud to present to her sister. So personal. Such a gift from the heart. And the presentation so genuine. Sister to sister.
And Em, the starlet to the end, simply and flatly accepted the book, muttered "Thanks" and placed it to the side. Cassie held her smile and walked away. J.'s heart broke for her.
I can only imagine a similar gift between my sister and me. The people around us would have faded into nothingness as we immersed ourselves in a sister moment. Paging through the book, howling at the memories, weeping at the very gesture of the gift, so thankful to have the life we shared.
And that's not because my sister is so special. (Though she is.) It's because she is my sister. To appreciate a gift from the heart, a person has to actually have a heart. Clearly this pair of sisters was one heart short.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Father Knows Best
At the appointed hour, J. made his way to the reception hall and found his seat at the table with all the other unescorted guests and a few familiar faces. It would not be totally unpleasant.
He sampled the hors d’oevres (pedestrian), skipped the salad (always), devoured the crab cake (well above average), and gnawed on a confusing chicken Florentine thing for a while before giving up altogether. He made no mention of red bliss potatoes. There were a few whimsical touches – for instance a Penny Candy table, resplendent with its display of jelly beans, and Dots, and Swedish Fish. But throughout the evening, the overpowering thought slamming into his frontal lobe was “My sister remortgaged their livelihood for this?” It was an ordinary room overlooking Parking Lot C, (again, designated for European flights), mundane décor. Linens, flowers, all unremarkable. The DJ was entertaining. The service was top notch. Everything you would expect, but nothing unexpected.
Em’s father rose to make a toast to his oldest daughter on the biggest occasion of her life. Tim, normally reserved, and never the center of attention, proved most eloquent. In fewer than ten minutes he captured the joys and pains and humor of having been this child’s father for 25 years. Not at all a canned speech, but heartfelt and filled with anecdotal tales of the life that led her to the day. Everyone was openly emotional and dabbing their eyes. Well, almost everyone.
There sat Em. Practiced smile, hair wrestled into an elaborate confection, gown bustled and cinched to her form (Dexatrimmed-to-the-point-of-emaciation as it was), and wholly unaffected by the sentiment. Rolled her eyes. Gave him the “move it along” gesture.
The man who was honored to give her away, who refinanced his future and those of his other children, who quietly wrote myriad checks to all manner of people so that every connubial stone could be turned to pretty, pink, poofy, perfection, was standing there, his heart on his rented tuxedo sleeve, toasting his first born in a most genuine, and sincere manner, with a speech to which he’d clearly devoted considerable thought and dedication, and she could bring herself to make that type of juvenile, disrespectful demonstration of complete disdain and ingratitude? Disgraceful.
J. remarked to his older daughter when they bumped into eachother reaching for the M&Ms at the Penny Candy table. “Oh, Daddy, that’s not all she’s done!” she said in the “you-won’t-believe-it” voice she usually reserves for slutty classmates and drunken prom dates.
She went on to tell the story of the out of town bridesmaid (the one with the baby, we presume) who had not been present for any of Em’s (countless) fittings. When Em put on her gown that morning, the gal became choked up at the sight of her, magnificent in her bridal regalia. She gushed at how beautiful she looked. And Em, either out of conceit (Of course I’m fabulous. What else would I be?) or feigned boredom (Oh you peasants are so funny. It’s just another $5,000 dress!) screwed up her face and openly shamed the gal for her sentimentality.
And there were hours still to go before this particular princess tuned into a pumpkin.
He sampled the hors d’oevres (pedestrian), skipped the salad (always), devoured the crab cake (well above average), and gnawed on a confusing chicken Florentine thing for a while before giving up altogether. He made no mention of red bliss potatoes. There were a few whimsical touches – for instance a Penny Candy table, resplendent with its display of jelly beans, and Dots, and Swedish Fish. But throughout the evening, the overpowering thought slamming into his frontal lobe was “My sister remortgaged their livelihood for this?” It was an ordinary room overlooking Parking Lot C, (again, designated for European flights), mundane décor. Linens, flowers, all unremarkable. The DJ was entertaining. The service was top notch. Everything you would expect, but nothing unexpected.
Em’s father rose to make a toast to his oldest daughter on the biggest occasion of her life. Tim, normally reserved, and never the center of attention, proved most eloquent. In fewer than ten minutes he captured the joys and pains and humor of having been this child’s father for 25 years. Not at all a canned speech, but heartfelt and filled with anecdotal tales of the life that led her to the day. Everyone was openly emotional and dabbing their eyes. Well, almost everyone.
There sat Em. Practiced smile, hair wrestled into an elaborate confection, gown bustled and cinched to her form (Dexatrimmed-to-the-point-of-emaciation as it was), and wholly unaffected by the sentiment. Rolled her eyes. Gave him the “move it along” gesture.
The man who was honored to give her away, who refinanced his future and those of his other children, who quietly wrote myriad checks to all manner of people so that every connubial stone could be turned to pretty, pink, poofy, perfection, was standing there, his heart on his rented tuxedo sleeve, toasting his first born in a most genuine, and sincere manner, with a speech to which he’d clearly devoted considerable thought and dedication, and she could bring herself to make that type of juvenile, disrespectful demonstration of complete disdain and ingratitude? Disgraceful.
J. remarked to his older daughter when they bumped into eachother reaching for the M&Ms at the Penny Candy table. “Oh, Daddy, that’s not all she’s done!” she said in the “you-won’t-believe-it” voice she usually reserves for slutty classmates and drunken prom dates.
She went on to tell the story of the out of town bridesmaid (the one with the baby, we presume) who had not been present for any of Em’s (countless) fittings. When Em put on her gown that morning, the gal became choked up at the sight of her, magnificent in her bridal regalia. She gushed at how beautiful she looked. And Em, either out of conceit (Of course I’m fabulous. What else would I be?) or feigned boredom (Oh you peasants are so funny. It’s just another $5,000 dress!) screwed up her face and openly shamed the gal for her sentimentality.
And there were hours still to go before this particular princess tuned into a pumpkin.
Monday, May 3, 2010
First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage
The new Mr. and Mrs., their I Dos said, began the long parade down the aisle and onto the steps of the church. Here at least one groomsman broke rank and lit up an evidently much-craved Marlboro and opened a beer he must have concealed in his cummerbund or in one of the planters by the columns outside the church. Drunk Bus indeed.
The bridal party went off to smile and say “cheese” and J. had a little time to kill. He called me while I wended my way to my college town, the kids in tow, anticipating a great stay in the quaint little town I’d called home for 4 years. The ceremony over, the worst was about to begin. At least he had arranged to spend the night at the hotel where the reception was planned – right there on the flight path of the European departures. Perhaps the jet fuel fumes would help him sleep…and at least he had an escape hatch if the squealing and gaiety got to be too much. Again.
Check in at the hotel was madness. J. was in line next to his mother and sister – and in front of an out-of-town bridesmaid, holding her luggage and a baby that appeared to be closing in on his first birthday. Gurgling, cooing, smiling. J.’s Mom remarked “What are you doing to do with the baby during the reception, dear?” The “THIS IS A NO-KID WEDDING” neon sign flashing in the thought bubble above her wash and set head with all the subtlety of a search light.
Or so it seemed.
The young mother sportingly replied “Oh, we’ll be fine. Ralph is here and he’ll be up in the room with him so I can do my bridesmaid thing.”
To which Endora replied, incredulously, with a sentence that began with the words, “Well, if he wants to come and join the party, there’s no reason to alternate, I’m sure no one will mind…”
And with that, J. spun around looking like the possessed kid from the Exorcist, sans pea soup. His turn to give the “Oh no you won’t!” look. Endora got the point and trailed off like Aunt Clara with her baffling and hilarious verbal amnesia. (http://www.tv.com/bewitched/show/140/cast.html)
J. privately swore that if so much as one kid appeared at the reception wearing anything other than a pint-sized tuxedo or the mandated raspberry sherbet frock, he’d be having words with his still blubbering sister.
He checked in and went to his room – far, far from the block – and waited for the starting gun for the games to begin. He’d be seated at the Dirty Dancing table, so noted by a picture of Baby and Johnny.
How ironic. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. No, we just let her trample on and insult everyone in her life on the road to matrimony, and send her parents to the poorhouse. Maybe someone should have considered putting Baby in a corner two years ago.
The bridal party went off to smile and say “cheese” and J. had a little time to kill. He called me while I wended my way to my college town, the kids in tow, anticipating a great stay in the quaint little town I’d called home for 4 years. The ceremony over, the worst was about to begin. At least he had arranged to spend the night at the hotel where the reception was planned – right there on the flight path of the European departures. Perhaps the jet fuel fumes would help him sleep…and at least he had an escape hatch if the squealing and gaiety got to be too much. Again.
Check in at the hotel was madness. J. was in line next to his mother and sister – and in front of an out-of-town bridesmaid, holding her luggage and a baby that appeared to be closing in on his first birthday. Gurgling, cooing, smiling. J.’s Mom remarked “What are you doing to do with the baby during the reception, dear?” The “THIS IS A NO-KID WEDDING” neon sign flashing in the thought bubble above her wash and set head with all the subtlety of a search light.
Or so it seemed.
The young mother sportingly replied “Oh, we’ll be fine. Ralph is here and he’ll be up in the room with him so I can do my bridesmaid thing.”
To which Endora replied, incredulously, with a sentence that began with the words, “Well, if he wants to come and join the party, there’s no reason to alternate, I’m sure no one will mind…”
And with that, J. spun around looking like the possessed kid from the Exorcist, sans pea soup. His turn to give the “Oh no you won’t!” look. Endora got the point and trailed off like Aunt Clara with her baffling and hilarious verbal amnesia. (http://www.tv.com/bewitched/show/140/cast.html)
J. privately swore that if so much as one kid appeared at the reception wearing anything other than a pint-sized tuxedo or the mandated raspberry sherbet frock, he’d be having words with his still blubbering sister.
He checked in and went to his room – far, far from the block – and waited for the starting gun for the games to begin. He’d be seated at the Dirty Dancing table, so noted by a picture of Baby and Johnny.
How ironic. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. No, we just let her trample on and insult everyone in her life on the road to matrimony, and send her parents to the poorhouse. Maybe someone should have considered putting Baby in a corner two years ago.
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