Death in Dream Sequences
So I was told getting off the plane that no one has a sense of humor on a wedding weekend. I should have taken that advice to heart as it came from the wedding photographer--and my mother's best friend--whose services have been rendered at such illustrious galas as former President Nixion's daughter's wedding (Tippy?) and the latest marriage of Larry Flint. But I am never one to head advice. In fact as I hate sentimental events, frilly dresses and anything that might be remotely considered girlish (outside of standing in front of mirror and judging my hair length for hours on end), I could probably be considered the perpetual fly in the ointment.
My overall plan was to lay low, do as I was told and generally remain innocuous. But considering this is me--master of inadvertent disaster--this proved nearly impossible. At the rehearsal, held in a room roughly one quarter the size of the actual wedding hall, I met all the grooms men as well as the other bridesmaids for the first time. The bridesmaids consisted mostly of my brother's fiancee's relatives (two cousin and her sister) while the grooms men were made up of an eclectic mix of new and old friend (my brother's best friend from high school whom he played best man for not six months prior, my hippy cousin who serves as my brothers rather proficient business partner and his oldest friend from kindergarten who moved from St. Louis when I was six). Seeing as I had nothing in common with the bridesmaids who were all very concerned with organizing the processional to it's most beautiful and advantageous execution, I hung out with the groomsmen. I was set to walk down the aisle with my brother's oldest friend, who I don't think I'd actually seen since my brother's Bar Mitzvah when I was a mere ten. Some background on the boy, this red headed moppet is the first boy I could ever recall having a sincere crush on. When I was five I smacked him over the head with a bad mitten racket under the auspice of being pissed he'd beaten me, but in truth to hopefully knock the idea of love an eternal matrimony into his rather thick head. Now living in Texas and married to a woman far more attractive than he--think Elle McPherson--we spent a good amount of the rehearsal mocking the wedding coordinator who spoke so meticulously I thought perhaps she truly believe we were all retarded and that walking did not come second nature. As we were making some sort of gesture to symbolize stick up the butt, she happened to turn around and shoot us the most harrowing glare, one that I have not experienced since second grade when all the kids in the class reported that I was the one who put the tacks she'd just sat upon on her chair (though in actuality I was just the one who came up with the idea, it was the other kids who actually lay down the tacks, but there's no use explaining thought and action to eight year olds). For the rest of the rehearsal whenever she directed a comment to the wedding party, she spoke directly to Jonathan and I. She also made us do the march exactly seven times more than the other wedding party members and retribution.
The next day I accidentally woke up late--around ten thirty--and was told that I missed my hair appointment. As everyone erroneously believed that someone else had taken me to my nine thirty appointment, no one bothered to check my room to discover I was still sleeping. They carted me off to a near-by clip and curl where the hair dresser, upon finding out that I was a bridesmaid in a wedding, proceeded to give me the largest fifties bouffant I'd ever seen (I don't even think they made them this large in the fifties). I tried smooshing it down, but every time some one (namely my mother) saw me touching my hair, they'd scream at me to stop touching my hair, it's supposed to be that large. Lesson number one: Midwest weddings are all about the big hair.
As we were slipping into our dresses--the other girls hadn't eaten all day, I on the other hand had gotten extremely hungry mid-afternoon and had an enormous cheeseburger because I never eat those things in New York--I found that the dress, which I had tailored within a half an inch of actually fitting so the strapless floor length ball gown that was supposed to be held up by my nonexistent breast wouldn't fall during the ceremony, was suddenly about an inch to small. I blamed it on bloating and the cheeseburger, but couldn't tell them that. As they pulled at struggled with the zipper for what seemed like an hour, the bride hyperventilated. My mother screamed asking me if I'd actually tried the dress on or if I'd just gotten it altered and assumed it was right. I told her I tried it on twice before (which was true) and then she said "well why isn't it fitting then?" In my haste and anger I forgot the cardinal rule that was already being drilled into me by the special education wedding coordinator, no sense of humor, and retorted "I don't know because I'm pregnant." BAM! My mother hit the floor before I had an opportunity to follow that statement up with "I'm kidding." All the bridesmaids gather around my passed up mother and took turns looking up at me in horror and disgust. When they did revive her the faux pregnancy was all anyone could discuss. "Why would I take this moment to tell everyone." "I was kidding," I said. By now the bride was completely frazzled "Why would you kid about a thing like that?" Of course it didn't seem as if she believe the kidding explanation. "Because subconsciously I'm trying to sabotage your wedding?" Also not a good reply. She begins to tear, the makeup artist begins quickly dabbing at her face so she doesn't smear her hour worth of work. When my mom finally came around heard the same explanation she was confounded. It seemed that no one really believed me and the thirteen year old junior bridesmaid came up with the brilliant idea of giving me a pregnancy test right then and there to just "make really sure." Everyone decided this was a bad idea because if in fact I was pregnant no one really wanted to know on my brother's wedding day.
They pinned the dress and sent us out for photo by an swamp like lake with mosquitos all around it. This breeding ground for west Nile was determined the most attractive place for initial photos. And though I wore no perfume or lotion, the mosquitos decided that I was the choicest of all wedding members and decided to make a meal of my back. Being extremely allergic to mosquito bite they immediately swelled so that I had welts the size of baseballs all over my back by the time we returned to the bridal room. I spent a lot of time watching them swell in the mirror and fiddling with the zipper of the dress, which all of a sudden decided to slide the rest of the way up seamlessly. Everyone celebrated the small feat as I called my aunt (my mother was no where to be found) for cover up for the bites. She came with the makeup and some allergy medicine to stop the swelling. And though the bottle said do not drink with this medication, I had just ordered a fifty dollar bottle of chardoney to calm the bride make a truce and I was most certainly planing on taking glass.
By the time the wedding processional began I was nice and heady. Too heady to give the wedding planner--who was so high strong a Jack Rusell might look chill by comparison--any more shit. I took my bouquet, floated down the aisle and amazingly did not trip once. The ceremony was wonderfully short and at the end, we were greeted by Jonathan's beautiful bride holding drinks for us since more photographs had to be taken and we could not break away even for a moment to join the party.
For the entire weekend my cousin and I had been slipping out behind people's backs to smoke cigarettes in the parking lot. I was ever so grateful for his presence as in the dresses I wore both nights there was no room to carry a pack of cigarettes and I never would have been quite as crafty as he in slipping out (but he's been doing it since he was fourteen so he's had much more practice). Later that evening we were trying to sneak out once more. The obstacle this time, my brother and his new wife in the lobby with the photographer. We looked left, looked right, ducked behind some pillars, then when they were all engaged in the actual taking of the photograph we made a break for the door. It was by far the closest call we'd had all weekend. But as we out in the parking, avoiding all windows, the photographer escorts the happy couple into the lot for some evening photos. My brother takes one look at us and shakes his head. Totally busted and like a good little sister my only response is "You're not going to tell Mom and Dad are you?" As my father's father died of emphysema it would likely be a real slap in the face. "Whatever," he said noncommittal. Of course as I nearly ruined his wedding this is likely something I deserve.
My overall plan was to lay low, do as I was told and generally remain innocuous. But considering this is me--master of inadvertent disaster--this proved nearly impossible. At the rehearsal, held in a room roughly one quarter the size of the actual wedding hall, I met all the grooms men as well as the other bridesmaids for the first time. The bridesmaids consisted mostly of my brother's fiancee's relatives (two cousin and her sister) while the grooms men were made up of an eclectic mix of new and old friend (my brother's best friend from high school whom he played best man for not six months prior, my hippy cousin who serves as my brothers rather proficient business partner and his oldest friend from kindergarten who moved from St. Louis when I was six). Seeing as I had nothing in common with the bridesmaids who were all very concerned with organizing the processional to it's most beautiful and advantageous execution, I hung out with the groomsmen. I was set to walk down the aisle with my brother's oldest friend, who I don't think I'd actually seen since my brother's Bar Mitzvah when I was a mere ten. Some background on the boy, this red headed moppet is the first boy I could ever recall having a sincere crush on. When I was five I smacked him over the head with a bad mitten racket under the auspice of being pissed he'd beaten me, but in truth to hopefully knock the idea of love an eternal matrimony into his rather thick head. Now living in Texas and married to a woman far more attractive than he--think Elle McPherson--we spent a good amount of the rehearsal mocking the wedding coordinator who spoke so meticulously I thought perhaps she truly believe we were all retarded and that walking did not come second nature. As we were making some sort of gesture to symbolize stick up the butt, she happened to turn around and shoot us the most harrowing glare, one that I have not experienced since second grade when all the kids in the class reported that I was the one who put the tacks she'd just sat upon on her chair (though in actuality I was just the one who came up with the idea, it was the other kids who actually lay down the tacks, but there's no use explaining thought and action to eight year olds). For the rest of the rehearsal whenever she directed a comment to the wedding party, she spoke directly to Jonathan and I. She also made us do the march exactly seven times more than the other wedding party members and retribution.
The next day I accidentally woke up late--around ten thirty--and was told that I missed my hair appointment. As everyone erroneously believed that someone else had taken me to my nine thirty appointment, no one bothered to check my room to discover I was still sleeping. They carted me off to a near-by clip and curl where the hair dresser, upon finding out that I was a bridesmaid in a wedding, proceeded to give me the largest fifties bouffant I'd ever seen (I don't even think they made them this large in the fifties). I tried smooshing it down, but every time some one (namely my mother) saw me touching my hair, they'd scream at me to stop touching my hair, it's supposed to be that large. Lesson number one: Midwest weddings are all about the big hair.
As we were slipping into our dresses--the other girls hadn't eaten all day, I on the other hand had gotten extremely hungry mid-afternoon and had an enormous cheeseburger because I never eat those things in New York--I found that the dress, which I had tailored within a half an inch of actually fitting so the strapless floor length ball gown that was supposed to be held up by my nonexistent breast wouldn't fall during the ceremony, was suddenly about an inch to small. I blamed it on bloating and the cheeseburger, but couldn't tell them that. As they pulled at struggled with the zipper for what seemed like an hour, the bride hyperventilated. My mother screamed asking me if I'd actually tried the dress on or if I'd just gotten it altered and assumed it was right. I told her I tried it on twice before (which was true) and then she said "well why isn't it fitting then?" In my haste and anger I forgot the cardinal rule that was already being drilled into me by the special education wedding coordinator, no sense of humor, and retorted "I don't know because I'm pregnant." BAM! My mother hit the floor before I had an opportunity to follow that statement up with "I'm kidding." All the bridesmaids gather around my passed up mother and took turns looking up at me in horror and disgust. When they did revive her the faux pregnancy was all anyone could discuss. "Why would I take this moment to tell everyone." "I was kidding," I said. By now the bride was completely frazzled "Why would you kid about a thing like that?" Of course it didn't seem as if she believe the kidding explanation. "Because subconsciously I'm trying to sabotage your wedding?" Also not a good reply. She begins to tear, the makeup artist begins quickly dabbing at her face so she doesn't smear her hour worth of work. When my mom finally came around heard the same explanation she was confounded. It seemed that no one really believed me and the thirteen year old junior bridesmaid came up with the brilliant idea of giving me a pregnancy test right then and there to just "make really sure." Everyone decided this was a bad idea because if in fact I was pregnant no one really wanted to know on my brother's wedding day.
They pinned the dress and sent us out for photo by an swamp like lake with mosquitos all around it. This breeding ground for west Nile was determined the most attractive place for initial photos. And though I wore no perfume or lotion, the mosquitos decided that I was the choicest of all wedding members and decided to make a meal of my back. Being extremely allergic to mosquito bite they immediately swelled so that I had welts the size of baseballs all over my back by the time we returned to the bridal room. I spent a lot of time watching them swell in the mirror and fiddling with the zipper of the dress, which all of a sudden decided to slide the rest of the way up seamlessly. Everyone celebrated the small feat as I called my aunt (my mother was no where to be found) for cover up for the bites. She came with the makeup and some allergy medicine to stop the swelling. And though the bottle said do not drink with this medication, I had just ordered a fifty dollar bottle of chardoney to calm the bride make a truce and I was most certainly planing on taking glass.
By the time the wedding processional began I was nice and heady. Too heady to give the wedding planner--who was so high strong a Jack Rusell might look chill by comparison--any more shit. I took my bouquet, floated down the aisle and amazingly did not trip once. The ceremony was wonderfully short and at the end, we were greeted by Jonathan's beautiful bride holding drinks for us since more photographs had to be taken and we could not break away even for a moment to join the party.
For the entire weekend my cousin and I had been slipping out behind people's backs to smoke cigarettes in the parking lot. I was ever so grateful for his presence as in the dresses I wore both nights there was no room to carry a pack of cigarettes and I never would have been quite as crafty as he in slipping out (but he's been doing it since he was fourteen so he's had much more practice). Later that evening we were trying to sneak out once more. The obstacle this time, my brother and his new wife in the lobby with the photographer. We looked left, looked right, ducked behind some pillars, then when they were all engaged in the actual taking of the photograph we made a break for the door. It was by far the closest call we'd had all weekend. But as we out in the parking, avoiding all windows, the photographer escorts the happy couple into the lot for some evening photos. My brother takes one look at us and shakes his head. Totally busted and like a good little sister my only response is "You're not going to tell Mom and Dad are you?" As my father's father died of emphysema it would likely be a real slap in the face. "Whatever," he said noncommittal. Of course as I nearly ruined his wedding this is likely something I deserve.