Part 15 (2/2)
When my sugar glow ends, I rinse off and look for my mother. We planned to spend some time in the eucalyptus steam room and then the sauna before we have our manicures.
”Jennifer?” asks the woman behind the counter.
”Yes?”
”Your mother said she'd meet you at the salon later. I think she went back upstairs to lie down.”
”Thanks for telling me.”
”Is she going to be OK? She looked pretty bad.”
”She'll be fine,” I reply. ”After all, she only had one gla.s.s of wine.”
I've pictured my wedding day a hundred thousand times. In none of these scenarios was my teetotaling mother too hungover to help me get ready. Because I didn't want to impinge on any of my friends, I'm completely alone right now. Fletch is getting buffed and polished in the men's spa, so it's just me in my room, finis.h.i.+ng a club sandwich and a c.o.ke while watching a Real World San Francisco rerun.101 I have to be at the chapel in a half an hour, so it's time to put on my dress. After was.h.i.+ng the mayo off my hands and fixing my lipstick, I slip on my gown and attempt to zip it. Because of the zipper's placement, I can only get it up halfway. I struggle to the point of breaking a sweat and then I give up. My bridal magazines lied to me: This does not feel like the best day of my life.
Fortunately, it looks like the best day of my life. The stylist pinned my hair in a messy up 'do, festooned with baby orchids and it's all tousled and Brigette Bardotlike. My makeup is unbelievable, too-the artist used some kind of iridescent powder on my cheekbones, and they look amazing. I ate my lunch in front of the mirror because I couldn't stop gazing adoringly at myself. I am one hot bride.
I call my parents' room, seeking help. In an amused voice, Dad informs me they'll be over as soon as my mother finishes dry heaving. Then he starts grousing about his c.u.mmerbund. He's mad at my mother because she insisted he wear a white dinner jacket instead of a blazer and the Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt I'd bought him for the ceremony. Apparently I'm not the only one with a Mom-induced wardrobe dilemma.
Half-dressed, but radiant, I sit on the bed and wait. Surely I won't have to go down the aisle with my steel-plated bra showing, right?
Here I am, about to make a covenant before G.o.d and the most important people in my life, and all I can think is the minister looks exactly like the Father Guido Sarducci character from Sat.u.r.day Night Live.
”Fletch, Guido Sarducci! He looks like Father Guido Sarducci,” I whisper without moving my lips.
”That's exactly what I was thinking,” he whispers back.
”I wonder if it's really him. When was the last time you saw him on TV? Hey, did you notice the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger getting married right before us? His child bride looked about fourteen years old, and they already had a baby! And did you see the tattoo on his neck? He must have-”
The minister begins the ceremony. Oh. We should probably not be talking. I already kind of got in trouble for stopping to chat with a couple of people on my way down the aisle.
We opted for the religious ceremony today. I mean, just because I'm getting married in a casino doesn't mean I'm a pagan. Even with G.o.d included, the whole thing should take less than fifteen minutes, which should be a new record for weddings I've attended. In high school, Carol and I went to this girl Janine's wedding and it was sixteen minutes long. Of course, she was seventeen years old and heavily pregnant, but still...I win.
Ever been to a Catholic ceremony with a full ma.s.s? Oy. You could grow old and die before that service ends. With a fifteen-minute ceremony, there's no time for all the extraneous foolishness that bores everyone at weddings, like that awful ”Love Is” reading or the hideous ”Today I Marry My Friend” poem. Ugh. I'd rather repeat Homer Simpson's vows from the ”Milhouse Divided” episode: ”Do you, Marge, take Homer, in richness and poorness-poorness is underlined-in impotence and in potence, in quiet solitude or blasting across the alkali flats in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated-”
Fletch pokes me. Huh? ”Oh, um, yes, I do come before you today on my own free will,” I tell Father Guido.
”Excellent,” he replies. ”And now I shall read for you a verse from First Corinthians.” Father Guido whips off his gla.s.ses and I inadvertently roll my eyes. Excuse me, padre? You perform this ceremony twenty times a day and I'm willing to bet you've got this stuff down cold. I appreciate the dramatic effect of removing your eye-wear, but your theatrics really aren't needed. We've already agreed to buy the video-no need to thespian things up, all right?
”Ahem. Love is patient, love is kind...”
GAH!!.
After the ceremony, Fletch and I pose for at least a thousand photos. My brother does some photography for his newspaper, so he's also taking pictures. Todd and our photographer are having some sort of professional p.i.s.sing match, seeing who can use the most lenses and capture the most angles.
”Yo, Ansel Adams, Annie Leibovitz, can we please wrap this up? There will be plenty more photo ops during the reception and I'm melting out here,” I complain. When it's 105 degrees, a dry heat is still awfully hot, especially in my stupid scuba-suit girdle. ”I'm marinating like a pork chop. Let's GO!”
”These are memories you'll cherish for a lifetime,” the hired photographer replies.
”No, my memories are taking place INDOORS, where my friends and family are enjoying air-conditioning and cold drinks. The only memory I have right now is of sweat rolling down the crack of my a.s.s. Can we please go inside?”
Our hired photographer replies, ”Of course!” Finally! ”As soon as we shoot you by the mosaic fountains.”
”And by the elephant statues!” my brother adds.
”Don't forget the iron gates!”
”And what about those huge palm trees?”
”Hey, you know what would be a great shot? Through the foliage. Let's just get a couple more....”102 I'm at least ten pounds thinner by the time we're allowed indoors. While waiting for us, the guests have been drinking almost two hours, and a couple of our friends are completely trashed. Fletch's old Army buddy Joel is in such rough shape that Fletch takes him upstairs to lie down in our room.
Since everyone else has been at the reception for DAYS, we get the last two seats, against the wall, sandwiched neatly between my mother and father, and across from a couple of their neighbors. My mother insisted other guests sit at what looked like the open and accessible head table, forcing us into a tiny marital box, where it's virtually impossible A) to get up, and B) for anyone to come over to talk to us. Momzilla has conquered her hangover and glommed on to me again. She finally appreciates all my hard work, and the second-guessing has morphed into an outpouring of physical affection. My dinner conversation consists of phrases like: ”I can't hold my gla.s.s and your hand at the same time, Mom.” ”You're smothering me! Please sit on your own chair.” ”You've kissed me more times than my husband today. KNOCK IT OFF.” I'm actually delighted at the prospect of taking more pictures just to escape my mother-loving veal pen.
I spend a sum total of thirty-six seconds with my friends at the reception, so we make plans to meet up after I change out of my dress. Somehow I get roped into carrying cake and flowers back to my parents' room.103 A good thirty minutes pa.s.ses by the time I make it back down to Rum Jungle. A line has gathered outside the club but I ignore it. As I let myself in the velvet rope and walk in the door, an enormous slab of beef wearing a suit and a headset throws a meaty arm in front of me.
”Excuse me,” I say, attempting to walk around him.
”We're closed until ten o'clock.”
”Yeah, I know. You were shut down for a private party-mine.”
”Party's over. We're closed till they finish tearing down the tables to convert it from restaurant seating to nightclub seating.”
”But I see all my guests in there at the bar right now. It's obviously not closed if they're still having drinks.”
”Sorry. I can't let you in until ten p.m.”
”Can I at least run in and tell my friends I'm here? They've got to wonder where I am.”
”Sure.” I start to walk in the door, and he blocks me again.
”At ten o'clock.”
I see what's happening. This ham-fisted, steroid-addled, genetic freak of nature is toying with me. Pal, today is not the day for this.
”Are you trying to tell me that my parents spent thousands of dollars here this evening and I, the bride, am not allowed to JOIN THE REST OF MY WEDDING PARTY?”
”Oh, you can join them.” He cracks the knuckles on his dinner platesized hands.
”Thank you.”
”At ten o'clock.”
”Am I missing something here? Because I am obviously not effectively communicating with you. Tell me, should I dip into my wedding present money-which I need to keep my home-and find a nice big bill to give to you for the privilege of attending my own wedding reception?”
A muscle tenses in his enormous square jaw, and he gives me a mean little grin. He s.h.i.+fts his eyes from side to side and leans in to quietly inform me, ”Wouldn't hurt.”
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