Drs. K & L got married on Saturday, both friends to whom I hope to draw closer, despite the impending 3000-mile distance. What a glorious day: sunny, breezy, slightly humid but in a good way. And of course, what is a major social event without a little deconstruction and analysis and inane commentary . . .
8:30am: I blink awake and call a local hair salon, a place I've never been. I have been called into duty by Bride, and I'm looking forward to at least a few moments of glory on the dance floor later in the evening, so I want my hair invisible to my own eyes. In other words, push it back, take it up, twirl it around -- whatever it takes, I don't want to see it, I don't want to eat it and I don't want it sticking to my neck. Thank the heavens, the first salon on my list will take me . . . in an hour. Damn, I have to get up. Speed through morning yoga, shower, hit the road. The Drs.' wedding day has begun.
10:00am: My scalp is prodded by a petite Filipino woman who tells me "your hair is so short and fine, what AM I going to do with it?!" I don't know -- that's why I'm here, right?
10:10am: I love getting my hair washed. I wish it were possible to have someone wash my hair for me every morning, with the little scalp massage thrown in, of course. Ahhhh... oh! Water in my ear. Gross.
10:15am: I'm scolded again for having short and fine hair.
11:00am: There is a TEAM of stylists working on my short and fine hair, including someone known as "Miss Lucy," a purported "genius with hair like yours." Well, "Miss Lucy" must indeed have the magic fingers, because my hair is now staying where it's supposed to, thanks to her, some bobby pins, gel, hair spray and WAX. They put WAX in my hair. Eww.
11:30am: I escape the stylists' clutches, and if I do say so myself, the end result is kind of nice. Classy but cute and simple -- no one wants to be the one with a fancier hairstyle than Bride, right? Sadly, my hair is so hard and crunchy, I wonder if my tractor beam has been disabled. But no -- I hit myself in the head with my car door. Good to know everything's still working the way it's supposed to . . .
12:09pm: I scarf down a cheeseburger and put my dress on at the same time. Note to self: cheeseburgers don't mesh well with wanting to feel sleek and sexy -- cheese-induced gas is bad news. Plus I have to brush the pickle taste out of my mouth.
12:44pm: Hair -- check. Makeup -- check. Dress -- check. Shoes -- check. Purse, money, lipstick, tissues, cell phone -- check. My wedding duty supplies -- check. I sit primly on my couch and wait for my ride, The Wedding Coordinator. My feet hurt already.
12:49pm: The Wedding Coordinator arrives and promptly tells me that I clean up nice. It's kind of like when my dad sees me dressed up and says "You own DRESSES?!" Thank you, though.
2:00pm: On the dot, we arrive as scheduled at the church in New Jersey. It's so pretty. The florists are working in their rightful place. The guestbook table (my station) is set up and tableclothed. No one else is there. Wedding Coordinator and I are bored. We drink our water. She eats her bagel. We admire the florists. We adjust, readjust, adjust again the tablecloth. We appreciate the weather. We talk about her baby. We get hungry. We talk about how awesome the cocktail hour-and-a-half is going to be. We hope they have pigs-in-a-blanket. I hope they have lots of liquor.
3:00pm: No new appearances. We have a sinking feeling that the pastor's original plan to get rolling at 3:55pm is just not going to happen. Wishful thinking, anyway . . .
3:50pm: The parents of the groom and bride stroll in. They've seen the wedding party. Wedding party is still taking photos. 3:55pm is definitely NOT going to happen. Heck, there aren't even any GUESTS yet. Wedding Coordinator and I give each other a knowing look: "Yup, we're on Korean time."
4:10pm: Groom and his posse stroll in. The bridal party has apparently also arrived, minus the bridesmaids -- two of them just had babies and they're BREAST-FEEDING them. And you KNOW those babies don't eat fast. Note to self: when I get married, disqualify all friends who are breastfeeding babies.
4:20pm: Herding a bunch of over-50-year-old Korean and Chinese couples is a lot like trying to direct the flow of deaf-blind cows who also lost their sense of smell. It just doesn't happen. See, not only am I manning the guestbook, but I'm also in charge of The Money Box. Usually, there are two Money Boxes -- one for Groom's guests, one for Bride's guests. Saturday, there was only one. People didn't believe me when I said there was only one. People did not want to give their fat envelopes of cash to me. People did not want to sign the guestbook in the allotted spaces. Then there was the one gentleman who didn't think a woman should be manning The Money Box. OKAY, then. People also don't like to be told to go inside and sit down. People would much rather hang out RIGHT BY THE GUESTBOOK TABLE and chatter at each other. So, here's a big shout-out to all our under-50-year-old friends who finally came along and showed them how it was supposed to be done (and discreetly shoved them out of the way).
4:40pm: 40 minutes late but who cares? Bride is gorgeous, everyone's happy, all the guests are seated, and now I'm chained to The Money Box. I can't go to the bathroom, I can't enter the sanctuary to watch the ceremony, I can't do anything that will take me away from guarding The Money Box. So what do I do? I pick up The Money Box, sneak into the sanctuary, sit in the back with The Money Box on my lap, weep a little when the new couple hugs their respective sets of parents, then crawl back outside with The Money Box intact. Tens of thousands of dollars are still safe, thanks to me. =)
5:25pm: What a cheery receiving line! Unfortunately, one of the straps on Bride's dress broke and she needs a shawl to cover herself up. I give her mine. Hmmm . . . never noticed how cold it was in the church before . . . still got The Money Box, and am desperately searching for a trusted family member to pawn it off on. I can't handle the responsibility -- it's starting to give me a headache. Or that could be a result of my intense craving for cocktail hour-and-a-half food.
5:49pm: The Money Box is safely stowed away. The gifts are in a car trunk (ever hear of online registry, anyone?). I need to sit down, or in the alternative, have a drink. Wedding Coordinator and I head out to the reception. By the way, all you Jersey drivers need to RETAKE DRIVER'S ED. Except for Soy and J, of course. No offense intended.
6:10pm: All is right in the world again -- I have a glass of wine in my hand. I suck it down like water -- hey, I was thirsty -- and go back for seconds.
7:30pm: Cocktail Hour-and-a-Half is amazing. Three of the four walls of the room are taken up by a variety of buffet foods, hot and cold and fishy. The other wall holds the open bar. We all conclude that an hour-and-a-half is the perfect amount of time in which to eat and drink everything the room has to offer. We figure we probably don't even need to eat the dinner.
8:00pm: We seat for dinner. My table is next to the band. We are very far from the bar. Not that that has ever hindered us before. It would appear that we all have built-in sonar to help us track and locate the nearest source of alcoholic nourishment. How scary.
8:57pm: My new best friend, The Flower Girl, decides to tie my shawl around me a la straitjacket. I decide to ignore the message. She tells me she's going to name her Barbie doll after me. I don't quite know what to make of this, so I send her back to her mother.
9:40pm: Tequila is yucky. Someone wants to lick salt off my shoulder. NO THANKS. Keep your tongue to yourself.
10:00pm: Thankfully, the newly-marrieds look relaxed and fed. Groom needs to learn how to dance, though. Some of the guys try to teach him. Doesn't work. Groom goes back to the step-together, step-together. That'll suffice for now.
10:37pm: How sad and yet so predictable -- all the over-50-years-old folks have eaten and left, leaving us young 'uns to our own devices. Whatever will we do? Oh wait, is that an open bar I see?
11:15pm: The men have been doing their own nasty little shots all night, so we women decide to band together with Bride and get our own alcoholic groove on. We were not really interested in what the men were doing, yet when we ladies sidle up to the bar, all of a sudden, we're the latest spectacle of the year. All the cameras come out, and suddenly, there is a fan club of men wanting to take photos of us doing our (fruity) Kamikaze shots. Really. Is it that interesting?
11:34pm: The men want to do a final co-ed shot. Oh, alright -- twist my arm.
12:00am: Our collective ages and all the liquid nourishment we've consumed is catching up with us. We sprawl around the empty tables, taking the last photos with each other, propping our feet up on empty chairs, hooting and hollering at Bride and Groom, even though they're just standing, talking with their family. The band says "We're just gonna take a 5-minute break." Then they start packing up their gear. How confusing.
12:19am: Wedding Coordinator, her husband and I are lost in the bowels of New Jersey. This time, we can't blame it on sucky Jersey drivers. Rats.
1:09am: I'm home. I kick off my shoes and my spine readjusts to being aligned again. I marvel at the fact that my mascara didn't smudge and I have nothing stuck in my teeth. Good job, I tell myself. I take the pins out of my hair. My hair retains its shape. I wash my hair and hope to God all the wax gets out. I find another pin in the tub.
Last thoughts while drifting off to sleep: I hope there's not a random pin hidden in my hair that will poke my skull and make me bleed out onto my pillow . . . I could really go for a hot dog right about now . . . hats off to Bride and Groom for a lovely wedding and an excellent party . . .
(Disclaimer: for all that everyone's big blustery talk was worth, everyone was mostly sober, we all got home safe, and no one was too icky to trade their contact lenses for glasses today at church. We just like to THINK we're big bad drinkers. Frankly, an Irish 4-year-old could kick our butts, but don't tell the men that. They'd get so annoyed, they would spit up their Seabreezes.
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