Wedding Story
An outdoor, July celebration was planned in the backyard of my parent’s Western New York home. A rectangular, white tent was erected to cover all 125 guests in case of rain. A wood dance floor was placed in the center and round tables dotted the area. Since my parents were concerned whether their septic system could accommodate the wedding guests, a bright yellow porta-potty was planted near the tent. At first, I was a little upset about this, wondering how I would be able to maneuver and pee without yellowing my puffy dress. Or worse, how would poor, 80-year-old Aunt Helen be able to manage? My parents assured me that I (and any elderly guests) could use the modern facilities of the house.
The best man was adorable. He had been my soon-to-be husband’s best friend for at least ten years and was the ideal candidate for the important task. He was also a mutt with the colorings of a German Shepherd in a body of a Corgi. Yes, my groom took the literal meaning of, “man’s best friend,” and enlisted his dog “Macho” to join us for this once-in-a-lifetime event. To this day, my maid of honor (she’s human) hasn’t forgiven me for having her stand next to a dog.
Macho wore a small, black and white tuxedo, borrowed from a beagle friend who wore it to another event. The day prior to the wedding, I picked up the little penguin suit from the dry cleaners. Tears welled up when the clerk handed me the garment. The little tux was in tatters. Every seam had come undone and it appeared as though portions of it had shrunk. Speechless and trying hard to fight back tears, I grabbed the bundle of fabric swabs and ran out the door. The tears released when I got in the car and my mother asked, “What’s wrong?”
Not to despair, mom can fix anything, including tuxedos for little dogs. By the next morning, she and a friend had mended the little suit back to normal.
“OK,” I thought, “this would be it for wedding snafus.”
But it wasn’t. That morning, the skies poured cats and dogs (excuse the pun) all day. The ceremony was scheduled for 5 o’clock under a canopy of pine trees but the rain intensified. No worries. Since all the guests were huddled under the tent, it only made sense for them to remain there. And at 4:59 p.m., the procession began from the house to the backyard and I felt like a celebrity. Umbrellas shielded me from the cool rain and before I knew it, I was surrounded by familiar smiling faces under the tent.
Following the ceremony, friends and family told me not to worry about the rain. “It means it will bring you good luck throughout your marriage,” many told me.
“I think that’s just something people say to make the bride feel better,” I replied. But, I didn’t let the Mother Nature’s plans dampen my spirits. Following dinner, some dancing and a few cocktails, the rain tapered off.
The backyard was slowly turning into a mud pit. Children were running outside the tent and adults snuck out to smoke in small groups. The soft ground became mushier with each step.
As the evening progressed, the cocktails kept flowing and dancing moved off the dance floor. My bright, white dress became polka dotted with mud, accented with a rim of green grass stains. My pearly shoes were caked with a half-inch layer of deep, brown mud. I didn’t mind. This was my fairytale and the princess could wear what she wished.
Mom was looking stylish, too. Wearing an elegant black dress, she was protecting her feet with calf-high work boots over her nylons and tearing up the dance floor.
It was about 11 o’clock when I had an inkling my new husband was having too much fun. When a video camera came around to him, he stuck his tongue between a “V” shaped with his index and middle fingers. Embarrassed, I swooped in to dance with him to some cheesy 80s dance music..
He had some difficulty staying upright and kept bumping into me. Shrugging it off, I thought, “That’s OK, he’s having a good time.” A small group now circled us and we all danced together, until prince charming leaned over to me and said, “The bartender’s kinda cute. I’m gonna ask her to dance.”
Time to go!
Horrified that I wasn’t the only woman on his mind, I grabbed his arm and told him we were leaving. Earlier in the day, I had checked into our romantic honeymoon nest in the hollow down the road. Growing up, I had fantasized about spending a romantic weekend in that little Victorian-looking haven. I had reserved the chintz-decorated honeymoon suite which included a whirlpool tub.
Lover boy is a sturdy man so I recruited my best friend Annette, also my maid of honor, to help drag him into the house. We positioned him between us and like two football players carrying our injured teammate off the field, we slowly moved towards the house.
“I gotta take a piss,” he slurred.
“Fine. The outhouse is over here,” I replied.
Some how, he wiggled out of our clutches, schlepped through the mud and went in the opposite direction of the porta-potty to a row of trees. It was a nice site for our departing guests to see the groom watering the grass.
“Come on! Let’s go!” I yelled at him, feeling the tears beginning to build up. “Annette, help me!” I screamed to my maid of honor.
It wasn’t easy reaching the house. It was almost like hauling a 200 pound sack of flour: he kept shifting and trying to wander off while we tried to control him. The mud didn’t help either, making it slippery in some areas. But somehow, we managed to get him inside and plopped on my childhood bed.
“Wake up! Wake up! Can you hear me?!” I cried while slapping his face. I continued this for a half hour without avail. He was out cold.
At first I was worried that there was something wrong with him, but realized he was just drunk. He didn’t wake up and my dream of a romantic wedding night was washed away.
My mood turned to anger. Hysterical with tears, I vowed to get the marriage annulled. My Father replied, “Come on, he’s a good guy.”
My Mother comforted me by saying, “Well, it’s not like it would be the first time you’d be spending the night together, so you’re not really missing out.”
Thanks, Mom.
Being midnight, I left him on my bed while I slept on the floor next to him, crying myself to sleep. Little did I know that outside, the catering truck was having difficulty leaving the backyard. The large, 10-wheeled truck had sunk into the soft mud. The lovely green grass of the backyard I had always loved was no more. It had become a mud pit. Wedding guests, still dressed in their suits, dresses and nylons, were helping push the vehicle out. Eventually, the truck was free and headed on its way.
Throughout the night, I checked on him to make sure he was still breathing. At 6 the next morning, I awoke to hearing, “Oh, shit.”
And thus began six years of wedded bliss.
