There are few things Alaskans relish more than a trip “Outside.” Going Outside is what we refer to as traveling out of state. So when my sister announced that she was getting married again, I gleefully calculated how many Alaska Airline miles I’d accumulate between Anchorage Portland , Oregon
Since it was a second wedding, I figured my duties as a bridesmaid would be minimal; perhaps taking the bride to the spa, or maybe a girls-night-out for champagne. No problem. So I was a little startled when my sister sent me an e-mail with an attachment letting me know that she had decided on a dress for the bridesmaids and to please order right away so it would arrive in plenty of time for the wedding. Matching bridesmaids dresses? That’s a little formal for a second wedding, I thought, but it’s her day. If she wants us to match, I can live with that.
I clicked on the attachment, expecting to see some tasteful business-casual number that could be used again at a weeknight dinner event or maybe at the grand opening of the new Target store. (Hey, we Alaskans take new franchises seriously. You should have seen the ta-do raised when Olive Garden finally came to Anchorage
Was she kidding?
Come on! This was the bridesmaid dress from hell. It even had petticoats! She doesn’t live in the South. We don’t even know anyone in the South. And it was strapless. Strapless dresses are intended for BC (Before Children) figures with perfect bosoms. I am an A minus cup, and the other Bridesmaid is a double-D. I would be struggling to keep the dress from falling off, and she would be struggling to keep from falling out! I know the bride wants to be the center of attention, but in these dresses, we were going to give her a run for her money, for all the wrong reasons.
This just wouldn’t do. I picked up the phone and called the other bridesmaid. “Hi Theresa, did you get that dress photo?”
“Oh….my…word. She doesn’t really expect us to wear that, does she?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. What is up? That is the most hideous dress ever.”
“Tell me about it. I have a huge tattoo on my right bicep. The bridesmaids stand on the left which means my arm will be front-and-center in all its glory. My mother hasn’t even seen that tattoo yet! Oh well, maybe it will distract from my cleavage.”
“You‘re actually making me feel better. No one will be looking at me. I’ll just stand really close to you.”
“Funny. She’s your sister, can’t you talk to her?”
“You’re her best friend and the Maid of Honor, why do I have to talk to her?”
“Because you live thousands of miles away, and she’ll forgive you before you get down here.”
It took me a week to finally get through to Mel on the phone. She has five teenage girls. And even though they have call-waiting, phoning their house is like playing Powerball; you punch in the numbers, hold your breath, squeeze your eyes shut, and pray hard, but most of the time you end up disappointed.
“Mel, Sweetie, about those bridesmaid dresses-”
“Oh! Don’t you just love them?” she gushed. “I have always dreamed of a big traditional wedding. I didn’t get to do that the first time around, and I’ve always regretted it. This time I’m doing it right. It’s going to be big, full of family, and filled with tradition, right down to those stale mints on the tables.”
“Really? I never knew you wanted a big wedding. Please tell me you aren’t going to have those tacky tissue bell decorations?”
“I’ve got them in lavender and teal. Why?”
My sister was thrilled to be marrying a fabulous guy and planning the wedding of her dreams. Who was I to complain? So I pulled out my Visa and purchased The Nightmare in Lilac. And since misery loves company, I then fired off an e-mail to Theresa to warn her that she had better talk to her mom about that weekend in Vegas and the tattoo.
I flew down two days prior to the wedding to help with the never-ending list of details. It took exactly one hour to remind me of one of the main reasons I live in Alaska
I live far enough away that they have to call first before visiting. Now don’t get me wrong, I adore my sister, my mom is amazing, my dad is wonderful and I have terrific stepparents. I have oodles of cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, and all of them are great, usually. It’s when you take two or more family members and put them in a confined space for a period of time, that’s when the trouble starts.
So you can imagine what happened when over eighty of our closest fold gathered together with the added stress of a wedding…Hello drama! It erupted the day before the ceremony. The bride unintentionally offended the soon-to-be-mother-in-law by not including her enough in preparations. The mother-in-law countered by informing the bride that she and her husband would not be attending the rehearsal dinner (which, by the way, was scheduled to take place at the house of said mother-in-law). The bride burst into tears and ran out of the house; the groom took off after the bride which left Your’s Truly standing alone in the middle of the lawn when the caterer arrived.
I’m pretty sure Miss Manners has never addressed this particular issue. Is it Kosher to hold the rehearsal dinner at the home of the groom’s parents even though they just informed you that they are refusing to attend? I wondered. I gave the caterer the key to the in-law’s kitchen. Thirty hungry relatives were showing up in a couple of hours. Let Mom hang out in her basement, I concluded evilly. I once saw a Brady Bunch episode where two of the siblings divided their room with a long strand of duct tape. Perhaps I could come up with a similar concept for the rehearsal dinner. The guests would get the main floor bathroom and the kitchen; the in-laws could have the hallway and the stairwell. I even had left over lavender streamers that would make great color-coordinated dividers.
I could feel a headache coming on. Thankfully the bride was not requiring us to wear our flamboyant lavender garments for the rehearsal. If I had to deal with petticoats right then, I would have screamed. I popped two Advil and started walking to the church. My sister was marrying into a wealthy family. Her new in-laws had a front yard that was larger than most community parks. When they built their home, they bought up the rest of the vacant lots on the street and reserved them for their children. Mel was going to live only a couple of houses away from her new sister-in-law, next door to a brother-in-law and of course her mother-in-law lived at the end of the street. During last Sunday’s sermon, the preacher asked us to picture in our minds what hell might look like…I think now I had a pretty good idea.
I had just rounded the corner when a cloud of dust and flying gravel sent me diving for cover. The Bird Family convoy had arrived. (I need to take a moment and explain some things about my Mom’s side of the family. My Mother is a polished gracious lady. You would never guess to look at her, that her family has an affinity for Harley Davidson motorcycles and leather. My Grandmother has tattoos that she still won’t let me see)! In front of me stood a half dozen jacked-up 4x4 pick-ups, a 1970 Volkswagen van and several RVs with motorcycles trailing behind. My uncle Duane hopped down from his truck, long gray pony tail swinging and gave me a big hug, “Jani! You’re looking fine. Mel told us we could park on the street. So, should we just set-up anywhere?” I glanced at the big “Git-R-Done” motif on his windshield and the bumper-sticker plastered below his grill that read, “What Happens in the Backseat, Stays in the Backseat.” I grinned.
“Uncle Duane, I think you should park your truck down at the very end of the street right in front of that really big yard. In fact, I think there is enough room for everyone to park down there, and it will be convenient too, that’s where the rehearsal dinner is tonight.” Okay, so maybe I was being a little devious, but she started it!
My sister and her stressed-out groom showed up at the church minutes before the rehearsal. She’d obviously been crying all afternoon. So much for the $200 spa day I’d treated her to; those bloodshot eyes were going to take a week to clear. I was starting to feel a little guilty about the motorcycle gang that I’d sent to camp out on her new mother-in-law’s lawn. But I figured it was probably best not to mention it to Mel right then.
When all of the practice “I do’s” were said, Mel pulled me aside. “Jan, we have a big problem.” Figuring I was busted for my little improv camping stunt, I confessed,
“Mel, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist. Your Mother-in-law was being such a witch and--”
“What are you talking about?”
“Uh…nothing. What’s the problem you were talking about?”
“My in-laws are Mormon.”
“Okay…so what?”
“They don’t believe in consuming alcohol.” Oh boy. This was a big problem. Our family not only loves motorcycles and leather, they love to party. I mean, they really love to party. I had seen at least two kegs in the back of my Aunt Shelley’s truck, and I’m pretty sure that I saw my Uncle Bill carrying some sort of contraption with a funnel and rubber tubing. Mel was staring intently at me. “You can’t let any of our relatives bring alcohol to the dinner.”
Now I understand that the bridesmaids have duties and are supposed to handle the grunt work for the bride, but this was too much! In our family, weddings and alcohol are like oil and vinegar, or salt and pepper. You just can’t have one without the other. I looked back at my sister and her tearstained puffy face. “Of course Mel, leave it to me. I’ll figure something out.”
For the second time that day, I found myself walking on the street, fighting off a headache and popping Advil. How could I politely address this rather touchy issue with my Mom’s colorful clan? That Miss Manners chick was really starting to get on my nerves. Why didn’t she ever write about tips that apply to real life? Twice in one day I could have used some solid etiquette advice. By the time I reached the mother-in-law’s front yard, I’d come up with a compromise. I gathered together the motley crew for a group meeting. When I’d finished explaining that no alcohol was allowed at the rehearsal dinner, you would have thought I’d announced that the president had been shot. My Uncle Bill looked stunned, “But I don’t understand?” He said. “How do you git hitched without booze? I’d have never gotten married if it wasn’t for beer.” That brought a snickering round of laughter and jabs about Bill’s many ex-wives. I waved my hands to quiet the crowd.
“I’m only saying that there can’t be any ‘booze’ at the rehearsal dinner. Now the rehearsal dessert, that’s a different story!” I had to wait for the cheers to die down. “Following the rehearsal dinner, we’ll all meet on Mel’s front lawn for ice cream and beer.”
Miss Manners, eat your heart out.
Mel wasn’t quite as enamored with my creative compromise, but after the day she’d had, I don’t think she had the strength to protest. I was able to convince her to go to bed early. While she slept, I quietly scrubbed and polished her entire house. It was nearly by the time I finished. I looked around and admired my handiwork. The house looked good enough to grace a photo spread in “Better Homes & Gardens.” I’d even filled vases with cut flowers, and set the oven timer to bake a blueberry streusel coffee cake at I was determined to do what I could to make sure the morning of my sister’s wedding started off a heck of a lot better than the night before. Besides, I needed to get her in a good mood before she walked out the front door and had to step over the various relatives that were passed out on her front lawn.
The big day finally arrived. Mel was delighted with her surprise house cleaning and she finally started to smile and glow like a bride should. I, on the other hand, looked a little like Phyllis Diller after a hard night of drinking and a stint in a windstorm. The bags under my eyes matched the hideous lavender dress, and the whites of my eyes were more bloodshot than Mel’s. The bride had come up with a camouflage solution for my diminutive bosom and Theresa’s tattoo and cleavage issue. She’d ordered these long matching lavender satin caped shawls to drape about our shoulders. I adjusted my stole in the mirror, and pondered how much I looked like a Twiggy version of Scarlet O’Hara from Gone With The Wind, when the phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Oh Thank God, you are still there!”
“Theresa? What’s wrong?”
“Last night I tried on my dress and literally busted a seam.”
“Uh-oh, you mean busted out?”
“Yup. My husband was zipping up the back, and the puppies burst out the front. The bodice was ripped open, even the lining split.”
“You better not be calling to tell me you can’t wear your dress, ‘cause there is no way I’m going up there in this lilac number alone.” I spit out.
“Man, wish I’d thought of that. Instead I asked my Mom to fix it. She’s a seamstress, so she was able to make repairs, but not without inserting some new fabric panels.”
“Wow, I’m impressed. Where on earth did she find material in town to match?”
“She didn’t.”
“Well, but how did she-?...Oh, no.” I knew where Theresa was going. “Let me guess. She used your shawl for the extra fabric panels didn’t she?” I asked. “And now you’re calling me to try and get me to give you my shawl to cover up your tattoo, aren’t you?”
“Please? I’m sure Mel doesn’t want a tattoo of a big sword and a teardrop in her wedding photos.”
“Back-off, Chicky, I’ll let you borrow it for photos, but there ain’t no way you’re prying this sucker off until I am done walking that aisle. I’ll loan you a purple marker and you can color your tattoo to match. Besides, I’ve already practiced holding the shawl in front and balancing my bouquet so that it covers my chest. I even paid extra and had the bouquet made extra large as camouflage. No way. You’re not getting it.”
“I’m willing to buy it.”
“Not selling.”
“You know Janet, when you want to, you can be a real Bitch.”
“Not working. See you at the church Theresa. Bye.” Sure, I felt a little sorry for her. And maybe I was a little selfish, but cut me some slack, I was suffering from excessive family drama overdose. I didn’t have the tolerance built up. I slipped into my matching lavender satin shoes and headed out the door again to walk one last time to the church.
I’m convinced it was Divine intervention that allowed my sister to have the beautiful ceremony she dreamed of. Her mother-in-law arrived for the wedding, the precious flower girl and adorable ring bearer performed their roles perfectly. All of our relatives sat properly in their pews with combed hair and pressed shirts. My Dad beamed as he led my sister down the petal covered aisle. Mel was gorgeous. Her long beaded veil sparkled, and her satin dress shimmered in the candlelight. She finally had her storybook wedding and her handsome prince.
I bowed my head and gave thanks to God. I thanked him for giving Mel another shot at love. I thanked him for giving me the strength to endure three whole days of intense family drama without any serious injury or violence. And finally I thanked Him for giving me only one sister and asked him to please promise that He will never make me endure this ever again. Amen.
This is such a great perspective on Mel's wedding. I loved the wedding and everything had seemed so relaxed and fun to me, having no idea all you guys had gone through! Heh heh. I couldn't stop laughing at " I mean, they really love to party. I had seen at least two kegs in the back of my Aunt Shelley’s truck..." That's my mamma.
ReplyDeleteWell written.