The Wedding, Part III: Dancing, drinking, doing things we may later regret when we are getting married ourselves, NOAH.

Right after we got married, cocktail hour commenced. There were passed hors d'oeuvres, sangria and lovely fiddle music... and I didn't see a single frigging second of it.

After running back down the aisle, we grabbed umbrellas, bustled my dress, and made our way back to the house for some formal photos. Although the rain provided some lovely things for the wedding (romantic ambiance, moderate temperatures and a total lack of mosquitoes), it also meant that we could not, as planned, take pictures outside. The result: some extremely 1950s-esque living-room photos of the bridal party.

This is everyone.

There is an important lesson to be learned from the above picture: petite bride + big bouquet + tall friends wearing 4-inch heels = the appearance that I am some sort of pygmy. I'm really glad we had an actual child in there to provide some scale.

What. Can't you see that we are drinking.

Did I mention that our photographer was totally fabulous? Because she was.

One of my favorites: getting a hug from my father-in-law.

At this point, I need to backtrack a bit -- back to before the wedding, when the whole thing was just a bunch of abstract planning elements such as "food" and "cake" and "music" and "decor". The first three were provided, respectively, by a caterer who specialized in corporate picnics; a little old lady who makes cakes out of her basement kitchen; and a guy named Roger who is some sort of ambiguous multi-removed relation but who, more importantly, is a fabulous pianist.

With nothing left but "decor", we set off for the florist, where we had the following conversation:

Florist: So, with the bridal party flowers, the centerpieces and the buffet decorations, that'll come to about two thousand dollars.

(my mother and I exchange meaningful looks)

Me: Oh-kaaay.
Mom: Thank you. We'll be in touch.

(5 minutes later, in the car)

Mom: Fuck this, we're doing it ourselves.


It took us 3 days to put it all together, and I wouldn't complain if I never saw another paper lantern, vintage tablecloth or black-eyed susan again... but, if I do say so myself, I think it looked pretty good.

...Ok, enough bragging.

First dance to "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" (a.k.a. Tomato, tomato, potato, potato.)

And then, of course, it was time for toasts. Brad's brother and my co-maids-of-honor all gave incredibly sweet, heartfelt speeches.




It is too bad that they have probably been eclipsed in everyone's minds by what happened next.

Four days before the wedding, my mother called me and said, "So, your father didn't realize until just now that he's supposed to make a toast at the reception."

"Oh?" I said.

"Yes," she continued, "And when I asked what he thought he'd like to do, he said he might recite a poem by E.E. Cummings."

"Oh, that would be nice," I said. "Which one?"

"You know, I asked him the same thing, and he said, 'I don't know'."

"Oh, so this is--"

"--Not happening. Right."

"Well, that's okay. I actually can't think of E.E. Cummings' poetry without also thinking of Michael Caine in those horrible glasses, chasing awkwardly after Barbara Hershey in Hannah and Her Sisters."

"Oh, right," said my mom. "And that movie is about an affair..."

"...Which is probably not something I want to be thinking about at my wedding."

"Right."

"Right."

And so, my father did not recite an E.E. Cummings poem. In fact, he did not recite a poem at all. Instead, he stood up and talked about:

a) sex
b) the night I was conceived
c) funerals, and, finally
d) the joys of study abroad.

Then there was a long pause.
"But I digress," said Dad, and then promptly sat down without having actually toasted anyone.

So basically, it was completely perfect.
I love my dad.

(Dancing to Gerswhin later in the evening.)

At this point, the toasting became a sort of free-for-all. My mom's best friend from college stood up. Brad's parents' neighbor stood up. Roger the pianist-who-is-somehow-related to me stood up. Our champagne glasses were nearly empty (and Brad was elbowing me, hissing, "Take the mic away! People need to eat!) when, finally, my brother Noah stood up.

This, dear readers, is the face of The Wedding Devil.

"Well," said Noah. "Thank you, everyone, for coming out and celebrating the wedding of my beautiful sister and her wonderful new husband, Brad."

"Awww," everyone said.

"And although I know some of you might be disappointed by the rainy weather we're having," he continued, "I just want to say that weddings are a lot like women...

"They're better when they're a little wet."

This is how we looked when we realized what was about to happen:


..and immediately afterward.




And this is how everybody else looked.




And this, of course, is how Noah looked.


Yeah, you're pleased with yourself. Just wait until YOU get married, you little bastard.


The rest of the night went by in a blur. There was lobster...


cake-cutting...



cupcakes...

...and a lot of dancing, which, unfortunately there are not really any pictures of.

And finally, just after midnight, we gathered up some food and overnight things and made our getaway in this.

Scene: in the car on the way to the hotel

Brad: Alright, let's go have sex!
Me: Do not interrupt me while I'm eating this mini-hot-dog or I will kill you.


And no, I am not bringing you into the hotel room with us. You'll just have to use your imaginations. Instead, I'll finish up with this.



Oh, and there's also this:

Scene: The next morning, back at my parents' house for the post-wedding brunch.

Me: Hi, mom!

Mom: Hi, honey! How are ya, married lady?

Me: I'm great! (looks around) So, uh... where's Noah?

Mom: Oh, he's back at the Best Western.

Me: He's wha--

Mom: With your friend Zoe.

(ten-second pause in which I open and close my mouth like a goldfish while staring blankly)

Me: Oh my God. Did he... I mean, do you think they--

Mom: Yes. Try not to think about it.

Me: ...

Mom: Here, have a bagel.