Nic Narrates

Now that I’ve had the (perhaps requisite) time to reflect upon the black taffeta bubble-skirted wedding hoopla, I’m at last ready to regale you (if anyone actually still frequents this sadly kept blog) with the details. Think: pork, country music, grown men in shorts and tennis shoes, a bride mandated dance routine, and koozies. Oh yeah- it was fancy.

What is most important is that my friend was happy with the way it all turned out. That said, it was the most exhausting weekend, setting up tables and centerpieces and the bar and the chairs and the shepherd’s hooks and rehearsing and running around with a photographer and the actual ceremony and reception. And that’s even after blowing off the brunch (i.e. “hey everybody, come clean up the reception site”).

She really did make a beautiful bride though. She was the bride we all picture ourselves as when we’re five years old, swishing our bedspreads around the kitchen floor. And her father’s toast was touching….the words every girl hopes her father has for her on her wedding day.

But….

There was seating for 150, 205 replied “yes,” and around 30 “just showed up.” There was only keg beer in red plastic cups and whisky, vodka, and rum drinks (oh, and a random bottle of sour apple Pucker). The ceremony was outside by a cornfield and the highway, and we lucked out by it only being 90 degrees that afternoon. And when it was time for the vows, the officiant got the groom’s name wrong.

At the reception, there was the dollar dance (tackiest thing ever- or so I thought) and a bride auction with an actual auctioneer (tackier). The groom removed the garter with his teeth (ew). And I ended up being paged to the dance floor after refusing to join in the tossing of the bouquet. Later, the dancing turned into something one would expect to see (and hear- P*ssy Patrol at a wedding? with children?) in a college bar around 2 am before the lights are about to come on. The groomsmen also decided to remove not only their jackets but their shirts too and started a jack line on the dance floor in their ties and vests with plastic beer cups in hand.

And then, the groomsmen I was paired up with (an engaged father of a one-year-old) decided he was ready to jump ship mid-way through the reception and told me he “wished I was his.” Although it was a sort of sweet thing to say I suppose (better than “I want to bang you”), it was pretty inappropriate. But then, I guess, marriage (and weddings for that matter) are a little different where my friend comes from.

Filed under: engaging boyfriends, singletons, wedding hell by Nic