Wedding Update

So here’s the latest on my daughter’s wedding. When I talked to Courtney Tuesday afternoon, she still didn’t have a dress and she had yet to secure anyone to perform the ceremony, which (call me crazy) seems kind of crucial. Especially when the wedding is five days away.

Thankfully, Tuesday night she called to say everything’s falling into place.

Courtney: “Hi, Mom. I got a dress. I found it at The Deb.
Me: “The Deb? As in the Deb Shop? I remember buying hip huggers there in 1972.”
Courtney: “Yeah, that store is totally not me, but my dress is perfect. And Joanne the Buddhist who lives up the hill said she’ll do the ceremony.”
Me: “Whew! Thank God for the Buddhist up the hill.”

How many times have you heard yourself breathing that sigh of relief? It’s practically cliché, right?

Courtney: “AND, this is the best part... John’s parents are flying up for the wedding!”
Me: “Great! I can’t wait to meet them.”
Courtney: “Yeah, so be good and don’t talk about boobs or anything.”

Alright, can I just say that boobs is not a topic I typically bring up when I first meet people? I talk about boobs in my comedy act, but believe it or not, I am socially cultivated enough to know that upon introduction to your daughter’s in-laws, it's not proper to open the conversation with boobs.

Me: "What about penises? I suppose they’re off limits, too?"

So what a relief; everything seems to be under control. I didn't hear from her yesterday, and if there were any snags, I would have known. But I know from experience that no matter how simple you swear it's going to be, there’s always something that can go wrong.

Let me tell you about my second wedding. The date was December 30, 2000. My now ex and I decided we’d have a small ceremony, just the two of us, during his winter semester break in the New Age sanctuary of Sedona, Arizona. It would be perfect.

This excerpt from my still to be published manuscript, Bastard Husband: A Love Story, tells the rest.

We applied for a marriage license over the Internet and found a metaphysical minister, also through the Internet, who agreed to marry us at four o’clock on the balcony of a hotel overlooking Sedona’s crimson sandstone towers. The morning of our nuptials we hiked through red rocks and afterward relaxed in the hot tub, sharing our intentions with a biker couple from Ohio who offered to be our wedding photographers. Now this is the way to get married, we bragged—no hassles, no stress.

When it came time to get ready for the ceremony, I showered and did my make-up and hair the way I always do; no need to make a fuss. I unzipped the blue plastic garment bag I had ever-so-carefully protected during our flight, and oblivious to the possibility there could be more than one blue plastic garment bag in my closet at home, took out… my daughter’s junior prom gown. As my fingers slid across Courtney’s navy satin dress, which would have been tasteful enough to wear for the occasion, I lamented more than ever that I was no longer a size 3. Fortunately, I didn’t have to get married in hiking gear; I’d packed a separate bag with a little cocktail dress, in case we went out for New Year’s Eve.

And so, the bride wore black.

That was probably a sign, huh?

I have no idea what I’m going to wear to this pancake breakfast/wedding/Willie Nelson event on Sunday. But I’ll be damn sure I take the right bag with me.