Tomorrow Hugh and I will celebrate our seventeenth wedding anniversary which means that, on this day seventeen years ago, we were getting our party on at the rehearsal dinner. And, what a party that was. Not only were we celebrating our impending nuptials but, my dad was celebrating his 50th birthday which, means, obviously, that he is celebrating a birthday again, today so, happy birthday, Dad!
In 1993, the celebration included a cake decorated like a graveyard and lit with 50 sparklers which, while posing a major fire hazard, was also pretty damn impressive. I’m guessing his cake this year will be sugar-free, fat-free and flavorless, if there is a cake at all which, why bother with that list of restriction? Sorry, Dad.
And, back to 1993.
Following the rehearsal at my family’s church,-which I somehow managed to get not a single photograph of, by the way- we gathered at Hugh and my new house for a backyard BBQ. At which, in addition to the cake, we dined on a roast beast lovingly prepared by my soon to be in-laws.
And, you know, there was some beer, like, a lot of beer which goes a long way in explaining why Tee felt the need to play air guitar on her leg....
As well as why Father Michael McCleary needed a designated driver to take him back to the church,
And why my entire side of the family looked somewhat dazed and confused. Most importantly, the presence of beer explains why there are no photos of me with my husband-to-be at our rehearsal dinner although I disntictly remember being together, I swear.
Until we weren't, that is because, the beer was also to blame for the after-party that Hugh, his groomsmen and my bridesmaids all attended later that night; a party that went well into the morning of our wedding day and that ended with my soon-to-be brother-in-law throwing up over the fence in our backyard while Tee casually informed Emily that her son was, and I quote, “wasted”.
I missed those shenanigans because, for some crazy reason, I wanted to look good on my wedding day and figured that a good night’s sleep might be in my best interest although, since I was kept up half the night by the noise generated by my grandmother’s oxygen machine; I might have been better off in the bar.
And, actually, despite my bridesmaids never making it home that night, they all managed to look pretty damn good at the wedding. Ah, youth, you fickle bitch.
Also, that rehearsal dinner-and the party that went with it-have become fodder for many a story told around the dinner table at holidays which, in party-speak, means it was almost as successful as the marriage has been.