Running a bit late we missed most of the service which was held at a Unitarian Church (and was very cool and New Agey – what of it we witnessed), but that was ok because everyone knows you only go to wedding for one reason…
The festivities were held at a ballroom of a local hotel here in South Jersey. It was a pretty large group of people, and we were seated at the table that I dubbed, “The Table of Misfit Guests”. Have you ever been seated at this table? Over there is the bride’s accountant and his lovely wife, next to you is the groom’s lesbian second cousin and her life partner, over to your right is the bride’s Uncle Felix and Aunt Tilly from Allentown, and sitting across for you are two people nobody knows. Somebody, quick bring me a drink!
The bride, was gracious enough to come over and introduce everyone around, so that was nice. After she left I noted that our table was numbered as table 77. There were 78 tables in this ballroom, and one of them was empty. I also noted that we were seated as far back from the food, but as close to the bar as possible … ah well, that worked for me just fine.
Three gin and tonics later, and lots of forced smiling with the others at the Table of Misfit Guests, we got to stand on line for our food. I noticed that the ice sculpture of a large dove was starting to melt onto the display of deviled eggs, I wasn’t sure but I thought that might be a sign from the cosmos about the newly minted Mr. and Mrs., either that, or the heat was turned up way to high in the ballroom. In any case, we got our food, returned to our far away seating arrangement ate and sat back to see what would happen next.
Did I mention that they had a band at this affair? Ladies and gentleman, please put your hands together for the dulcet tones of Frankie Pompadour and the Lounge Lizards…ugh, there is nothing sadder than a group of white guys singing Motown songs. Still, people got up to dance. Yes it was a veritable cavalcade of Caucasian boogie steppers. Whatshisname and I had a few chuckles picking out the (alleged) gay men on the dance floor (the ones who were impeccably coifed and danced a bit too enthusiastically to “I Will Survive”).
When the bride threw her bouquet, these two women out on the floor leapt like NBA players for the spray of pastel flowers and nearly tackled each other until one of them rose triumphant holding her prize. Later on the winner had the bride’s garter put on her leg by the best man (who caught said garter). I do believe that later on the bouquet catcher and the best man got it on, they seemed destined for love…or at least for a quick one in the cloak room.
The Chicken Dance: What the fuck is up with that?
Towards the end of the night, the band slowed down and played some sappy ballad. I was standing at the bar with my partner and said, “Well, are you man enough for this?”, and the next thing I knew, I was in the arms of the one of I love, tripping the light fantastic while Frankie Pompadour and his band crucified Sinatra, and it was one of the most romantic moments I can recall in a long time … as for the other guests? Fuck ‘em, it’s not like any of them will ever get to dance at my wedding.