is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
The Best Man. That's me.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007 
We are home. Gloriously, happily home.
We spent five days in Richmond, Virginia celebrating my brother's wedding and all of the chaos and fun that leads up to the altar. It was lovely. It was sweet. It was an adventure.
There were many happy moments for which I am so grateful. But there were also the looky-loo pre-nuptial moments that are far more fun to discuss. Here are a few of the highlights:
Getting there. Lil E and I consolidated as much of our stuff as we could and headed to Richmond on a plane with my parents, 36 long hours before Bruce joined us there. When Bruce arrived, he was a bit flustered since he was charged with transporting my dress (ahhh yes, the dress), which, of course, could not be too wrinkled because it could not be steamed.
Only smallish planes fly from Chicago into Richmond International (probably named for that one worldwide flight to Mexico), and Bruce's plane did not have that special closet flight attendants reserve for first-class flyer's suitcoats and the rest of the herd's wedding attire. He had to jam it behind the seat of one of those first-class flyers who was not happy about pulling his seat out of the recline position for one measly little minute in the name of a wrinkle-free satin-rayon blend formal. Since he was faced with rolling his eyes at that sucker or holding the dress upright for two hours, Bruce did the right thing and gave him the facial equivalent of a big old Whatevs.
Then Bruce settled in with a ginger ale, a quart-size baggy of snacks and watched a movie. God love him, he actually watched a movie. Alone. Without fear of plane puking or not getting a few minutes to actually read the articles in a treasured People magazine. Yet and still, my dear, sweet love of my life was a bit rattled when I met him outside of security. Seriously.
We are home. Gloriously, happily home.
We
spent five days in Richmond, Virginia celebrating my brother's wedding
and all of the chaos and fun that leads up to the altar. It was lovely.
It was sweet. It was an adventure.
There were many happy moments
for which I am so grateful. But there were also the looky-loo
pre-nuptial moments that are far more fun to discuss. Here are a few of
the highlights:
Getting there. Lil E and I consolidated
as much of our stuff as we could and headed to Richmond on a plane with
my parents, 36 long hours before Bruce joined us there. When Bruce
arrived, he was a bit flustered since he was charged with transporting
my dress (ahhh yes, the dress), which, of course, could not be too wrinkled because it could not be steamed.
Only
smallish planes fly from Chicago into Richmond International (probably
named for that one worldwide flight to Mexico), and Bruce's plane did
not have that special closet flight attendants reserve for first-class
flyer's suitcoats and the rest of the herd's wedding attire. He had to
jam it behind the seat of one of those first-class flyers who was not
happy about pulling his seat out of the recline position for one measly
little minute in the name of a wrinkle-free satin-rayon blend formal.
Since he was faced with rolling his eyes at that sucker or holding the
dress upright for two hours, Bruce did the right thing and gave him the
facial equivalent of a big old Whatevs.
Then Bruce
settled in with a ginger ale, a quart-size baggy of snacks and watched
a movie. God love him, he actually watched a movie. Alone. Without fear
of plane puking or not getting a few minutes to actually read the articles in a treasured People magazine. Yet and still, my dear, sweet love of my life was a bit rattled when I met him outside of security. Seriously.
At this point, feel free to note that I did not give
up one single ounce of sympathy. Not a one. Not after hauling a Pack
& Play, a car seat, an overweight suitcase, two carry-ons and a
small child alongside my rather anxious parents. Oh hell naw.
Getting topped off. Because I am sort of an event planning wing-nut, I asked my brother and his grrrlfriend (gulp)
wife if I could give them an personal, customized gift to contribute to
their wedding. We agreed that I would make the cake topper with the
initial A. I made a beaded script A out of varied pink beads on copper
wire that I was very happy to give to the bride and groom.
As
with every bit of art I do, I was also a bit nervous to share it. I
wanted it to be more than good enough, I wanted it to be perfect. My
A-student tendencies were definitely in full effect and I wanted this
to be a little something special for my one and only brother and his
love.
My nervousness was calmed by my brother's kind comments
and they took me to present it to the baking boutique creating their
pink-frosted masterpiece for two dollars a head. I knew in my heart
that Graham of Cakes by Graham
had to be a diva. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. And in an instant,
all that vulnerability was pounced on by the man with the spatula and
the tongue of no mercy. With not a kind or compassionate word, he
completely rejected the cake topper and the ideas he himself gave to me
to stick the beaded thing into the top layer. And he would. not. stop.
I
held in my tears, not so much because the cake topper wouldn't work but
because my attempt to give a special little something had been trashed
like the cupcake trend at receptions.
Because there was some
kind of crazy wedding fortuitiveness in the air, after only one
disappointing stop at a craft store, my mother found a bridal shoppe
(because in the South, it really is a shoppe not a shop)
that carried toppers. They had two scripted initials, crafted out of
pewter and ready to stand alone proudly on the top of a cake with ease
and elegance. One of them was an A. And with that and $35, I was once
again an A-student.
Getting carded. My
now-sister-in-law must have understood how easily the tears well up on
those chaotic and improvisational wedding weeks, because she sweetly
suggested that I affix my beaded A creation to the card box. And so I
bought pink tulle and ivory ribbon and made a floof-fabulous card box
with the A hanging on the front as if it that was where it was always
intended to be.
Getting hair. My second lesson in Why You Should
Not Ignore Your Wed-tuition came at the hair appointments made for us
by the bride's mother. The woman my grandmother adamently calls the
"beauty operator" was a spiky-haired, harsh-talking older woman with a
nose ring and reddish-blonde chunky highlights. You know her. She
provides "styles with attitude" and "perms with pizazz" (although the
"pi" had been long knocked off of the letter board where this was all
advertised).
She was not so happy I was there. For some
reason, there were three of us with two appointments. We explained we
just were showing up when we were told. She yelled out that we were
wrong and asked rather unpolitely if we'd even spoken with the bride at
all. My grandmother dutifully had her hair rolled and set while my
mother hatched our escape plan. Another stylist stepped in as we
debated how to get the hell out of this hair clip infested screamfest
and beckoned my mother over for a rather calming blow-dry and style.
That left me, the only woman in the bridal party with un-updo-able
hair, in the hands of the bitchy operator.
She canned my ideas
for a simple style of my swing bob and took over with the industrial
AquaNet. Five minutes later, there I was in the swivel chair, with hair
twisted, spiked and cemented into a devil 'do. I payed. I got into the
rental car with my mom and grandma. And then the welled-up tears
broke free.
I cried and I cried and I begged my mom to be honest
with me. Was it as bad as I thought? My mother studied me in the rear
view mirror and said stoicly, "I don't care how much it costs, we are
getting your hair redone." I cried some more.
This is the point
where people thank God and believe that their past good deeds in
tipping colorists and making wedding spreadsheets months in advance
come into karmic play. It is the point where a day spa manager took
pity on the sobbing girl with the fucked up satanic hairstyle and put
her best updo-er on the job. It when the nice lady with the normal hair
and soft voice led me to the shampoo station with the massaging chair
and gently erased the small-town revenge on my swing bob. It is when
she blew out the kinks and secured a tiny, sparkly hair pin at my
crown, and in minutes smoothed out my worries about being a best man
with the worst hair in the bunch.
Even after that the fiasco and
the repair, the total cost was still under the price my own stylist in
Chicago would have charged for one go. And, as my mother reminded me
that my grandmother reminded her, that was seven times the amount she paid her beauty operator in Indiana.
As
much as Richmond is the South without the charm and as much as the
wedding mania spilled on to my efforts to have a spirited, effortless,
wonderful time getting ready for the day, it all worked out.
There
was a huge smile on my brother's face to see his bride coming down the
aisle. There was a happiness that filled me up to stand in the choir
robe corridor between the altar and the baptismal tub and spray hose,
just he and I and the minister for a very real pause before the
ceremony. There was a great joy in seeing my brother's hilarious,
wonderful friends and to see Lil E shaking his booty in the middle of a
circle of bridesmaids and the photographer.
There was the long
and exhausted wait at the airport while the weather cleared in Richmond
and then in Chicago, while we re-hashed the week, shook our heads and
laughed. While I made space in my carry-on for my bouquet, with perfect
pink roses and fragrant lilies. While I was glad to have company to
talk about the crazy/loveliness of it all and wouldn't trade it at all.
Not even for less luggage, not even for two hours of peace and a movie
of my own.
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