Two months ago, my best friend, Jenn, said, “Everyone is going to [our friend] Cami’s wedding in Houston in April, but I don’t know if I can do it. I hate flying, and I don’t want to leave the dog, and [my husband] Pete won’t dance with me.”
Jenn and Jules (pic from our Secret Wedding)
I took a quick inventory of my life: I hadn’t flown anywhere in four years. My future career was uncertain. I was restless as hell. I liked to dance.
“I’ll go with you,” I blurted. After all, I knew the bride and everyone going.
Jenn’s face lit up, and within the hour, she’d booked our flight. This past Friday morning, I rose at 4:45 and picked up Jenn.
“You don’t trust me to get to your parents’ house on time [since your mom is bringing us to the airport]?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. Don’t argue with me,” I replied, recalling the previous weekend, when Jenn was supposed to come over for lunch, and slept until 1pm.
To Jenn’s credit, she was all ready to go when I arrived, and in a stroke of genius, had booked us aisle seats across from each other. We strained our necks, but got the ab workout of a lifetime, each trying to out-joke the other during the 3 1/2-hour flight.
“You were those people?” our friend Mary later asked.
Yes. Yes, we were.
“We’re just a couple of classy broads,” Jenn said, stowing her ancient cell phone before take-off.
“You put the ass in class,” I replied affectionately.
“I just don’t understand people who have no sense of humor,” I said some time later. “My only problem is I think everything is funny.”
“Your only problem?” Jenn fired back.
Jenn wound up rebooking our hotel so we could stay where Cami (the bride) had scheduled a shuttle to the wedding venue, never mind that Jenn still had to pay for the first hotel because it was nonrefundable.
“We don’t know anything about a shuttle to the wedding,” the front desk told us when we arrived.
Jenn called Cami and found out that the shuttle “never materialized.”
We decided to worry about our ride later. We still had 3 hours to spare, and we were on a mission: hair dye (for Jenn) and vodka (for
me both of us).
Gettin’ ‘er done at Walgreens.
“There’s a Walgreens and a liquor store within walking distance – 2 blocks,” the front desk assured us.
We found the Walgreens, but walked at least a mile, stopping people to ask where the liquor store was. Our boots were not made for “walking distance” in Texas, but the weather was beautiful.
“I just saw a cop in a cowboy hat, but I’m still starting to think we belong in Houston,” I told Jenn. “We’ve already gotten hit on by three different men.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that we’re asking for liquor at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a work day?” she replied.
“Now hold it right there, young whippersnapper, you’re in vi-o-lation of Code 147: The Texas Ten Gallon. Where on god’s green earth is your hat?”
By the time we got back to the hotel, we had little time to pre-game. Our friends, who were staying in a different hotel and had rented a car, generously offered to pick us up. Now we had even less time to get ready.
Hang on! Almost ready!
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was Cami and her soon-to-be-husband. She was holding an iPod.
“I just need you to dock this before the wedding, and play the ‘Processional’ playlist,” she told Jenn.
“O-okay…” Jenn replied, wet hair dripping on ivory shoulders.
“Then you play the ‘Ceremony’ playlist, then the ‘Recessional’ playlist.”
Jenn’s eyes widened, but she just nodded, paying close attention.
“And then the ‘Reception’ playlist,” Cami said, clicking through each one on the little silver rectangle in her hand. “I tried to make it as idiot-proof as possible.”
As soon as they left, we raced to finish getting ready. When our friends picked us up, they were nervous about being late, but in good spirits.
“[Our other friend] Dave just found out he’s the Maid of Honor!” they giggled.
“I just found out I’m the f*cking DJ!” Jenn retorted.
We arrived at the wedding venue early, as luck would have it. It was a Greek restaurant, obviously.
Because when I think Houston, I think…baklava.
The wedding coordinator frantically informed us that she was technologically challenged, and pointed to a CD player with no CDs.
“That’s not going to work with this,” Jenn replied, holding the iPod.
“Well we just got a new TV, maybe we can put music on that?” the wedding coordinator said breathlessly, her voice a fascinating mix of Southern and Greek accents.
When I attempted to turn on the TV, it was immediately apparent that the cable wasn’t hooked up. “Maybe if you point the remote here,” the wedding coordinator said, gesturing towards the closet where the CD player sat. I knew I’d never, ever come up with an appropriate response, so I said nothing and glanced back to see if the bar was open yet.
Here’s what happened when we asked the wedding coordinator to take our picture at the end of the night:
We found out one of Cami’s friends was coming by with the iPod speaker and tried to relax, even though the wedding was in mere minutes.
Or it should have been.
The wedding party was two hours late. No reason. Texas time, I guess. My inner Project Manager hyperventilated into a brown paper bag, while my alter ego, Drunk Girl, just… well, you know.
In case you were wondering – the iPod speaker still hadn’t arrived.
“Can you tell everyone to hum the wedding march?” the blushing bride asked Jenn, just before the ceremony started.
“Yee-haw! I am worth the wait, cowboy!”
I should probably stop there.
After all that, did we have fun? You be the judge:
“My mom just had to pay a $1,300 overage on the bar bill,” said Cami at the end of the night.
And they lived
drunkenly happily ever after.
P.S. – The speaker finally arrived:
Do you have any wedding snafu stories?