My cousin Heather had her wedding in Mexico in February and because there were a lot of family who was unable to make it, she and TJ had a reception in Dickinson a couple weeks ago. You picture my grandma in an airplane. They would have to strap her down because she'd be freaking out on everyone. Plus my family can be a little racist sometimes, and I don't think they would handle Mexican culture with the...shall we say, grace and poise, that would be required. I wanted to go but my nursing instructor was upset with a girl when she got pregnant...I don't think she would have taken too kindly to me wanting to go to Mexico for a wedding that wasn't even my own.
If you have ever seen the movie "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" then you have a little bit of an idea what life with the Italians is like. They get into everyone else's business, tell you how to do things, criticize you when you do it your own way, and then change the story later to favor themselves a little more. Honestly, Heather, I don't know how you did it. I'm going to either have to secretly get married and keep my husband a secret from my entire extended family, or just forgo the marriage completely.
I was in charge of gift table/guestbook. I made it my personal mission to make sure no drunk wedding guest ran off with somebody else's gift to the happy couple. While I was doing this, my grandmother positioned herself near me, making comments on every gift that came by. "Oh that one's nice." "I wonder how much they spent." "This is a lot of packages on the table." "That one's not very big." You know. Italian-type stuff. Don't get me wrong. I absolutely love my grandma, but I'm just not...as Italian as she is, I guess.
Soon, supper came, and my grandma was gone. We Italians like to eat, and she had a spot in a pretty important place. I was at the table with my parents who were a host couple, my aunt and some friend she decided was essential to the wedding (not like a boyfriend...just a friend from work...she was about 5 inches shorter than me, and that's saying something), and another family who were very nice to talk to...definitely a welcome break. Well, my uncle Doug announces that we will start eating and makes the mistake of saying, "Let's go eat!"
This was taken by a select few members of my table to mean "Last one in line is a rotten egg." They actually broke out into a near-jog to get there. I hung back with my parents, feeling absolutely stupid to be eating before the bride and groom's parents and grandparents. After waiting what I felt was sufficient, I grabbed some food and sat down...while my aunt asks me "Where did you go?" I had thought about making up some elaborate story about getting trampled by wedding guests, but just said, "Oh, just waiting." Which earned me a funny look. Oh well.
Toasts came after supper, and after eating with current company, I was ready for a drink. My dad poured me champagne. My mother is absolutely horrified at this point, and says, "Lindsey, I see plenty of people here I could turn you in that would get you in trouble." She points at the rent-a-cop in the corner. My dad responds with a "Like who, Suz?" and gives him a little wave. Apparently they made friends. That's nice. During the slideshow, I was sipping my champagne, and my aunt, seeing a picture, loudly announces, "that was ME who bought her that cabbage patch doll" to anyone who cared to listen in a 2 mile radius. I downed the rest of my champagne and handed a glass to my dad. I needed a refill.
So by this time, I've had more alcohol than I ever have on my pill for the PCOS. I decide it was more than plenty when I got the urge to hug my friends Layne and Rachel, who happened to be waiters there, while they were clearing off tables because they were just doing it so well. Luckily they soon started the dance. I had no friends in town during this (who weren't working, obviously...or busy turning 21 for that matter), so I resorted to my family. Yup. I made my mom go out there with me. We have two very different styles of dancing, mind you. Hers involved stepping from side to side and kind of flapping her arms like a chicken. Mine probably looked like I was about to break something or possibly myself. But you know, whatever. Don't judge.
Soon I got my aunt Deb to come dance with us too. She's too funny. She sits there and says no for about 10 seconds, but when I moved on to someone else, she had this kinda sad look on her face. So, even though I think it's absolutely stupid, I begged her again. We Italians kind of like being the center of attention. I had to beg less and less each time, to her credit. And none at all the last time. I got my grandpa out there with no begging. He actually kept up with me. He is one hell of a crazy dancer. For 77, that man can move. We opted for a crazy rave style dance in which you move your arms and legs as fast as possible at each other and to the music. We actually got a standing ovation when we sat down from two people I didn't know.
My uncle Doug showed me how to jitterbug and two-step. I didn't catch on like you would expect. Like, we jitterbugged okay, but I ran into him every time I tried to two step. Then we were thirsty. I had decided I had probably had enough alcohol for the night, but my aunt would have actually bought me more. And then she charged it to my uncle's account. That was nice of her. Another finer point of Italians. They like their free things.
A lady there confused me with my younger sister...I think she was a bridemaid's stepmom? And the mom of my sister's hockey teammate. She came over and proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was, how beautiful my sister was, and how not beautiful my dad was. I didn't know the woman, so I kept nodding and laughing a lot. My mom and her started talking about hockey, and my mom said she wanted to burn em's jersey. To which this woman punches me in the shoulder and shouts, "LET'S BURN OUR BRAS!" so I shout "YEAH!" back at her, thinking that's how we now communicate. Later on the dancefloor, she was grinding with some guy. And then tried to grind with my mother. You can imagine how that ended up.
By the end of the night, my feet hurt, I had a headache, and I think I had eaten my weight in Boston Baked Beans at Heather and TJ's candy bar. But I had had such a blast. And definitely got tips and pointers for how to handle our grandparents at my own wedding. If I have one. At least not for 10 more years. My family is nuts.
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