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After I said “I do” and made sure The Sciencette was stuck with me for good, the people in charge squirreled us and the wedding party away in a little side room so all of our guests could start drinking and drinking hard (more on this later). They also started passing around whore-durves.
Yes, I’m American. That’s how I spell it.
Anyway, everyone in the wedding party was crying again because that’s what they do. Everyone but me. By this point, I was manly as hell again and done with the tears. Also, I was starving. Maybe not as much as your average Haitian these days (too soon?), but I was definitely jonesing for some food. As you can imagine, I was eying up the tray of whore-durves someone brought in like I eyed up The Sciencette earlier. I think I may have actually hurdled someone and elbowed my grandmother to get to the food. Was it worth it? Well, I ate one caviar-covered potato pancake dealie, and then it was time to take pictures…
KILL!
We hired our photographers based (at least partially) on the fact that they claimed not to do a lot of portraits. Their claim to fame is candid action shots of everything. Well, you know what? That was a goddamn lie. They took no less than 384 billion pictures of us in every combination of people that you can imagine. Someone kept bringing drinks and food in for the people that weren’t in the pictures, but that never included me. Also, in all the pictures that included our flowerbaby, i.e., The Niece, there was a crowd of people behind the photographer making crazy noises and faces so that she would look at the camera. You wouldn’t think a baby weighed much until you have to hold one for six straight hours while someone takes your picture.
…so I was elated when The Sciencette thought it would be a good idea to go outside for a “few” pictures…
Remember, this was December 11th by the river. It was so cold outside that I couldn’t even die. I was just cryogenically frozen between every picture and brought back to life by the flash of the camera. At one point, the photographer even neglected us and started taking pictures of our shadows. I’m not going to lie; my shadow is a handsome son of a bitch.
Finally, the women took pity on me and let me go back inside. At this point, someone handed me a Yuengling, and it was like Jesus high-fived my tongue. For whatever reason, I was dehydrated as hell. You could’ve used me to sponge up a kiddie pool full of water. Now, if you remember Chapter 2, where I got über-drunk, then you can imagine if I drank enough booze to slake my thirst that I would’ve been in a hardy amount of trouble. I weigh 163, bench 165, and didn’t have anything in my stomach, so 2 gallons of beer would’ve put me on the floor. For once in my life, I was sensible enough to realize this and started taking longer and longer water breaks in between my drinks.
I didn’t shirk my duties during the toasts though; I drank champagne with my beautiful blushing bride. The Sciencette’s sister and matron of honor Womanimal started things off (and started people crying again) with her toast. Like most women, she went the short, sweet, and sentimental route.
Then it was The Yeti’s turn…
Now, most courts of law will tell you that Sasquatches, while hominids, don’t technically qualify as men (let alone best men), but this was Philly where laws are meaningless. So, without any cryptozoologists out trying to capture our erstwhile Yeti, he launched into his speech. This struck a bit of fear into my heart because Yetis are unpredictable creatures, and The Yeti was a founding member of the Zero Tact Club. I might have been the first human to dip below zero to negative tact (I’ve got Asperger’s Syndrome after all), but he wasn’t forsaking liquor in favor of water like me on this night. Also, we had earlier discussed that while his barley and hop-soaked mind remembered quite a few stories from our checkered past, not a single one was suitable for a family-style audience. So I basically didn’t know what the man-child was going to say. Creatively, The Yeti decided to simply and subtly allude to those stories of depravity, illegality, and other things that end in “ity” instead of coming straight out and telling them. All the while, he was wildly gesticulating with his glass and came within an eyelash of spilling his drink on The Sciencette any number of times (no less than 384?). Oh yeah, I feel the need to tell a little more truth here. During his toast, The Yeti commented that he’d looked over my latest paper, and, while he didn’t understand a goddamn thing I’d written, he enjoyed the pictures. Well, for this particular paper, a professional artist made all of the images for us, so The Yeti failed at all aspects of the paper reading. Is anyone surprised?
At one point, he also called me an artist, and I almost lost it. There’s quite a story behind that comment, and I promise that it will be the focus of my next post.
Anyway, with the “cheers” behind us, it was time to attack dinner. I was so excited to eat that it was a little retarded, and then a curious thing happened. I wasn’t hungry. I still can’t explain what my problem was, but I just didn’t have the urge to eat. Look at how sad I am in this picture:
I’d been looking forward to a steak for the longest time, and my stomach decided to be a dick. Kill you stomach!
This was also the point in the evening when the alcohol was kicking in, and people started to clink their silverware on their glasses so that the missus and I would kiss. I believe that the Juniata College table, perhaps urged by The Yeti himself, nearly wore their silverware down to nubs clinking on glasses. At one point, I even had to slip both The Sciencette and The Yeti some tongue just to get some peace and quiet.
I guess it’s good that I wasn’t too hungry because we had to make our rounds to all of the tables anyway. We didn’t get to see everyone before the dancing started, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Well, everyone made their way back into the party room, and then we had to take care of a few more wedding things before the "white people dancing" started. The bridal party (why isn’t it ever the groomal party?) was introduced, and wifey and I had our first dance. I don’t know if I was nervous, tired, retarded, or all of the above because, for a long time, I basically forgot to move. That’s not too different from my usual level of dancing skill, but The Sciencette had to tell me to get moving. Regardless, I made it through the dance without hurting myself or anyone else, and then it was time for The Sciencette to dance with her dad The Engineer.
and then the DJ faded into “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” because The Engineer used to sing that to The Sciencette when she was just a little mumpkin.
And holy crap, then I had to dance with my mom to Wagon Wheel (uh YEAH, bluegrass!). She was crying because that’s what moms do, and then, without any warning, she yelled, “spin me.” I made a poor show of it, but at least she didn’t fall. Eventually, I think she even stopped crying and started to enjoy the old timey sound.
I know that Wagon Wheel isn't the most mother-son dance appropriate song out there, but give me a break. It was the only song I knew that said momma.
Then it was time to cut the wedding pie. I’ve written at length about the virtues of wedding pie over wedding cake, so I won’t go into them here. I will say, however, that apple pie with crumble-topping reversed my anti-hunger from dinner. I ate the hell out of that pie. I’m pretty glad I didn’t smash any in The Sciencette’s face too. Not because she would’ve divorced me right there, but because it would’ve been a waste of delicious dessert. Oh man, I wish I was eating that pie again…
That was basically it for the scheduled stuff. The Sciencette didn’t toss her bouquet, I didn’t toss any garters, and The Yeti didn’t toss Dr. Snail’s salad. It was time to dance (women) and drink (men).
Remember back in Chapter 2 when The Yeti said that whenever he and I are at a party, one of us is going to end up as the drunkest asshole there? Guess whose turn it was.
Now, all things considered, The Yeti didn’t get too drunk, but “too drunk” is a relative term. Sure, he probably had enough alcohol to put down your average moose, but what he lacks in genital size, he more than makes up for with his liver, which grew three sizes that day (Grinch-style). And let’s not forget that the Yeti was drunk enough to cajole Dr. Snail into singing some Johnny Cash for me and The Sciencette.
I can’t focus solely on The Yeti either. Every scientist in the place was three sheets (mmm, Sheetz) to the wind by the end of the night. Good, good for them!
I’m sure that I’ve forgotten a lot of stuff and missed even more while I was busy glad-handing the crowd, etc., but like I said, I spent most of the evening drinking water, being exhausted, and being happy to be married to my dearie. If you remember any other good bits though, hit up the Comments section below. Otherwise, stay tuned for Chapter 5 – Wedding Aftermath (dun-dun-dun!), only here on http://dryeti.blogspot.com.
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