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March 18, 2006

Twice on Sundays

Happiness is a crap shoot where the odds get better the harder you throw the dice.

Hey, all! I've been horribly quiet lately - although some of you might see that as a good thing - because I've been in NYC all week in a FABULOUS hotel with wireless internet access that works like the Pony Express. Which means that sometimes it's unbelievably slow and sometimes it's just dead. I will try to get in my blog in this morning, God willing and the creek don't rise.

This week we're talking about brides, so I must confess. I think I am the only woman in America who, as a little girl, looked at a beautiful bride all in white with the flowing tresses and the flowing veil and the flowing EVERYTHING and thought, "Eh, I'd rather be golfing."

And don't even ask me how I feel about golf...

I'll admit. I'm a freak. And don't get me wrong. I love weddings. I love other people's weddings. I cry, I'm happy inside, I didn't have to plan anything. Not even the gift. As a guest, all I have to do is just go to the registry, point to a line and say, "Wrap it." As a matter of fact, the less I know the bride and groom, the more tentative and distant the relationship, the more I like the wedding.

Weddings are fun. As long as they aren't mine.

I had what, in my mind, is the perfect wedding.

MARCH 1998: Fish takes me to Niagara Falls, gets down on his knees, pops the question, and knocks me up. All in one night. Goooooo, Fish.

APRIL 1998: I pee on a stick. I freak out. I call Fish, who wants us to get married NOW. I quit my job. I pack my bags. I have a miscarriage. I get drunk. Fish still gets on a bus from Tucson, Arizona and rides it for three days to come get me in Syracuse, New York. He rode a greyhound for three days to come get me. To this day, the thought of that makes me all weepy with love for that man. Whatever about the household chores, that man is a one in a million.

MAY 1998: A Thursday afternoon, Tucson, Arizona. Fish turns to me. "So, I'm thinking, Vegas?" I smile. "Let's pack." Friday afternoon, we arrive in Vegas. Make some calls, play some blackjack. At 6 am on a Saturday morning, a limo arrives to take us to the Little White Wedding Chapel, where my best friend and her boyfriend meet us to be our witnesses. We exchange vows, are married before breakfast. We spend the day gambling. Fish does well in blackjack, I hit a couple nickel slot jackpots, and by the end of the weekend, our wedding is paid for. Which is not that big a deal, as the wedding was only about $500 including gas, but still. As broke as we were, that was pretty cool.

JULY 1998: I pee on another stick. Sweetness is on her way and all is well with the world.

Everytime we go to a big, elaborate, beautiful wedding with happy faces and an open bar, Fish always turns to me with a sad smile. For some reason, because he would have hated a big wedding with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns, he seems to think that the Vegas thing was all his doing. That I wanted a big to-do and he cheated me out of it because we were broke. What he doesn't realize is that, given the chance, I would do it exactly the same, every day of the week and twice on Sundays. What's important is not that every bride have a big elaborate wedding, but that every bride get exactly the wedding she wants, and my perfect wedding happened on an early May morning in 1998.

Smooches, Fish. I'll be home tonight.

This blog was brought to you by Un-Bridaled, Eileen's hilarious new novel about a commitment-phobic bride and love on the run!

Posted by Lani at 6:52 AM | Comments (6)

Comments

Posted by: Darla at March 18, 2006 9:24 AM

Posted by: Beth at March 18, 2006 2:07 PM

Posted by: Brenda at March 20, 2006 1:26 AM

Posted by: Eileen at March 21, 2006 2:43 PM

Posted by: Michelle C at March 22, 2006 4:58 AM

Posted by: Keris at March 29, 2006 8:27 AM