Brooding @ our big family wedding party, 6/29/2024

just when you think you're done being The Bride

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“I’m Dia’s cousin,” my eldest sister blurted out with mysterious confidence, introducing herself to one of Andrew’s 20 aunts who passed by our table. “Cousin????” My mom chortled mid-swig of merlot. “... and you guys say I’m the family drunk!” 

Jen had like, half a glass of prosecco before believing… or deciding… or more optimistically, none of the above… that we were cousins. But I committed to the bit that she was hammered, rendering such Freudian slips chill and normal and definitely not a sign that maybe she did not want to be my sister, at least for the day. That drive was brutal, after all; I’d demote me to cousin, too.

Jen brought her boyfriend, Steve: a retired cop from Staten Island whom I’ve met once in the 10 years they’ve been together. Similarly, she has only visited him once in Staten Island. They meet in the middle at his place in the Poconos.

“Where’s the soda?” Steve inquired brusquely. New Yawk was in. the. HOUSE.

“We have… flavored seltzer?” Andrew’s mom offered, embarrassed.

“I’ll just take a beer.” 

“There’s Peroni outside!”

Steve got himself a Peroni. My mom got one, too, and that became a whole thing. Going off about how we owned a bar, for pete’s sake, and she’d never even seen it anywhere around town! No Italian restaurant, nothin! Never heard of the stuff!

Meanwhile, I had another sister to tend to. Erica. Erica and her tiny baby, fresh out of the NICU, whom everyone was trying to get their hands on. Erica, who showed up in leggings, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and Vans. Erica, whose husband loves Hunter S. Thompson with the same fervor I love my idols; we discussed him at length while the kids ran my black standard poodle to death in the heat, and I was enamored of his romantic sense for bygone creative insanity. You know what he told me? That Hunter S. Thompson’s old bartender from Colorado is now a masseuse in Williamsport, home of the Little League World Series and just 35 minutes from Danville. I’m still dying to know where he learned that.

It was nice having my kind of conversation before getting stuck having everyone else’s kind of conversation all night. Their presence glued me to the earth as I flitted around in a crisp, white a-line dress and silver heels—the guest of honor! The Bride we’re all here for!

Step #1: Accept cash-stuffed cards with dopey, unassuming gratitude.

Step #2: Make Aperol spritzes for your family, none of whom have, again, ever heard of the stuff.

Step #3: Chat up the servers.

Yes, there were servers. My mother-in-law constructed one helluva fete for us newlyweds! A never-ending menu of prosciutto-wrapped dates stuffed with goat cheese and chicken kebabs and bloody mary shrimp and croissant sandwiches and Italian rainbow cookies and meatballs and more. So much more! My mom couldn’t even hide her jealousy; she has never been a homemaker (but she sure makes for a fun family drunk).

hydrangeas and me

I couldn’t even really get drunk myself because the production was unraveling. I spilt Aperol down my dress and, within five minutes, knocked a cup of bloody mary shrimp onto a pristine white table cloth. Club soda. Dish soap. Wifey ingenuity. Make sure people saw that. I kept running my hands along my head, slicking back my waxed ponytail, just in case a hair popped out of place.

I joked to Erica that I didn’t think our dad Eric was wearing deodorant. My nephew was sitting on the couch with us, a new victim of puberty and suntanned to the gods. He giggled to himself.

“Jaxon, did you put on deodorant today?” Erica asked, fake-stern with a knowing grin.

“I FORGOT!!!” He sniffed his 12-year-old armpit and doubled over laughing. 

Before I knew it, I was marching upstairs with three boys, offering up Andrew’s deodorant to anyone who stunk. And of course, time stopped to reinforce the indescribable blessing of being a trusted adult to kids, good kids. All kids are good but you know what I mean. I want them to trust me and love me and accept deodorant when I offer it. I want them to know that stinking is perfectly human and that Option B, refusing deodorant and continuing to laugh in our boring adult faces, is just as solid. You only get away with stinking for so long, might as well enjoy it while ya can. (Note to self: relay that message to dad.)

“I was raised catholic so I am, in fact, pro life,” my mom said matter-of-factly to Andrew’s grandma, out of thin air. They were just bonding over Dancing With the Stars. “Yeah, well, I don’t want my grandchildren to go back to 1965 when I had to ask my husband’s permission to get birth control,” grammy retorted. Andrew’s cousin Emily shot me a look and I shot her one back and it was like a secret handshake, a silent plan to diffuse the situation. “I’m really glad I’ve never had to make that decision,” Emily remarked. “Me too,” I agreed, “no clue how I’ve avoided it!” The tone in my voice let everyone know I have been having sex for probably too many years and probably not always safely and we all laughed and it was back to Dancing With the Stars. 

I won’t even bore you guys with how many people were on my ass about “getting started on those babies.” You know I’ve been pulling long hours at the Contemplating Kids Factory. But I entertained every push because all the women in Andrew’s family are gorgeous, and I feel obliged to meet the expectations of gorgeous women. Call it a fuckin character flaw. Call me a fuckin simp.

Now that I think about it, that probably explains why, four years ago, I cried my eyes out after meeting cousin Emily for the first time. She was gorgeous and smart in ways I’d never encountered in Danville, Pennsylvania or even really in Philadelphia. Emily is a neuroscience researcher who also makes political art that she shares around New York City in a very cool, very underground kinda way. I did not feel smart or cultured enough to talk to her then, but now I know better. Now I know that people can love you in all your podunk ignorance of the world at large.

And yet, the whole party, I felt a responsibility to act as a buffer between my Danville family and Andrew’s Princeton family. In therapy the following Monday morning, I explained my intense need to make sure no one is uncomfortable ever. And I worried that my family might feel out of place in that big old house, just like I did for a while. And then I worried that I was acting from a hideous place of ego—first, to assume anyone’s as insecure as me, and second, to think that I’m so gregarious and hospitable and reassuring that grown adults need me to steer their conversations. We’re gonna work on that.

My family probably stayed two, three hours before calling it a night. My nephews were tugging at my mom’s paisley green jumpsuit, begging to go back and swim at the hotel pool. My dad wanted to go back so he could “really drink.” The goodbyes weren’t awkward. Thank God.

Soon after, I changed out of my bridal look and into yoga pants and a tank top, threw my hair on top of my head. I’d felt fat all day and I decided that if I was going to continue feeling fat, I wanted to do so in my comfies. I think feeling fat is just something I’ve accepted as consonant with the bridal experience but that’s neither here nor there because now, it’s all over. Now, we have not only done The Thing, but celebrated it three months later with our loved ones. And the servers! Unbelievable. Everything is grand but it’s all so ordinary. Everyone wants to hold the baby, everyone blushes when they stink. My sister thinks I’m her cousin and I am married, hell yes, I am married… alllllll over again.