“So how many times have you been married again?” or
“So which marriage are you talking about now Zsa Zsa?”
The first time I was married it was to the father of my five children and the second (and last) time, to Scotto.
I was never going to be a ‘Bridezilla’ type and I put this down to a deep-seated laziness for finer detail. A ‘half-assed approach’ has been the catch-cry of pretty much everything I’ve attempted and coming second place is the story of my life.
Planning my first wedding was fairly relaxed as at the time I was working as a sales executive at a four star hotel that just so happened to be a particularly popular wedding reception venue.
I was also good mates with the banquet manager… discount!... and I’d even invited my boss the General Manager so I just knew the service would be impeccable.
Everything went gradually pear-shaped in the lead up to the big day.
My mother went on a shopping spree and bought two ‘Mother of the Bride’ dresses for me to inspect and then vote on my favourite.
One dress was black lace and the other was a pale cream lace number. Not wanting her to front up to my wedding looking like she was attending a funeral I selected the cream. Snap! Wouldn’t you know it…I too was wearing an off-white lace dress.
Why did this abjuration of wedding protocol not faze me?
Well... predominantly because I fell pregnant with Thaddeus four weeks before the wedding and was too nauseous with morning sickness and generally apathetic to care one iota.
The day of the wedding arrived and the black clouds overhead augured a miserable day.
The female portion of the wedding party spent the morning at the hairdressers being primped and preened whilst guzzling Champagne. All except for the fractious and pallid bride who was up the duff and wasn’t allowed alcohol.
Sitting in the car on the way home to get dressed, I listened quietly to my sister Sam, bitterly carping on about the bouffant style hairdo the hairdresser had inflicted on her.
When I had first asked Sam to be my bridesmaid she joked,
“I will… as long as you don’t force me to wear pink taffeta.”
As an aficionado of the colour pink, I had chosen a hot magenta, taffeta bridesmaid’s gown for her. Sam was a tad peevish about this flagrant abuse of trust and the beehive coiffure did nothing to lift her defrauded frame of mind.
After donning the hastily bought (first one I had tried on) bridal gown in the sticky, humid, February weather and emerging from the bedroom; I heard the shower running. It was my sister Sam, in the shower washing her hair.
Too queasy to care and sensing an impending migraine, I went to phone the incompetent florist who had taken the flowers to the wrong hotel.
We finally arrived at the church and as I followed my sister down the aisle I perused her noticeably wet hair. The trickle of water down the nape of her neck gave me something to focus on whilst trying my hardest not to vomit on the congregation.
Managing not to faint during the ceremony was a massive relief then it was on to the reception where everyone, bar the bride, was encouraged to eat drink and be merry.
My dear old Dad put the icing on the proverbial cake when he gave his ‘Father of the Bride’ speech. Always the perennial comedian he complimented and thanked the waiters at our reception for doing a wonderful job.
“And I don’t think they get paid much either,” he quipped merrily, “I saw them all out the back sharing a cigarette a few moments ago.”
The look on my General Manager’s face was priceless.