In Part I, I intimated that I could use this space to tell you about how I got married to the Hawk and everything that happened before and after. Then I got a bit shy about plastering my mug all over the joint, and figured that you'd probably already caught the pictures over at Lillian and Leonard, so...I stalled. But now I'm strapping one on to share my own special brand of negativity and self-loathing because WPM wouldn't be the same without it. I warn the tender-hearted that there will be a lot of swearing in the next few posts. Weddings will do that to a girl.
6am, wedding day.
Inside P's head: Maybe if I sleep longer the programs will get printed.
30 minutes later.
Inside P's head: Funny, those programs still aren't printed.
15 minutes later.
Inside P's head: Now WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH did I decide to buy a kit to print my own programs THAT WON'T WORK ON ANYONE'S HOME PRINTER?
10 minutes later.
Inside of P's head: Fucking programs. Fucking DIY. I fucking hate these fucking programs.
5 minutes later, on phone with Matron of Honor (aka Blessed Saint).
P: JESUS H. I CAN"T PRINT THESE MOTHERFUCKERS. FUCK THE PROGRAMS! FUCK THEM!
MoH: Meet me at my house.
MoH takes charge in a big way. Goes to FIVE different printers to see if she can get these miserable scraps of paper that I lovingly designed printed. Shoves me in the direction of a Korean nail salon, where I get a quick-and-dirty manicure and pedicure and arrive to find my hair stylist kicking back with my dad. The rest of my girls arrive at the wedding sweat shop and get to work assembling the Godforsaken programs.
We have a ribbon crisis. I call my dear friend Liz (aka Blessed Martyr) for reinforcements. I tie programs while my hair grows higher and higher.
Somewhere in there, I slap on some war paint. So does my niece, Muffin. Hers turns out better than mine.
We finish the programs 45 minutes before the ceremony starts. Not a minute to spare.
Meanwhile, my parents fret. My father is positively morose, obsessing about his morning dress.
He can't find his gloves! His vest is missing! I banish him to another room.
My mother is worrying her hair, which has undergone no less than five hours of coiffing at the salon in the last 24 hours.
They are nervous wrecks. I am of course the picture of serenity, swearing under my breath while I shove cash haphazardly into envelopes for our vendors.
We are now late. I jump into my dress.
My hair is not done. We forget to take the veil into consideration and it's not really jiving with my Gibson Girl/John Singer Sargent/Brigitte Bardot updo. We jam it into my hair anyway and hope for the best.
I realize that my veil is a major pain in the ass, even though it's beautiful and theatrical and the opposite of a birdcage.
Finally, we're in the elevator, the car is waiting, and we're good to go.
In the car, I think about Fauxhawk. Instead of loving, pre-nuptial thoughts, I imagine him having leisurely fun with Loverboy and his friends, drinking seltzer (his adult beverage of choice) and man-hugging it up. This line of thinking makes me increasingly hostile, so I switch to worrying about the fact that we will arrive at the cathedral fifteen minutes late.
Then I wonder if Fauxhawk will like my dress and if he will recognize me without my lesbian boots and if he has brushed his hair (or shaved) for the occasion. I wonder if he is as nervous as I am, if he's excited, if he is thinking to himself
This is the end of something good and the start of something great.
Because I am.
(Next up: In Which Fauxhawk Becomes an Honorary Greek.)