Weddings make me hurt so good

Before I even start, just know this: this weekend was crazier than I can possibly explain. Ok.

I was pretty much out of commission yesterday with a hangover that may well have been the worst I’ve ever had in my life. It was so bad I was dizzy, shaking and disoriented for a full twenty-four hours after my last sip of alcohol. My walking was unstable, my head pounded and my stomach churned non-stop, over and over and gurgle and bubble.

Needless to say, it was a hell of a weekend. My cousin Becca, who is super gorgeous and on whom I’ve had an inappropriate crush for about fifteen years, got married on Saturday in Wisconsin.

To make a real weekend of it, my two unmarried brothers and I left work a little early and headed up on Friday to the house of our other cousins who were waiting with a keg. That night, my brother Ed and my cousin Jake told me that my blog sucked. And I couldn’t have agreed more. Basically, they told me I write like a pansy, try to sound like “a blogger,” and generally act like a pussy bitch – when honestly, in real life, I’m more of a prick.

So right now, I’d like to say I hate that kind of writing: about half the blogs I read I find boring and self-centered and begging for compliments. And I’d like to say, to all those who write like that: shut up. Please, for God’s sake, your whining makes me want to kill myself. Turn it off. Shut your mouth. Get a pet goldfish and tell him about your body image issues, because no one else cares.

So we drank keg beer and played polish horseshoes (kickass game), where my cousins John and Broc ran the tables, because John was throwing the Frisbee overhand, and it came out upside-down and wobbly and fucking impossible to catch. After about ten games, I decided to try throwing that way too. I can throw pretty hard, so once I got the hang of it, it was pretty much unstoppable. Conveniently, just then it was “too dark,” and “we need to change the rules to maintain fairness,” and I was feeling a bit “you guys are such duplicitous pussies.” But then I drank some more and the people from the rehearsal dinner showed up (10, 11pm?), so I was distracted.

We finished the keg, told everyone we were going to go to a bar and then watched them pile into their cars. After about fifteen minutes, they got tired of waiting and took off, which was fine with us, because there was a liquor cabinet to empty before Aunt Jeannie moved to Texas. We broke out the scotch and sat around the fire until it was ready to be urinated and hosed into a pile of wet ash, and then headed to the basement, except for my brother Peter who decided to sleep in the car. The cement floor didn’t bother me much as I slept, but the bottle of vodka that Jake tipped over, soaking my sleeping bag and waking me up in a horror that I had pissed myself wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.

Saturday dawned gorgeous. (yes, that is grammatically correct.) Small breakfast, off to Holy Hill for the 1:30 Mass. We stood outside the big church doors waiting for the parents to get there, looking out at the miles of countryside below us, smoking cigarettes in suits and sunglasses and talking about how waiting outside made us look like a receiving line, or maybe like ushers. And then we went in, sat down, prayed and waited.

I am a huge bitch at weddings. I well up usually four or five times and sometimes actually get tears running down my face. What a pussy. On Saturday, I think it was four times: once each during the first reading and the Gospel, once when the groom was saying his vows, and one time randomly later in the Mass, when I was either despairing of getting married myself or thinking about an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

And then it was on to the reception. Holy hell, what a party. I don’t even know where to start.

Put it this way: within one hour of the guests arriving, the bar had sent away for and were bringing in a case full of twelve new handles of gin. This family loves their G&Ts. The hors d’oeuvres, most of them having been created by my mom, were delicious.

The reception was at the home of the bride’s parents, a huge white tent filling up their back yard, which conveniently abuts a golf course. Earlier that day, we had stopped for posterboard, marker and a bottle of Jameson (party essentials), and then right around dinner, had a 32-man closest-to-the-pin tournament. I don’t even remember whether it was before or after dinner. I think it was after. Wow, it was a crazy party.

At dinner, Jake had saved me a seat with a bunch of young good-looking folks that he didn’t know, but I had met before – friends of the bride and of my sister. At that dinner, I remembered why Jake and I had been so popular in college – why our parties were always the ones that everyone talked about. When we’re hanging out together with other people at a party, it’s just a show. We straight-up dominated that meal: girls choking with laughter, guys either toasting and cheering or else looking uncomfortable because Jake was making fun of them. By the time we left the table, I think we’d been invited to three different homes around the country “whenever you feel like dropping in,” we'd appointed a “designated drunk driver,” and Jake had shouted with glee “he has a blog!” before I made fun of him for his inability to grow facial hair.

At each toast, Jake prided himself on bellowing “cheers!” before anyone else. I tried to sneak in a “hear hear!” by basically spending the entire toast muttering it over and over “hear hear hear hear hear hear hearhearhearhear,” at which one girl sprayed champagne between her fingers, which made me laugh. Of course, right then, the toast ended, and Jake sprang in with an enthusiastic “Cheers! Haha! In your face!” which I think confused some of the other tables.

When dusk started to fall (not until late, thank you June 21st), someone started handing out glow-in-the-dark bracelets for the kids, which some of them stuck together to make necklaces and a variety of other jewelry. I grabbed one, of course, filled up my pitcher of beer (yes, pitcher) and started heading out with everyone else to the golf course to see the fireworks. Yes, full-size fireworks, just for the party. Unbelievably gorgeous.

And then, right as the fireworks were finishing, Uncle Mike (the bride’s dad), who had apparently been organizing the whole while, screamed the charge and all the kids went sprinting off down the fairway. This was seriously one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen: seventy, eighty kids, all bedecked in glow-in-the-dark jewelry, screaming in a clustered line into the gloaming. And then when they came running back, it was actually a little bit frightening, like a horde of screeching alien attackers.

And then Uncle Mike yelled for “Everyone! Let’s go!” and we were off, sprinting over the even grass with beer sloshing around the edges of the pitcher in my right hand and the red glow of my bracelet on my left.

The party devolved from there. “The dance floor is now open!” was soon followed by “the dance floor is now open and I am making a fool of myself out there.” I danced feverishly. I danced well, poorly, I danced like Casanova and I danced like an asshole – like no one was watching and like everyone was watching. I grabbed girls from cousins to strangers, from young to old. Actually, not old – I don’t like dancing with old people. I think the oldest person I danced with was like 26.

I love weddings. Obvious, right? No, I fucking love weddings more than life.

They’re just the ideal party. The perfect balance of old friends and new, attractive ones. Family that you see every day with family you haven’t seen in forever. Families are joined! You have new relatives! Some of them are probably cute girls! I’m sorry, could it get any better? Oh yeah! It could – everyone’s drinking champagne!

The next day, Sunday, we made it out to the 12:30 Mass back at Holy Hill and then stopped at Asiankp’s house, where we met her lovely short parents and took advantage of their hospitality, drinking a beer or three and playing bags in the backyard. When the thunderstorms started up, we said goodbye and thank you to Wisconsin and Wisconsonians, and headed back toward Chicago. But not home. Not yet.

Instead, we went out to my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lombard to have dinner with Grammy and another uncle and two aunts. That was a pretty uproarious dinner too. Everyone was still winding down from the weekend, and the wine was good and copious. Highlights included my mom calling my sister “you bitch!” to the horrified gasps of my aunt and I think my dad, and my overenthusiastic use of the phrase “elbow-deep in blood!” to describe my experience gutting a deer.

I got home Sunday night exhausted and dehydrated to the point of pissing caramel. My legs and ass were sore from dancing, my forearms were extremely sore from I don’t know what. My sunglasses are gone, as is one pair of my shoes. It was a hell of a Monday. But worth it, 100% worth it. Hoo-boy.


Not in this issue:
My cousin Jake plays wingman for me on a girl that is married.
The fucking Cubbies
I don't wash my hands in the port-a-potty, then handle hors d'oeuvres.
My mom is called out to the dance as "my favorite aunt" to dance to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.