The Difficulty I Had with Food at My Second First Wedding
Recent conversations with a couple of friends soon to marry (not each other) reminded me of this one…
My first wedding took place at the Alameda County Courthouse. This was with the Less Marvellous Spouse. We were going to just bring along two friends to witness and be in and out in fifteen minutes. Then the LMS made the tactical error of mentioning it to her mother. Next thing we knew, the wedding party included her parents, her brother, an uncle, a cousin, and suddenly it was this big thing. Geeze, we were just getting married. What’s the big deal?
To mollify the LMS’ mom, we had a second ceremony about five months later at their SoCal residence. The LMS’ parents invited what appeared to be everyone they had ever met in their entire lives. As uncomfortable as I am around people I know slightly, you can imagine how thrilled I was to be the centre of attention for hundreds of complete strangers.
I was at this time an even pickier eater than I am now. A childishly picky eater, I’ll admit. I liked peanut butter and I liked bologna. That was pretty much it. The LMS’ mother had been a cooking whirligig all weekend, and had commandeered the fridges of neighbours when her ran out of room. In all these fully crammed refrigerators there was to be found not a single morsel palatable to me. It was no big deal to me, though; I was used to being surrounded by food I didn’t want to eat. I said I’d be fine, I’d just order a pizza. Don’t worry none about me.
So, we had the wedding thing, even though we were already married. A lot of the people there didn’t seem hip to that fact, so we gave them their little spectacle. We stood in the back yard surrounded by a circle of friends and a crowd of strangers, and exchanged vows that later turned out to be surprisingly temporary, but hey, it sounded good at the time! After the ceremony, I was standing at the far end of the yard being introduced to some friend of the parents whom I would never meet again when somebody called from the house to tell me that the pizza was there. I started toward the house, but had to stop to meet somebody. I started off again, and suffered another introduction. It was that way all the way to the house, stopping every few feet, shaking hands like a City Council candidate. When I finally made it to the kitchen I was greeted by an empty pizza box with a few crumbs in it. my supper was gone.
Undaunted, I called for another pizza. I had friends there from out of town – paul, you might remember this, you were there. I chatted with them. Somehow I ended up in the back yard again. Somehow, I was again at the far end of the yard when the pizza arrived. Somehow, I was forbidden to stride unimpeded toward the siren call of the pizza. Somehow, the pizza had again been entirely consumed by the time I reached it.
“Hell with this,” thought I. This time I’ll pick up the pizza. I called and ordered a pizza for pickup. Somebody gave me a ride out to the pizza place – don’t remember who. I got my damn pizza. I ate my fill in the car on the way back. As we returned to the house, me stuffed with cheese and pepperoni, I had regained my jollity. I could be fooled once, sure; twice, I guess; but nobody was getting me a third time.
A moment later I noticed that the wedding cake had been eaten in my absence.
Strangely, none of this at the time seemed an ill omen for the marriage to come.
My first wedding took place at the Alameda County Courthouse. This was with the Less Marvellous Spouse. We were going to just bring along two friends to witness and be in and out in fifteen minutes. Then the LMS made the tactical error of mentioning it to her mother. Next thing we knew, the wedding party included her parents, her brother, an uncle, a cousin, and suddenly it was this big thing. Geeze, we were just getting married. What’s the big deal?
To mollify the LMS’ mom, we had a second ceremony about five months later at their SoCal residence. The LMS’ parents invited what appeared to be everyone they had ever met in their entire lives. As uncomfortable as I am around people I know slightly, you can imagine how thrilled I was to be the centre of attention for hundreds of complete strangers.
I was at this time an even pickier eater than I am now. A childishly picky eater, I’ll admit. I liked peanut butter and I liked bologna. That was pretty much it. The LMS’ mother had been a cooking whirligig all weekend, and had commandeered the fridges of neighbours when her ran out of room. In all these fully crammed refrigerators there was to be found not a single morsel palatable to me. It was no big deal to me, though; I was used to being surrounded by food I didn’t want to eat. I said I’d be fine, I’d just order a pizza. Don’t worry none about me.
So, we had the wedding thing, even though we were already married. A lot of the people there didn’t seem hip to that fact, so we gave them their little spectacle. We stood in the back yard surrounded by a circle of friends and a crowd of strangers, and exchanged vows that later turned out to be surprisingly temporary, but hey, it sounded good at the time! After the ceremony, I was standing at the far end of the yard being introduced to some friend of the parents whom I would never meet again when somebody called from the house to tell me that the pizza was there. I started toward the house, but had to stop to meet somebody. I started off again, and suffered another introduction. It was that way all the way to the house, stopping every few feet, shaking hands like a City Council candidate. When I finally made it to the kitchen I was greeted by an empty pizza box with a few crumbs in it. my supper was gone.
Undaunted, I called for another pizza. I had friends there from out of town – paul, you might remember this, you were there. I chatted with them. Somehow I ended up in the back yard again. Somehow, I was again at the far end of the yard when the pizza arrived. Somehow, I was forbidden to stride unimpeded toward the siren call of the pizza. Somehow, the pizza had again been entirely consumed by the time I reached it.
“Hell with this,” thought I. This time I’ll pick up the pizza. I called and ordered a pizza for pickup. Somebody gave me a ride out to the pizza place – don’t remember who. I got my damn pizza. I ate my fill in the car on the way back. As we returned to the house, me stuffed with cheese and pepperoni, I had regained my jollity. I could be fooled once, sure; twice, I guess; but nobody was getting me a third time.
A moment later I noticed that the wedding cake had been eaten in my absence.
Strangely, none of this at the time seemed an ill omen for the marriage to come.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 10:18 PM
3 Comments:
Oy! Now, I know you, in a cyberspace kind of way, and I reckon you're a fabulous husband to Mama Dog. Just the best. But I have to admit, if I had been LMS's mother, I would have thought, "Oy vey, what the hell is my daughter getting into?"
I do think nicking out for pizza on your wedding reception is, probably, not proper etiquette. Just a thought. But, there are worse wedding stories. For instance, at my big fat Jewish wedding (327 people!) there was a lot of Jewish dancing - the kind where the groom gets thrown up into the air and comes down and is lucky if someone catches him so he doesn't crack his head open (this has actually happened). But David DID have to run to the nearest port - in this case the kitchen - about four times to vomit. Turns out that throwing up and down stuff didn't make him feel too good at all.
Sorry, I neglected to identify myself in above post.
I don't actually remember the pizza incident, but I would have to check my records. I have a vague recollection of it being mentioned in the wedding one-shot. My food recollection of the event was having lox and bagels for the first time.
paul Anonymous
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