The Rehearsal Dinner

This took place on Friday night. It was a very "Mainah" meal with lobster, corn on the cob, and blueberry cake for dessert. Mmmmm, cake. Oh, and lots of that alcohol that had to be transported by pickup truck.

We had extended family and friends there of course, including one couple we call "Aunt and Uncle" even though they're not related by blood, because they've known my parents since before I was born. I know they had a good time, because I sat at the table with them. I just got Aunt Cindy's permission to talk about how drunk she was, with the stipulation that I use words like youthful, swingin', bright and witty, plus some of my own. OK. Let's see what I can do.

My hot, blonde Aunt Cindy was bright, witty, charming and fun at the rehearsal dinner. Also, she was drunk. There are a few stories that come up whenever I'm with her and Uncle Sugar Bear (who gets his nickname from the fact that he resembles the cartoon Sugar Bear mascot for the cereal formerly known as Sugar Puffs; I think they're Corn Puffs now, but I hope the Sugar Bear has kept his name because "Corn Bear" is dumb). The best stories get better with each telling, especially when alcohol has liberated the teller from the constraints of accuracy. One of these stories is about the time when I was only a few days old, which would make it right around Christmas. Sugar Bear was holding me against his shoulder (all together now: "Awwww") and I pooped right into his shirt pocket (all together now: "Ewwwww"). The part added to this rendering of the story by Aunt Cindy -- who is so youthful she still gets carded when she orders a drink -- was that the shirt was red and the poop was green, prompting my parents to change my name from Gertrude to Holly.

The other story they always tell is about the night they and my parents went out for a really fancy schmancy dinner -- $200-$400, and this is 30 years ago -- and got a bit sloshed. (Notice a pattern here?) I was with them, and I was only about 2, but I remember. At some point in the evening, either they decided it would be fun to put me in the water fountain, or I just climbed in and they thought it was too funny to stop me. However I got in there, the incident messed me up for years, because the idea lodged itself in my young brain that fountains were for swimming. (Note to readers over the age of two: They're not.)

Another feature of the night was Cindy's charitable effort to steer me in the direction of eligible young men. She'd point to one, ask me, "Is he single?" and if I answered yes, she'd start to push me toward him. Not at all awkward. We didn't get very far, though, partly because I resisted, and partly because -- in spite of her vast education, impeccable fashion sense and valiant efforts to end world hunger while rescuing homeless puppies -- she got guys mixed up when they were wearing similar shirts.

One aspect of the evening was years in the making. When Cindy and Sugar Bear's daughter was married in 2001, "My Girl" was one of the songs played, and my brother, J, started singing along. Mom and I were sitting near him at the table, so we joined in on the background vocals. Ever since then, Mom and I had the notion that J should sing that song to his bride when he got married, and we could back him up. When J got engaged, we started plotting in earnest. The wonder that is the home karaoke machine makes such things possible. Mom realized, though, that it would be hard to get enough mics for all three of us, so she came up with choreography instead. J sang his heart out and Mom and I did a hoedown, the Charleston, and Egyptian walks behind him. And that thing where you make Vs with your fingers and move them across your eyes -- we did that. J joined us on the bird flaps and the hula, and when the notes got too high he made a joke about needing tighter underwear. His bride, L, said she couldn't stop laughing, so I consider that a successful performance. Alas, our camcorder battery was dead, so our brilliance shall be lost forever in the mists of time and legend. You'll just have to use your imaginations (and you know you want to.)

No evening is complete unless you go from the party to a bar and then to another bar, so I went with the other twenty-and thirty-somethings into town after dinner. I think I may have a surprising ability to hold my liquor. Up till that point, I'd never had more than a couple of drinks in a day. But this night I had... let me count... 5 1/2 drinks, plus one Jello shot. They were all mostly juice, though, and they were really spread out over time and diluted with food and lots and lots of water. I don't think I was ever drunk, though I certainly loosened up a bit. I remember everything, I didn't do anything I wouldn't want to do sober, and I was fine in the morning (OK, I only had 4 hours sleep, so I was very tired, but nothing hangover-y). One of J's friends says that I have to drink hard every weekend for five years straight before I start getting hangovers. I don't know much about drinking, but I kinda think he might be lying to me.

My favorite part of this second half of the night was when J's college roommate launched into an extended demonstration of What Not to Do on a Dance Floor. He'd say, "Don't do this," and do something preposterous, then he'd say, "And never do this," and do something even more preposterous. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch where Kevin James is showing off his moves ("You use the Q-Tip, then you throw it away"). I wish I laughed so hard more often.

Those of us who were staying at the lodge got back late, maybe 1am, and raided the fridge. The others went to bed fairly quickly after that, but my brother and I went out on the deck and stayed up talking for a while. I couldn't seem to stop myself from being big-sister-y and giving advice about things I know nothing about, but it was still nice to hang out. I felt privileged to be the last one to talk to him before he went to bed on the night before his wedding. I was shivering from the cold, but I would have stayed up all night if he'd wanted to.