By Grouchyguy

(Some of the names have been changed to protect us from people we know)

As I get older, I find that there are a few inescapable facts of life, namely death, taxes and bad weddings. Wedding ceremonies are generally events to be endured, but occasionally you find yourselves in one that is unendurable. My wife Frenchy and I found ourselves at such an affair recently.

Harry, one of Frenchy's colleagues at work, had finally decided after a decade-and-a-half to take the plunge with Bridget. Over the years, their relationship has seen infidelity, mental breakdowns, theatrical suicide attempts and every syndrome ever featured on Sally, Ricki, Jenny or Maury, yet they managed to stick together. Codependence is a wonderful thing. He bought her a rock. He made all the plans. She designed the invite. We placed bets over whether it was really going to happen.

Time passed. It got closer and closer to the wedding, and we had not received an invitation. I was prepared to rejoice, for the Angel of Death had passed over our humble home, but there was to be no joy. The invite fell through the mail slot in the door. "Can't we blow it off?" I begged, but there was to be no rudeness on our part, because Frenchy worked with Harry, and she dreaded the questions of "Why won't you come?" So we were going.

The day came. The couple had picked out a little church, hours out of anybody's way so that a frail, old relative of the bride could attend. We rented a car, and I called up maps from the Internet, which was my first mistake. With a blind faith in the technology that provided the maps, and a terrible sense of direction, we embarked on our ill fated journey. Needless to say, we got lost and arrived late for the wedding. We caught the end of this hour + ceremony for which, I guess, we should be grateful. We missed some of the highlights, which included children being pulled down the aisle in a decorated Radio Flyer and Bridget reading a three page declaration of love that was somewhat akin to the UNAbomber's manifesto. We got there just prior to communion so we got to see the party's slow procession out of the church, made slower by the clod photographer's desire to capture the moment. Outside of the church, the attendees ran the gauntlet of the wedding party, greeting this one or that one, whose name would be immediately forgotten. Frenchy and I inched our way down to the Bride and Groom. A tuxedoed Harry, who looked liked the shabby waiter he is, did the polite thing by shaking my hand and thanking me for coming. Bridget, who looked like a fatted piglet in 15 yards of virginal white bridal silk did what she usually does and ignored me. We had driven for hours with gift in hand, and the little troll ignores me. I figured as much would happen. I was angry, but I swallowed it; muttered words of congratulations and got out of the way.

Frenchy, I and the rest of the lost souls who have the distinct pleasure of working with Harry made our way to a bar in a Howard Johnson's. We discussed what we missed and did a few medicinal shots that all agreed would be necessary to face the next act of this tragedy. That's where we found out about the bridal manifesto and the top 12 (not 10) reasons why Bridget loves Harry, which was a sickeningly sweet mixture of Hallmark cards and Bread albums. Having imbibed some liquid courage we made our way down the strip mall lined streets to the catering hall.

The hall was what is to be expected of such establishments in New Jersey -- taste and fine dining were the farthest things from the owner's mind. We were situated in a large room with long curtained windows offering a view of a parking lot or a highway. Large, ornate, brass chandeliers descended from the drop ceiling. The wallpaper was purple bruise colored flowers painted for The Night Gallery. (I think a lot of the wallpaper because that is what I was forced to stare at for most of this blessed event.) The long bridal table was along a lengthy mirrored wall behind a centrally located rectangle of linoleum which served as the dance floor. The three-tiered wedding cake stood on this dance floor in front of the bride and groom. It was a white cake, decorated with colorful dots, in keeping with the ceremony's overall "design". Beneath the cake a small plastic fountain bubbled and gurgled. Adding to the effect was some of Bridget's decorations, which she designed herself. They included pink polka-dotted mailing tubes with white spray painted tree branches rising from them; cutesy napkin holders and place cards, and center pieces that looked like a lunatic's drowned victory garden. All I can think is it was like Tiki meeting Holly Hobbie badly. The wait staff, if you could call them that, consisted of three old hags, one of whom looked exactly like Kenneth Tobey from the original "The Thing"; an inept bartender who asked if you wanted cheap white wine on the rocks (the wine was never chilled); and a tall, Lurch-like ringmaster who spent the night ducking in and out of the kitchen making sure nobody had caught Mad Cow Disease. We were seated at an Island of Misfit Toys table with some of Frenchy's coworkers and a cheerful couple from Guatemala. I wanted to leave almost immediately.

We waited for what seemed like ages for the bride and groom to make their grand entrance. Apparently they were out having pictures taken in the final rays of the setting sun. We spent the time drinking and nibbling on some of their fancy hors d'oeuvres like pigs- in- the- blanket, hot pockets and Swedish meatballs, which all tasted like papier mache. Frenchy stuck to club soda, being our ride back to civilization. Finally the party arrived, as announced by the D.J., with all of his "wish I had a radio gig" alacrity. They entered to "The Theme of Love" by the Love Unlimited Orchestra. First the children, then the jailbait flower girls, and then the magenta- clad bridesmaids and the earnest "We're doing it for Harry!" groomsmen, and finally the bride and groom. He wore a goofy, embarrassed smile and she beamed like a made-up, manic, mental patient that the thorazine could not contain. She was fully enjoying her brief moment in the limelight. "Everyone is paying attention to me! I am the prettiest bride in the whole, wide world!" They immediately danced their first dance, which was a typically tacky tune titled Island of Love. It sounded like Jon Anderson of Yes was singing, so I figured Harry requested it, but I thought differently when I noticed Bridget mouthing the words. She looked like a teenaged girl professing love to an invisible paramour with the accompaniment of a scratchy 45 in the safety of a teen bedroom. She tends to open her mouth widely when she talks. She was mouthing the song's lyrics in the same manner. It looked vaguely obscene. So they danced their dance. Then the earnest groomsmen and the magenta cows danced. Flashbulbs flashed. The obtrusive asshole with the video camera swung his enormous wheeled tripod around, capturing that moment for "posterity" on magnetic tape. After a couple of songs, all sat waiting for the grub that the ex-cons and wetbacks had slaved over in the kitchen.

The food was utterably forgettable army rations, which took forever to reach the table. There was a number of pitiable courses, each more overcooked and tasteless than the last. The index course arrived around ninish. The wedding had started at three. The reception at five. I got a feeling some of this slop had been cooking for that long. Frenchy had chicken. I had some kind of meat. In between these rubbery courses, Frenchy's cohorts went out into the parking lot several times to do drugs. I couldn't blame them at all. They were trying to get blotto while the rest of us feasted on boredom. I was going to get blind, stinking drunk, but I nixed the idea when I remembered that I was the navigator for the trip home.

The evening's sluggish passage eroded my sense of etiquette. I had asked Frenchy several times if we could leave, but she would have none of it. Due to years of Catholic school indoctrination, she thought it proper to stay until the cutting of the cake. It was a losing battle. I could sense her squirming when the plates were cleared and people started to hobble about the dance floor to "Celebration" which all wedding DJ's are contractually obligated to play. Her mind changed when one of the young flower girls, who had been hyperactively running around the floor, twirling the crinoline of her white dress like a deranged can-can dancer was handed a microphone to lip sing a Spice Girls tune for the newlyweds. "It will be eleven o'clock before they cut that fucking cake!" Frenchy said in my ear. "We're going." When Frenchy's had it, she has had it! We got up and slipped out without a goodbye. No one noticed. They were all too busy trying to dance to Rick James' "Super Freak".

On the way out we saw the crew from work doing still more drugs. They begged us to stay to party with them. They had a hotel room and were going to make a night of it. We turned them down and bid them fond farewells. We burnt rubber out of the parking lot.

We drove the long black ribbon of Route 70 home. First there was utter blackness, then there were endless strip malls. Finally we caught sight of the welcome spires of the City of Brotherly Love. We got home a little after eleven.

...and if you think that's bad, you should hear about their honeymoon...