Thursday, August 26, 2010

You Don’t Bring Sand When You’re Going to the Beach

Well, The Great Wedding went off without a hitch and Domestic Son is now married.  Ms. Fiancee is now Mrs. Domestic Son and the Instant Grands are now officially Grand One and Grand Two.  While we were back in the US for the spectacle that is a typical Southern wedding, I pulled Charming Daughter and Small Son aside for a little tete-a-tete.

Please reassure me, my two remaining single children, that neither of you have any nuptials in the works in the near future, because I need at least five years to recuperate.  Mom is exhausted and Dad’s wallet is empty.  Small Son’s answer was immediate and affirmative and music to my ears.  He looked horrified that I had even asked.  Oh, good boy, Small Son.

Charming Daughter was a little more hesitant.  Oh, oh.  I suspect I may not have five years with that one.  Need to begin immediately on replenishing the coffers and by that I mean Mr. Big needs to begin immediately on replenishing the coffers.  Mr. Big, put that beer down and get back to work.  I don’t care if it is Sunday.  No rest for the weary for our Mr. Big.  Bless his heart.

The cheese was a big hit, y’all, as were the roofing tiles filled with sunflowers and lavender.  It was quite a feat, arranging seating for 120 inside our home, but we did it.  We really didn’t have a choice, because INSIDE is where the air conditioning is located. 

That would have been cruel and unusual punishment to make the guests eat a 2-hour multi-course meal outside on a Saturday in August in South Carolina.  I would have had to had the ambulances idling in the driveway on stand-by for all the heatstroke victims.

So, we cleared out four of the rooms and hid all of the furniture upstairs.  The dining chairs spent the weekend in Small Son’s bedroom.  You do what you must do.  Domestic Son’s twelve, yes, that is correct, twelve, groomsmen really threw me a lifeline.  I had arranged 15 round tables with no problem.  It was the 16th table that was giving me fits. 

There was, literally, no room left and no matter where I tried to squish that last table, it was messing up all of the other seating arrangements.  Like trying to squeeze a size 12 body into a size 4 dress, you know?  No matter where you suck it in and tuck it in, the extra bits have to pop out somewhere.

I sat Domestic Son down three days before the wedding and told him we were going to go over the guest list person by person and see if he knew of anybody who was NOT coming.  When we got to the list of his groomsmen, I hit the jackpot.  Turns out 8 out of 12 of those boys were not bringing their dates.  Really?  So sorry to hear that, not!  Goodbye, table number 16.  Quick, somebody roll it on out of here and stick it in the garage.

The next day after the rehearsal dinner when all of the groomsmen were gathering on our porch in their tuxedos getting ready to go to the ceremony, I asked Groomsman Number Nine why none of them brought dates.  “Why, Mizz Trailing Spouse,” he drawls, “you don’t bring sand when you’re going to the beach.”

Ah, I get it.  Apparently, in the Land of Twenty-Somethings, weddings are the hottest pick-up scenes going and the rumor mill had it that Domestic Son’s wedding was shaping up to be Malibu, Venice Beach and Miami combined.  These boys had their buckets and shovels at the ready.  Don’t know how it worked out for them, but I do know that all 12 of the bridesmaids had come with husbands or boyfriends so not too much opportunity for building sandcastles there.

One last thing and then I’ll shut up about the wedding.  Grand Two is only four years old.  He was not real clear on exactly who was getting married to whom.  He thought it was his wedding and that he was getting married to his sister, Grand One.  He even asked me if I was coming to his wedding.  I told him it was looking pretty good for my attendance.

All he knew for sure was that he was going to get to wear his Handsome Suit.  He was highly indignant that he had to leave his Handsome Suit behind at the tuxedo store after his last fitting.  Why can’t I take my Handsome Suit?  Finally, the official weekend arrived and he was now in possession of the HS.  Of course, he wanted to put it on on Thursday night and wear it continuously through until it had to be returned on Monday.  His mother was sick of hearing about the Handsome Suit.

Saturday comes and we tell Grand Two that the glorious day has finally arrived to wear the Handsome Suit.  You all know where this is going, don’t you?   First of all, the only person at our house who was dressed and ready to go ahead of time was our own ever-punctual Mr. Big.  Therefore, it fell to Pops to put the child in his Handsome Suit because all of the rest of us were still getting in our own Handsome Attire.  Now, Pops has long forgotten what it is like to dress a small, fidgety person.  The actual donning of the Handsome Suit and all its’ inherent pieces and parts took soooo long that the novelty had long worn off by the time it came to the Handsome Jacket.  By jacket time, Grand Two had figured out a few things.

Hey, this Handsome Suit is hot.  These shiny shoes are pinching me.  This vest thing is poking me right in the back.  I can’t breathe.   Why isn’t anybody listening to me?

The bride’s mother and I spent a good portion of the reception following Grand Two around picking up pieces of the Handsome Suit that he was discarding hither and yon.  Do you have the bow tie?  No, I have the vest and one shoe.  Do you see his cuff links?  I found one in the pocket with the hankie.  Does he still have the pants on at least?  I don’t know.  Go pull him out from under the cake table and check.

I haven’t broken the news to the newlyweds that their son thinks he is now married to their daughter.  That is something that they can work out with his therapist at a much later date.

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