Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Oli's bridal shower was a handful of Saturdays ago.

Mine and Oli's lack of "the dream" of a perfect wedding extends to the typical bridal shower. We don't dream about those, either. In fact for the most part, we find them rather boring.

Typical bridal shower = finger foods, non-alcoholic drinks, loads of tissue paper and silly games. Throw in presents, wrapping paper monogrammed with champagne glasses, a lot of "oohs" and "aahs" and you have exactly what we've been trying to avoid for the better part of our natural lives.

Sure, some people will tell you that it's a big cash wagon, getting that pile of gifts and all, but then we're not about that.

What irks us is the gigantic division of sexes in wedding duties. We really don't care that boys have higher tolerance to alcohol or get to pee standing up, but we find it incredibly unfair that they do get wild, rambunctious bachelor parties while girls play Toilet Paper Bride.

So imagine my great shock and utter surprise when I found myself actually wanting to throw one of these things for my darling sister. I mean, you only get married once, right? Why not immerse her in that domestic quagmire of doilies, frills and pink bridal goodness?

With some amendments, that is. First: no games and/or stupidities. Absolutely, undeniably none. No toilet paper bride, no bingo, no penis pasta and definitely no "don't cross your legs or you lose the prize" jazz.

Second: no pink. Pink sucks. Luckily, Oli & Corey had just booked their honeymoon in fabulous Hawaii, and so a tiki theme seemed to fit the bill.

And third: be as normal as humanely possible, for the sake of ourselves and all guests. In the face of such events where it's just so easy to get carried away with cuteness, normalcy can be a blessing.

Thus, a carload of us, close to the bride that is, packed into mumsy's car for the three hour drive south to Corey's hometown. Besides moms and me there was Vicki, Salome and Raj. While Raj is in possession of male plumbing, he gets free tickets to all girl events. We just can't imagine doing something like this without him.

City meets Country, Sign #1: pulling into a country gas station, getting out to stretch your legs and noticing that not only are you in the middle of a gynormous field, but that every single eye is fixated on you and yours.

Vicki leaned over to me and said, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," and even though I laughed I could see her point exactly. In the sea of Dockers and company logo golf shirts was me, all Punk Royal and Middle Eastern silver; Vicki in solid black with Dior accessories and ballerina slippers; the gypsy princess that was Salome, and splendid Raj, bedecked from head to toe in D&G. Definitely not your standard, small town attire.

City meets Country, Sign #2: instead of appreciating the extra long sprawls of green lawns, you discuss property taxes and guesstimate the annual amount of hours wasted on lawn-mowage.

City meets Country, Sign #3: tottering around drunkenly, double fisting bucket pina colada mix while posing for silly pictures on the pool table with your bestest friends in the world.

Okay okay, I hate bridal showers, but this one wasn't half bad. In fact, it was pretty fun, mostly because it was for my sister. Part of me never thought I'd see her like that, in the seat of honour, opening gift after gift. Not that she has such bad luck with men or isn't the marrying kind, but just because I'd gotten so used to her flying solo. My sister is a superhero, she is, but when the time is right, it's right.

Her time is right, and I'm glad. I was also glad she liked my gift, the Mario Batali matching pot and lasagna pan. I'm a huge Mario fan and know quality when I see it, despite the fact that together, the pot and pan must weigh at least 30lbs. Very unpractical to drag all the way to the country only to bring it back again. Instead, I took a picture of Blue posing his ass off beside them, slipped the photo in an Italian cookbook and brought that instead. My arms thanked me.

I'm also glad Oli got her share of funny stuff, like the studded collar and leash from one of Corey's cousins, and pink undies with "Fell in love with Couture" written across the ass. From Raj, naturally.

All in all, a good party. Definitely made better by the absence of games. Definitely made better by the text messages pouring into my cell phone throughout the day.

Sandy was on the other end. Naturally I'd been texting back, running to and fro from the guest bedroom, where my purse + phone and all other belongings where, and then back again to the hub of the festivities. Little messages here and there that made me smile, because I knew he was thinking about me.

That was a good thing. I was thinking about him, too.

Our fractured conversation picked up a bit during the long ride back home.

Him: SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?

Me: MOST LIKELY WRITING. I'M REALLY BEHIND.

Him: OKAY. I WON'T BOTHER YOU THEN.

Not being totally clueless, this is the part where the lightbulb over my head switched on.

Me: WELLLL, I CAN BE PERSUADED. WHAT'S UP?

Him: WANT TO GET TOGETHER?

Me: TONIGHT?

Him: YEAH TONIGHT.

Me: OKAY. I'LL BE HOME LATE, THOUGH. AROUND 10 GOOD?

Him: IT'S A DEAL.

After 14 years and some change, I was going to see Sandy again.