Oli gets Married, Chapter 2

The Friday before my sister's wedding I did have off. I woke up, I fretted, and then set about my scheduled activities that would help make the next day possible. Not hard to guess what some of those could be.

Point of Order #1: Primp. Men are heinously lucky in that their marital grooming is on the down low. Shower, shave, gel, amen. We girls not only have to go the mile looking *fabulous* in all elements but worst of all, primping usually has to start days before.

I'm not one to sit in the stylist's chair and be happy about it. I get antsy being confined for that long. Who on earth could sit still for hours when it's a gorgeous day outside?

Anyway, Lancey Pantsy had already dyed my hair the week prior, so that was a no brainer. Hands and feet, now those were the first memo for that morning. Why wait until the day before the wedding to do some nails, you may ask? To reduce chippage, of course. If you're ballsy enough to go the French mani pedi route, those prim white lines don't last terribly long, unless you have a French maid tending your every whim and selfish desire.

We don't have maids. And thus my sister, my self, our mother, the mother of the groom, the sister of the groom and Vicki, extra bridesmaid, traipsed down to the spa for a group nail session. With wine, crudites, rosemary crispbread and dip. I still think the quiche would have been better.

Oli did the French thing, I did the mauve thing, moms did the pinky nude thing. All was going splendidly well until moms smudged a finger and had to have it redone. Then I smudged a toe. Then Oli scratched up her entire right hand. Are we related, or what? Maybe not being girly girls is imbedded in our genes.

Point of Order #2: Deliverables. These were the props that had to be taken to the brewery the day before, in order to make the whole shebang a most glittering affair. Candles, amenities baskets for the bathrooms, centrepiece vases, and these strange, rectangular columns that Oli found at a Mango store sell-off. She thought they would look nice during the ceremony with some flowers on top. Whatever you say, sis. The wedding planner found a cart, and we thudded the whole lot into the brewery with all the style and panache of the city's finest homeless.

Point of Order #3: Rehearsal. A rehearsal is about as fun as cutting grass with miniature scissors. By hand. Nah, it's not that bad, it's just... teasingly dull. It's kind of like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey's nose that you know he'll never get. Here, let's pretend it's your wedding, but it's not actually. Walk down the aisle in your street clothes with everyone staring at you, but you’re NOT getting married. See what I mean?

The dull part is the walking. Back and forth, up and down, count your steps and smile for the crowd that isn't there. Oyvey.

Point of Order #4: Rehearsal Dinner. Ah yes, the simmering boil of the evening, akin to life altering experiences like inhaling gaseous fumes, or wrapping your car around a tree.

Again, I digress. As you well remember, I was in charge of rehearsal dinner. The whole thing. My teeny loft-concept space would play host to, oyvey again, 20 folk feasting on my lasagna, salads, dessert and spirits. Spirits as in alcohol, but really, that whole fucking night drained my spirit anyway.

First, the clan showed up an hour early. An hour, I tell you. The whole 60 minutes that I super badly needed to thaw out the pre-made freezer bound lasagnas, which had to be baked right from arctic state. One was in my oven and one was around the corner in Oli's townhouse, which in the end took a total of no less than three hours to finish.

You read right: three hours, during which time all those people languished in cramped body heat exhaustion, having third helpings of salad and scraping clean the dip bowls with crackers and tortilla chips.

Where was I during all this? Running to and fro burning my hands through the crappy oven mitts, clucking more than any paranoid mother, slicing through layers of icy cheese and solidified sauce with Corey, escaping every now and then to call Sandy and whine.

He: “How’s it going?”

Me: “It’s not worrrrrrrkinnnnnng…”

He: “Come on, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

Me: “It’s awfulllllll… Everyone hates meeeeeeeee…”

And etc.

By the time the lasagna was *finally* ready and *finally* served, everyone got their slices, devoured them with the gluttony of malnourished livestock, and left.

Normally I would be insulted if guests ate and ran, but in this case, sanctimonious relief. I had a lot of cleaning to do, panic to get to, and a lousy attempt at sleep before my sister’s big day.

And, to top this all off, I was going to be in pictures. Did I ever tell you how much I hate being in pictures? Oyvey.