(That title is a German spin on the line from The Princess Bride.)
The inaugural event of Melle’s Insane End of Summer and Early Fall was Helen and Steve’s wedding, which came to pass this Saturday.
Chatty dames that we are, Sherry and I flew past the exit we should have taken off the 401, so later on a bit of backtracking was necessary. No matter, we’ve become experts at navigating one-way streets in Toronto, especially when hotels and weddings are involved.
As it reliably does, modern love (or at least friendly devotion) got us to the church on time, where I gawked at the many fabulous and torturous-looking pairs of shoes, and we and our fine friends Kim and Lorne filled out the heathen pew. (We did all the standing and sitting and standing and sitting with the Catholics, but not the fancy stuff, needless to say.) The priest was unintelligible from where we were, due to extreme age and Germanness, however, we did hear him bust out the song stylings along with the vocalist a few times.
Skipped the post-nuptials meet-n-greet, though I would have had to insist on attending had it been held across the street from the church at the Sin and Redemption Pub. 🙂 We checked in at the hotel, with the requisite jokes about Sherry and I being a couple, since the place seemed to be the choice of The Gays, based on the folks we saw outside, in the lobby, and in the cafe. Plus, y’know, the bed was king-sized and had a huge padded headboard. I took a picture. We lunched and had fancy cocktails, took photos of our splendiferous bathroom, and then napped like the wind.
After getting re-gussied up, which in my case required multiple engineering feats (to correct Sherry, the bra engineering was French but the boobs it wrangled are, of course, German). But eventually everything was smoothed down, fluffed out, strapped on, tarted up, and we were ready to party.
The cab ride to the reception was rather painfully slow and hot, thanks to the Ex being on and a Jays game just having ended, and the cabbie being unable to take a hint about the need for air conditioning. Eventually AC prevailed and traffic cleared and we arrived on the lakeshore before Lorne went postal in some fashion.
Alas, no air conditioning at the venue, so things were a tad warm, though as the sun went down a lovely breeze came in off the lake, and there were areas out front and on the balcony to hang out. And an open bar, y’know, to keep hydrated.
The dinner was delicious, the speeches filled with love and laughter, many toasts and warm welcomes to guests from the four corners of the globe, and a bit of concern, given the intensity of couple’s smoochings, that the marriage might end up consummated a tad earlier than would be seemly. Fortunately, they kept it together. 🙂
To keep Sherry and Lorne happy, we enlisted the big guns, i.e. the bride, to convince the barkeep that we should, indeed, be allowed access to the good scotch. (Bell’s, for the record, does not even remotely count.) I, on the other hand, after champagne, gin and tonics, and red wine, decided that vodka and Red Bull (which I’ve never tasted before, and never will again) would be refreshing and hydrating. Damn your well-dressed hides, groomsmen! So I drank four of them. Maybe five. Honestly, aren’t we supposed to learn better than that when we’re, oh, 18? In classic form, I did send a drunk email about vodka and Red Bull with what I’m sure was very important information at the time. The following day the recipient did compliment me on my coherence. I do what I can…
There was dancing, there was bonding (Chaya arrived post-sundown), there was dance floor bump and grind with someone else’s girlfriend (hey, she was a good dancer and grateful to Sherry for hooking her up with the single malt…). And the ladies agreed that the father of the bride and his brother were too adorable for words. (Irishmen!)
We also saw some London and France… if ya know what I mean. No, not mine. I even managed to keep the girls in place, though admittedly I was baring enough cleavage to draw the attention of the one infant in attendance, as the joke went. However, as my tablemate noted even before dinner, “Woman, it is too damned hot for that wrap. I took mine off ages ago. What’s wrong with you?” Fair enough. Can’t say I was entirely comfortable — I don’t really do skin, or flash my tattoos, and so of course why not lose the primness by letting it all hang out at once.
The venue staff started subtly booting us out around 1am, and by that point I could hardly walk. (I hadn’t been wearing shoes in hours.) The cab ride back to the hotel was much faster, and funnier, than the one to the reception. And lordy was I glad to strip down once I got back to the room. I also discovered a big bruise thanks to the super-bra, and a large blood blister thanks to the girly shoes, the excessive dancing, or both. And my hair was… well, let’s just be grateful for conditioner, shall we?
Sleep was… rough, but we both made it through til morning. At one point the bathroom’s marble floor was blessedly cool, if you catch my drift. Our Cora’s breakfast plans were torpedoed by the line snaking down the sidewalk, so we ended up nibbling away at an exorbitantly expensive yet small buffet at the hotel. Still bitter about that. After that we packed our bags, bid Toronto adieu, and headed west, where our grumpy cats awaited and our napping couches beckoned oh so seductively.
And now I have two weeks to recover before the next wedding. Pray for me… I’m too old for this shit. 🙂
Finally, to our radiant Helen, and Steve, a mensch if there ever was one, a most hearty Mazel Tov, and my sincerest wish for a life together filled with Liebe und Lachen. (I think I got that right.)
Requisite bathroom shot: Sherry makes a grand entrance.
Those crazy kids.
And they lived happily ever after…