Till death do us part(y)
I’VE ALWAYS FOUND marrying someone to be an odd way of showing affection, but I play along, sure. I look around the church. At the bride, skinny as a dinner candle and dressed like a snowdrift. At the priest muttering to the groom, some nonsense about listening and responding, listening and responding.
“Psssst,” I say to the woman sitting next to me.
“Huh?”
“Are you one of those wedding crashers?”
“Shhhhh,” my wife says, concentrating on the task at hand.
I can never concentrate on a wedding ceremony, can’t muster significant interest, despite the fact our oldest daughter Rapunzel -- she of the golden tresses and snappy mouth -- is a bridesmaid, which I find difficult to watch. She’s growing up, sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Besides, weddings all seem pretty much the same to me, like Harlem Globetrotter games where the outcome is predetermined. I know the bride’s gonna win. It’s like watching Meadowlark toying with the ref and ...
“Let’s go,” my wife says.
“Huh?”
“It’s over,” she says, rousing me from my aisle seat.
In church, I always favor an aisle seat. If there’s going to be a miracle -- or a salvation -- I need to be first in line. I really do.
At the reception, I introduce myself to those around us, which always draws a polite nod, no matter which alias I use. Donald Trump. Harry Belafonte. Daffy Duck. The other guests look at me the way locals eyeball tourists, blink a few times, then turn back to their free scotch and the people they came with.
Ah, look, an open bar. How thoughtful. There are only three places where I actually enjoy standing in line -- open bars, parimutuel windows and open bars. It is the adult male’s equivalent of waiting to see Santa.
“Vodka tonic,” I finally say.
“Anything else?” Santa asks.
“Glass of red wine?” I say, like it’s the answer to a quiz.
Back at the table, we field cellphone calls from the little girl at home, who is watching the toddler while teaching herself to cook. It is an odd time for her to decide to cook. By now the pasta is probably steaming holes in the ceiling. The windows are exploding. The dogs, rightfully nervous, have lost their fur. And my wife wonders why we don’t go out more.
“No, you can’t make cupcakes,” she is saying into the phone.
“We lived in Pittsburgh while I was in law school,” the guy next to me is saying.
“Interesting,” I say.
“We liked Pittsburgh,” his wife says.
“NO, YOU CAN’T MAKE BLINTZES!” my wife shouts into her cellphone.
This is a big hotel reception hall, 300 people easy. Next door is another hall. Beyond that, yet another. Despite the mixed results, weddings have become a booming business.
“We love London,” says the nice woman next to me.
“Lots of people do,” I say.
“Have you ever been to London?” someone asks.
Finally, the wedding party arrives. As they enter the room, the band plays a Beatles song.
“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away ... “
Our daughter looks lovely in her mauve bridesmaid dress. I can tell she is taking notes, a forensic breakdown on every little detail of this elegant affair. Sort of a Bridal CSI.
“My feet hurt,” our daughter says.
“You look lovely,” says her mother.
“The pictures took for-EVER,” our daughter says.
“They always do,” explains her mother.
Dinner comes. Dinner goes. The band revs up. We are now in the 22nd hour of this reception (many last much longer). I’m back at the bar a couple of times. My wife drinks her wine the way I sip hot chocolate. I drink like a Pi Kappa Alpha pledge.
“I fainted at my wedding,” the woman next to me says.
“A lot of people do,” I mumble, trying to be nice.
Through the ice in my cocktail glass, I notice the hoochie mamas have started to take over the dance floor. You know the hoochie mamas, women a little past their prime who dress a little too young. Think Nicollette Sheridan.
The hoochie mamas favor high heels, short skirts and tall drinks. These women are at their best at weddings, or causing a stir at PTA fundraisers. Viva L.A., hoochie mama capital of the world.
“You know the best wedding song?” I ask my wife.
“ ‘Summer Wind?’ ”
“The hokeypokey,” I say.
“You put your right foot in,” says my daughter.
“You put your right foot out!” I say.
“Want to dance?” my wife asks.
Not particularly. But at the last second, I remember the preacher’s words. Listen. Respond. Listen. Respond.
“Sure,” I say.
Turns out a wedding isn’t such a bad thing, though like ballgames, there should probably be some sort of time limit. We stay till almost 10:15, laughing and dancing, dancing and kibitzing. The cellphone rings a mere 28 times.
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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
