On the previous Saturday, sweet little Julia got married at the St. James Cathedral. I almost, almost didn’t make it. We were running so very late that Frank dropped me off in front of the cathedral and went to find parking while I rushed up the stairs, stumbled out of a shoe, asked some holy guy if I was too late, to which he replied “not yet, but it’s very close to starting”, to which I replied “OH THANK CHRIST” which I later realized was probably not among the more decorous things I could have said. The important thing is that when I crossed the threshold, I didn’t immediately burst into flames. Emily had the same thought about herself, but Tom countered that if god had any sense of humor, he’d wait to get her until the moment she stepped out of the church.
The ceremony was beautiful, the choir was wonderful, Julia looked gorgeous, and Jason couldn’t stop smiling. The last thing they needed was my donkey bray of laughter reverberating through the entire cathedral, but it was a close call. When the priest asked everyone to raise their hands to bless the couple, the couple in the row in front of ours had their arms around each other and thus only raised one arm each. Jim leaned over and whispered that it looked like they had a ‘heil Hitler’ thing going on, which had me doubled over, shaking in thankfully silent laughter. It also seemed like every time we were asked to contemplate something in silence, someone took it as the opportunity to drop keys, programs, cell phones, and the Encyclopedia Britannica on the floor, cough, and snort phelgm up into their heads…so maybe an echo-y design isn’t the best for a church. Just saying. If I were god, I’d zap every single one of the phlegm-snorters who were supposed to be quietly reflecting on my blessed love instead of sucking back a wave of snot, all squinty-eyed.
All too soon, it was time for the reception at the Olympic Hotel’s Garden Room, which was very, very nice.
As favors, Julia and Jason had ordered bottles of Jones Soda with their photographs printed on them–one of Julia as a child, one of Jason as a child, and one of the two of them together. Each place setting also thoughtfully held a large number of wine glasses, all of which were kept full at all times. We immediately settled into our ‘best table at the wedding’ behavior, which mostly consists of laughing loudly enough that other tables are jealous of our gaiety, even stuffed into dress clothes. Our table even got a shout-out during Jason’s wedding speech as he cast away the microphone with “Microphones? I don’t know how they work. They must be magic, ICP.” We hooted with laughter, no one else knew what was going on.
During Julia’s dad’s speech, a good half of the table burst into tears, all for different reasons. It was like we instantly switched from the best table to the ‘sobbing wreck’ table, but this was soon remedied with us busting moves on the dance floor.
First dance of the bride and groom.
After a while, we noticed that the priest had joined the party but was still seated at a table while everyone else was well on their way to funky town (or whoreville, depending on whether or not you were the maid of honor getting banged in the bathroom), and Emily and I took it upon ourselves to get the priest out onto the dance floor. Picture it: April 24th, the Olympic Hotel’s Garden Room, George Michael’s ‘Faith’ playing overhead, and two hot, sweaty, drunk chicks approach a priest.
Mellzah: “You should dance.” Emily: “Yes, come dance!” Priest: “Oh no, that won’t be happening.” Mellzah: “Look, no one is a bigger atheist than me, but it would make me feel a lot better about religion if you came and danced.” Emily: “Plus, this song is about faith…a-faith-a-faith!” Some friend of the priest: “The only way you’re going to get him out there is if you play some Neil Diamond.” Emily: “….I’ll be right back.”
Moments later, ‘Sweet Caroline’ began playing. Emily gestured from the dance floor. “Come on! You promised before God and everyone!”
And that is how we tempted a priest into dance. Somewhere, there exists a photo of a priest both raising the roof and fist-pumping, and I am so very sad I don’t have them to share with you.
I still haven’t burst into flames.
