Saturday morning came all too soon. I once again reminded the bride that if she didn’t show up to the wedding, I would not be taking her place, and that we would be having words. After showering, she headed off to her hair and makeup appointments with her mom and the mother of the groom; I hung around the house, watching Family Guy, packing (since I would not be coming back there after the wedding), and putting on my own makeup. Nicki came and picked me up around noon, and to thank her for helping me out so much on this trip, I took her to lunch at Tenuta’s Deli, which is pretty much the most delicious Italian deli of all time, and as an added bonus, has outdoor tables where you can sit and bask in the sunshine and barbeque smells. After lunch, we went to get Nicki a manicure, and were promptly seduced by the pedicure massage chairs; this process took quite a bit longer than I anticipated, forcing a call to the hairstylist asking them to please, please, please push back my appointment a little. It took a couple of attempts to do so, as I didn’t have their phone number, and a call to 411 for ‘Ruffalos’ connected me to ‘Buffalo Wild Wings’. I NEED NOT YOUR SPICY MEAT PRODUCTS!

Eventually, Nicki was whisked off for her manicure, and the trashiest Kenosha-white-trash girl of all time plopped down in the chair next to me, replete with sweatpants and stringy hair, dunked her hobbit toes in the water, and dug into a bag of piping hot, delicious*, Arby’s. You were perhaps thinking it wasn’t so bad until I got to the Arby’s part, am I right? While the guy working on her manky toes dons a face mask, she pulls her sandwich out and indignantly cries “I’m going to kill someone! I ordered this with extra fucking cheddar, and do you see any cheddar on there? I’m going to kill someone. Not really.” It seemed like there was plenty of cheddar on there to me, especially since that unnatural, nuclear orange cheese found a way to ooze out and slide all the way down her left arm, which she lifted to her face and licked clean, all of which I watched out of the corner of my eye in abject horror. After this, she and her nearly equally trashy friend were having a discussion about how mean Kenosha Trash Girl was. This is her response, verbatim: “I’m not mean! Do you think I’m mean? (wiggles toes at unfortunate pedicurist) Well I am mean. I’m a witch. I’ll cast a spell on you. Not really.” At this point I was struggling to contain my mocking laughter so hard that I believe I injured some of my internal organs. I had to, though, for fear that she might cast a spell on me. Not really.

Soon enough, Nicki and I were both done, and we dashed over to Ruffalos where a girl with hair straight from the eighties hairsprayed me for ten minutes and charged me twenty bucks. Realistically, though, I probably could have used a bit more hairspray since it was nearly 95 degrees outside, and humid to boot, which practically spells ‘hair disaster’. Nicki and I walked to the back of the salon to see how Lesley was doing, and after a few hours in the chair, she was not in a happy mood. We promptly made our exit and drove to Nicki’s parent’s house in Racine, where Nicki got ready. When we walked in, her mom’s jaw dropped and she said “No one ever told me I had TWO daughters…” so it’s official. Nicki and I really do look like sisters. Creepy, incestuous, lesbian twin sisters.

After she was dressed and her hair was done, we didn’t have a lot of time to get to the Kemper Center. We attempted to book it down there, but were frustrated by the K-Town Slowdown at every turn. The K-Town Slowdown, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, is slang for the Kenosha drivers who drive ten to fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit, are oblivious to anyone behind them who might want to travel faster, refuse to yield, and generally are the cause of all obscenities screamed behind the wheel for the several mile stretch of highway between Racine and the Illinois border. We dashed into the chapel at 4:32, and I booked it into the bride’s room, apologizing for those two minutes of wasted time…and was wasting my breath, as well. The room was empty. Clearly, the discussion we had earlier about ‘I’m not taking your place in this wedding’ did not have an effect. No bride = uh oh! On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to give a toast, which was good, because at this point, I still hadn’t written anything down yet. I chalked her absence up to the K-Town Slowdown, and started to get dressed. Nicki was assisting with my zipper troubles, and in walked Lesley, gorgeous and angry. Apparently she had been in the stylist’s chair for an additional two hours after I saw her last, which significantly cut down on her time left to do anything else; namely, going home and grabbing the garter that she had forgotten. While she’s venting and getting dressed, and I’m struggling to breathe while Nicki struggled with my zipper, the photographer indicated she was coming in, because she ‘normally takes pictures of the girls getting ready’. “You’re not taking any pictures of MY girls, especially if we aren’t dating!” I cried in a panic, covered my bosom and ran across the hallway to the restroom. Seriously. What girl wants half naked pictures of her wearing a veil and a grimace and her jabba-like buddy getting ready for her wedding? Yes, that’s lovely! I’d like a picture of those gazongas in an 8×10, a 5×7, and plenty of wallet-size to send out with the thank-you cards. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go officiate at a pod race.

Fully dressed, I went back into the bride’s room to discover that the photographer was taking pictures of everything but the bride–the chairs, the flowers, even a rather myspace-y shot of herself in the mirror. After a few minutes of pacing around in the bride’s room, it was time to head out. Not only did I not trip or split a seam while carrying the bride’s veil, I also managed not to trip while walking down the aisle, effectively using 100% of the graceful moments I am allowed to have in a year in one fell swoop. The ceremony went off without a hitch, vows were exchanged, poems were read, rings were handed off, and it was all topped off with a spectacular kiss. We sent everyone along to the reception hall, and a different photographer proceeded to take more pictures of me than I’ve allowed taken in the last three years combined. During the reception, Lesley was concerned that someone would take a picture of her eating, and she’d look like a pig, so I sneaked my camera out and took the most unflattering photograph of all time while she was mid-bite, so she wouldn’t have anything to worry about, since the worst had already happened. After dinner, it was time for even more pictures, here by Lake Michigan, here by a flower garden, here on this bench…the female photographer again spent some time photographing these things which are not the bride and groom: rocks, seagulls, fishermen in wheelchairs… I can’t wait to see their prints. Really.

After this round of photography, the bride and groom cut the cake, and then it was toast time. And I still hadn’t written anything down. Crap in a handbasket. I bought a little time by requesting that the best man go first, and thought furiously, eyebrows furrowing like caterpillars in a wrestling match. Luckily for me, his speech was LONG so I had plenty of time. This is what I pulled out of my ass, more or less: Hi, I’m Melissa, and the best friend of the bride. Today is 07/07/07, and addition to the ‘lucky’ connotations we have with the number seven in our cuture, it’s additionally considered to be a very special number in many other cultures as well. For example, in Chinese culture, the number seven represents togetherness, and that has proved true here. How fortuitous that we are gathered here today on a day of togetherness for this wedding! I met Lesley during a summer gym class in 1997, and as that sweaty, skeezy gym teacher whirled her around the floor to teach us to do-si-do, I knew we’d be the best of friends. Who would have thought that a mere ten years later, I would have the honor of standing up and being a witness to her wedding to the other important person she came together with in 1997? I’m so happy to be here for them on their special day, and watching them move forward into the next step of their lives; a new home, children (not that I’m pushing you, there!) and everything that comes with being a married couple.     I’d like to end with a toast: To love, to life, and to luck–may you be as happy fifty years from now as you are today! I also managed not to spill anything down the front of my dress, split a seam, or have something obnoxious hanging from my nose while I gave the toast. I’m starting to get concerned–who is this person, and what have they done with Melissa? After dinner came the dancing, one round of which I was pulled into a dance with the best man, where although I managed not to trip or step on any shoes, I also displayed an utter lack of finesse on the dance floor. You can hardly blame me–the last time I slow danced, it was with an 80 year old who finished off by humping me, so you can see how I was nervous about the whole thing. Drinking and dancing commenced, and I managed to keep myself borderline sober most of the evening; I didn’t want to get sloppy in front of Lesley’s mom. Tim and Brett had no such qualms, and began pounding drinks in earnest. The DJ, in turn, played a selection of songs nearly identical to that of the last wedding in which I participated, where, if you’ll recall, I was five years old. The eighties will never die!Nicki and I requested ‘The Final Countdown’ so we could Gob Bluth our way around the dance floor, but to no avail. Sadness!

Eventually, it was time for the bouquet toss. In addition to Nicki, a twelve year old, and myself, there was perhaps one other single woman there. Lesley indicated that EVERY woman should participate to make it as lively as possible. The DJ blindfolded Lesley, and then had us circle around her. Eventually, she tossed it, and through a horrible chain reaction of Newtonian physics, bounced off the low-hanging chandelier, and hit me in the chest. I tried to pawn it off on other ladies before the blindfold came off, but they were very eager to make sure *I* kept it. The DJ ran over–“Who caught the bouquet?” “Melissa! Melissa did! She got it! MELISSA DID!” So I suppose if the ancient predictory art of flower-catching is to be believed, I don’t get to be a crazy old spinster cat-lady. Towards the end of the evening, people were getting very sloppy drunk; members of the groom’s party alternated between slow dancing with me while nuzzling and kissing my neck, and grabbing my ass like it was providing them with oxygen. Note: Although bag may not fully inflate, oxygen is flowing! My favorite drunk of the evening was a girl I don’t know, who got so simultaneously drunk and horny that she leaped into many a guy’s arms that evening, grinding against them with the power of a million suns. I’m pretty sure she arrived with someone; I’m not sure who she left with. The man in this picture hadn’t danced all night; all of a sudden, she grabbed him, pulled him on the dance floor, and started unbuttoning his shirt. After it was unbuttoned, she leaped up on him and I took this picture. Immediately AFTER I took this picture, she fell off of him, landed on her back on the floor, and her dress flew up well past her hoo-hoo. HOO. BOY.

On the left is Tim (who got so drunk he jumped on the hood of Lesley’s dad’s car in the parking lot), in the middle is Drunky McHornyson and her victim, and on the right is Brett (who got so drunk that his forehead collided with someone’s hand, and he just stood there dazed and bleeding until Nicki grabbed him a chair and I grabbed a napkin for his face). With that, the wedding was over. Nicki and I, still sober, made sure to get on the road before everyone else–my personal guess is that Lesley didn’t feel so awesome on her early morning flight to Vegas the next day. *This is a joke. Arby’s has never been delicious. Ever.