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if there's jelly
11/13/2006 = 09:20 PM

This entry is dedicated, with much fondness, to Nurse L, who refused payment (including not letting my parents pay her parking) for taking such good care of my dad this past weekend. You rock, lady.

Two people. One room.

One television.

One person wide awake at a stupid hour, book safely locked in car parked off-premises, the other person only able to sleep with television off.

My mad composition-on-hotel-notepad skillz is what has rendered us, as a couple, capable of weathering not one but two Britney marital failures.

The preprocessional was Mark Knopfler's Storybook Love (from The Princess Bride). I've always had a soft spot in my heart for that piece.

I managed not to break down during my bit. I felt it my responsibility to make a good showing, as my brother and new sister-in-law had already thank-you-gifted me with a three-month membership to the Domestic and International Variety Pack Beer of the Month Club and they couldn't very well take it back if I fucked up.

Anyway, everyone kept coming up to me to compliment me afterward, which was a relief. And the Mom says she still wells up every time she recalls it, which is the best compliment ever.

The ceremony was, of course, lovely — a mixture of Catholic and Jewish without an overabundance of either.

The title of this post is directly related to the absolute best thing I overheard during my brother's wedding weekend:

"Maybe. If there's jelly. I just had ice cream."
— my dad, on being asked after the rehearsal dinner if he'd be making a toast

A close second was this conversation:

(Scene: cocktail hour, post-ceremony)

That Man of Mine: Hey, H, you like seafood?
My Dad: No. Yuck.
That Man of Mine: How about mushrooms? You like mushrooms?
My Dad: No.
That Man of Mine: That thing you just had. Did you like that?
My Dad: Yeah, see if you can get that lady to come back.
That Man of Mine: It was a seafood-stuffed mushroom. Still want her to come back?
My Dad: No. Yuck.

My dad slays me without even trying.

Other Stuff Overheard At My Brother's Wedding:

"We had a cab reserved, but we got waylaid by a limo driver."
"I'm waiting for the reviews." (on whether he wanted a copy of my book)
"They said they'd fix the heel for $50. I said, 'Tell you what. I'm in a rush. Get it done within an hour and I'll give you ten bucks.'"
— my uncle (the Mom's brother)

Which kind of lets you know that that wry sense of humor is very much bred into the family. Wry-bred. Heh.

A conversation between myself and the above uncle:

Him: Remember [name of first wife]? You were really little last time you saw her.
Me: Very well. I always thought she was so smart and pretty.
Him: She was. I haven't seen her in years, but we're still in touch. Do you remember [name of second wife]?
Me: Make sure you give my best to [name of first wife].

(It was catty, but he knew whereof I spake. As you will see.)

Me: Remember that Thanksgiving in Sudbury? My parents and I stayed at the Coach House, but the kids [my cousins; this uncle's son and daughter] begged my brother to sleep over with them. Next day on the way home, I teased my brother about the great breakfast we had at the Coach House — "We had country sausage. We had fresh muffins." He got cold cereal.
My cousins and uncle (in unison): He's lucky she gave him the cereal.

Me, ow.

More Mean Overheards, Courtesy of the Groom's Side:

Random old-lady guest: Boy, this band sure is good. Just like the Emeril Live band.
Me: Well, which is it?

Groomsman (during toast): The only reason I've never drunk-called [the groom] at three a.m. is that, usually, when I've gotten into a situation where I'm that drunk, all I have to do is turn my head to the right to say, "I love you, man!"

Female guest (about another guest): She can't possibly have thought that dress was proper for a wedding. Look at all those gaudy stripes.
That Man of Mine: One of the colors is bound to be appropriate.

Me (at the post-wedding brunch): Why's she still in the dress she wore to the wedding? And her hair's not combed and she still has the remainders of last night's makeup.
The Mom: If you had to go upstairs to him, you'd stay up all night too.

(I heart the Mom, in case you couldn't tell.)

And now ... The Mathematical Deconstruction of My Hairstyle:

Number of flights of stairs from Newbury Street to the Marc Jacobs Salon: 3

Number of minutes kept waiting for an 11:30 a.m. appointment: 20 (not counting the five I was early)

Number of products used on hair: 4.

Number of bobby pins: 20.

Number of hairsticks: 2.

Percentage of total clientèle who were pregnant: about 70.

Percentage of total staff who were pregnant: about 50.

Me, upon being asked if I'd like a beverage: "Well, I'm sure as hell not drinking the water."

Total cost of hair, including tip: Oh, my lowered, don't even ask. Marc Jacobs. Newbury Street. You do that math.

Being totally smokin' at my brother's wedding: priceless.

I won't mention the name of the hotel at which all of this took place, but it rhymes with Dark Gaza.

It was a very nice hotel, which is probably why they didn't want me to stay there.

I say this because it seems that, no matter how many times we explained that we were with the wedding party and would not be departing until Sunday, our leaving the room for any reason at all (such as going to dinner, taking a walk, or getting ice) appeared to be the front desk's cue to check us out and then demand another credit card imprint before they would reregister us.

Including, may I add, sending Housekeeping up to clean our room for the next arrivals on Friday night, after they had supposedly reregistered us (again) and assured us that we were all set through Sunday morning, and we had settled in (as in, were already in bed) for the evening.

Put it this way: if I could get frequent flyer points for how many times I registered at the Dark Gaza during the three days I was in Boston, I could fly to Jupiter.

However, no matter how badly they didn't want my business in their sleeping rooms, they were delighted to have my brother and new sister-in-law's business in their banquet rooms, and as a result, the wedding ceremony, cocktail hour, photograph room, reception, and post-wedding brunch (and the services rendered in all of these capacities) were absolutely magnificent.

(I did not go to Whiskey Park, because I am not "captivating, beautiful people," and because the photo in their lobby-advertisement ... well, I'm not a prude, but the sight of that woman's butt cleavage, adorned with what I believe was a triangular-shaped red tattoo at the base of her spine, climbing above the horizon of her low-cut jeans like an asscrack sunrise, made me less than thirsty, as it were. It may have been sexy to someone, but to me, at a quick glimpse, it looked like a diaper rash pyramid.)

The rehearsal dinner was not at the Gaza, but at a restaurant across the street, which was perfect. I won't name it, not to protect them but to protect the hotel, because once you know the restaurant's name, you know what hotel it's across the street from.

I also won't mention the nationality of the restaurant, except to say that their music system played so many different arrangements of I Left My Heart in San Francisco that I was tempted to call M-5 and ask Jamie Hyneman if he and Adam had sighted it anwhere.

Furthermore, I concluded that profiterole is Italian for "the French may fight with éclair, but we put ice cream on our pâte à choux."

Are there pictures? Well, let's see.

Me: I want to take a picture.
Him: Oh, shit. I forgot the camera.
Me: I can't believe you. After you ruined my last trip by not letting me double-check to make sure you'd remember it. Didn't it mean anything to you, how much that upset me? Didn't you learn your lesson?
Him: I'm sorry.
Me: Well, I learned my lesson. That's why when you said you'd already put it in the car, I went and got it off the table and put it into the back seat. Now stop so I can take a picture.

I've said it before and I'll say it again — just because I forgive you for the past doesn't mean I'm going to give you another opportunity to need forgiving. I'm not that gullible.

Most of the pictures I took had people in them from whom I had no permission to post their images online, so the pickings are slim. But I did get off a few good ones.

PF Chang's.

Wait. Who's that over by the big horse?

A penguini!

And here he is again, on one of the little bears by that gate on Boylston Street.

Well, that was kind of fun. But we're here for a wedding.

Whoa. Nice.

Next were a lot of pictures of people whose permission I didn't get to post online, so we move on to the main reason I'm here ... cake.

But wait.

Oh, you did not crash my brother's wedding.

Yeah, he did.

And he stayed for dessert.

"So, who's your tailor?"

The next morning.

Someone had a little too much fun.

"Must. Find. Coffee."

Tags: wedding, Boston, photos

drinking: diet cherry citrus fresca
watching: The American President
michael douglas vs. martin sheen: no contest. bartlet for president all the way