I wish I could give you a blow by blow detail of the wedding, but sadly, it all blew by so quickly that I barely remember anything. And I only had a couple beers.

When we caravaned to my parent’s house on Thursday, X’s mom was so pleased to meet my mom - a fellow Greek. X’s mom is just beside herself that this wife (cough, ME) is Greek. They had a grand old time those two. But because Number 1 and Number 2 went to bed at 5:15 a.m. Wednesday night, and we woke up at 5:30, they needed naps upon our Connecticut arrival. They went back to the hotel, and my mom went into mom-mode.

“So, you promised you would take that thing out of your tongue when you got married.” (I’m not exactly sure why I promised this to my mom, maybe because it represented the last vestige of my crazy single life.) I reached inside my mouth, unscrewed my tongue ring, and handed it to her. She laughed and said, “GREAT!” and threw it across the kitchen. Who knew that bothered her so much?

What was bothering me was a sudden appearance of two bruises on my right arm that looked like Lyme Disease. The entire family gathered around my arm trying to decide wtf was going on. Then I said, “Oh, can we also discuss this?” At this point I showed them the zit/goiter/new planet that seemed to take hold on my jawline. Ugh. My mom thought I was breaking out in hives. No amount of makeup would cover this.

X and I had a plan. The hotel/restaurant where we were having the wedding cost a fortune, so we blocked rooms at a Hilton in the next town. Thursday night he stayed with Number 1 and Number 2 at the hotel, and I slept my last night in la Casa Mommy and Daddy with my brother, the Elitist, slathering zit medicine on my goiter-zit, every hour on the hour. The next morning he and I inspected the zit and thought we did pretty well. I figured the rest of the roadkill could be covered with makeup. Then I went downstairs and my dad said, “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR NECK?” Great! It metastasized! And the oldest guy in the room saw it first. Not. Good.

Back to the plan. X was going to dress at the Hilton, I would dress at our wedding location, and we would meet on the deck to get hitched. No. Such. Luck. My half hour makeup appointment went in excess of 90 minutes as the entire staff at the MAC store attempted to cover my lyme disease and the puberty-redux happening on my neck. When I got back to my parents house, my dad had hijacked my friends from Atlanta after picking them up at LaGuardia and had them at the kitchen table eating sandwiches. At 4:00!!! When the wedding was at 6:00!!! And all the vendors were at the hotel!!! And X isn’t. And neither was I! Where the hell did the day go? Then just as I got to the wedding location, X calls and says he was almost there, and realized he forgot his suit. He had to turn around and go back to the other hotel to get it. When my mom showed up she was like, “Oh my God can anything go right right now?”

I went downstairs in my bathrobe and put out the placecards and the table identifers. We used Greek Islands instead of numbers. But because each table had a different number of guests, I had to sit there and count. “Okay, this table has 10 places set…this is the Rhodes table….okay lay out cards for people who I put at a 10-top…” and so on. The waiters thought I was the Wedding Coordinator, the Event Manager thought I was the bride’s sister and I was thinking about finding some narcotics, crushing them and rolling around in them on the floor I was so freaked out.

The photographer and I had a few nice moments in the room before the melee. First Mommy. Then Daddy. Then my brothers…friends…nieces…dogs….X. We literally got dressed in front of 10 people, with cameras snapping all over the place.  There is clearly nipple (mine) on the video. But I wouldn’t trade that part for the world, because here occurred what will no doubt lead as one of my most cherished moments in my life. Once I got my skin tight dress on, I realized I couldn’t bend to put on my shoes. Without prompting, each of my nieces took it upon themselves to grab a shoe, and put it on one of my feet. I should mention my nieces are 3 & 1/2 and almost 5 years old. And I should also mention that my shoes tied around the ankle and had a belt-like strap that had to be poked through a hole.

A lot of you have read this blog for 5+ years and know that I have never posted a picture of myself. I’m changing that rule because this picture absolutely must be shared.

Here’s where I’d like to say that the rest of the night was fantastic, however, that would be a lie. Let’s see…how shall I put this?

I fucking fell down the stairs when I was going down to get married. In front of everyone - my mom, dad, brothers, sister-in-law, nieces, X, X’s mom, X’s two kids, the photographer, they all saw. And we all laughed. It’s on video. When I watched it I was like, “Damn, I went DOWN!” In my mind I had only slipped a bit. Nope. I really ate it.

Friday was a complete blur. Seriously. There are definitely regrets and things I would do different, but honestly - I would hire a freaking videographer if I had this to do again. X and I felt like with a wedding of 30 people, that having a video camera in people’s faces all the time would be a hassle. They wouldn’t have a lot to film if they only had 30 people to rotate through. Plus it was around $2000 for the night and that just seemed like money wasted. Now? I really screwed that up. I would hire 20 videographers if I knew that the entire night would zip by me without me even realizing it. Barely ate, barely drank, and barely feel like I talked to anyone. I even forgot to dance with my dad. Please. I know. Don’t get me started. I cried the whole drive back to D.C. over this yesterday. My nieces were just loving the wedding, and my focus suddenly became on them, to the exclusion of almost everyone and everything else. Kids are really a time vortex.

Anyway, my photographer is working on the pictures, but she sent me her favorite.

She’s really good.

X is officially Mr. Velvet. Or, I am Mrs. X.

Woo Hoo!!!

It’s happening on Friday. I can’t believe it’s 2 days away.

Here’s the song we’ll play when the moms and my nieces-as-flowergirls enter:

I’d like Sammy and Thora to go down the aisle too during this time, but I’m thinking they won’t be able to figure that part out. There’s a left turn involved, and frankly, to be screaming “GO TO DADDY!” during the processional just seems ghetto. And ghetto and Connecticut don’t really belong in the same place. Though I would like to be the one who does bring the ghetto to the establishment, I’ll spare my mom. It’s bad enough she’s going to see all my tattoos when she’s getting me into my dress. I have to remember to bring her some valium. She’s so much more fun that way.

This is the song I’ll be walking down the aisle to:

If that version isn’t working well, try this one:

Love it. Really love it. I’m so pleased with my music selection so don’t make fun!

There’s still a lot to do. I am amazed at how much work goes into planning a wedding. I should have hired a coordinator, but we were trying to make this a small, easy event. No such luck. We’re dealing with a crappy situation. It seems that despite the fact that X and I have made decisions and given instructions, nothing seems to go right with the venue. It’s incredibly frustrating. I love the place we picked. I don’t love the person we are stuck working with. I guess when one’s husband buys them a restaurant to run, they can pretty much do whatever they want. Or don’t want. They can ignore emails for weeks on end, they can ignore voicemails, and when they fax things to clients, they can put them in the fax machine backward so all the client gets are blank pages on their end. They can also tell clients that instead of having tables of 10 or tables of 8, they should have tables of 9. Are you a fucking idiot? Tables of 9? So you want me to split up husbands from wives, gays from partners, and moms from kids? I get that there aren’t that many people coming to this shindig, but damn.

Mommy is ready to go into mega-bitch mode. She’s starting every other sentence with “Do your father and I need to go down there?” OMG! NO!!!! We’ll be BANNED! I’m sure she’ll rip someone’s head off by the time this is over. Hopefully not a family member. Yikes. If I had to place bets, I still vote for my sister-in-law and mom are going to get into it. Let’s be clear though - Mommy is on my side right now. When she’s not, she’s Gloom. But for now, she’s on my side so she’s Mommy. I’m sure she and my dad will be back to Gloom and Doom soon enough.

The photographer (who I love to pieces) wants to take family pictures during the cocktail hour. I’ll have to break it to her that my dad will not take any time away from the Clam Chowder cups that will be passed during that hour, so she can pretty much stick that idea up her ass. I think she thinks she’s dealing with the Kennedy’s when she’s really getting the Simpsons.

Well lovers, I’m off. I have music to mix, dogs to bathe, gray hairs to spot-dye, mani’s and pedi’s to get, and I have to drive to Connecticut where the work of assembling the favors, writing out the place cards and drinking myself into a stupor must take place.

Then, sometime after all that is done, I get to kiss my husband.

I have new advice that anyone getting married (Shannon, Carrie, Carla - who already did this) should pay attention to:

Get. Two. Dresses.

No, I’m not kidding. Actually, my journey to ending up with two dresses was a weird one. To recap something I posted 2 months back, I ordered #1 too late, so got #2, an adequate but much less expensive substitute “just in case.” Well, #2 ended up coming in a few weeks ago, needed no alterations, and was shuttled to my parent’s house this past weekend where it has taken up current residence in my childhood bedroom closet.

While X and I were in the land of Gloom and Doom, I got a call from the sellers of dress #1 that it was ready to be picked up. X and I went over there because he had already seen #2, so I just figured let him see the first one and he can pick. We got there, they located my dress and put me in it. It’s 1 size larger than their sample size - which now fits by the way, like a glove and feels like a nightgown.

I put on the dress that was custom made for me, knowing it would be too big and would need alterations, however, I was unprepared for what happened next. Itch. Scratch. Itch. EEK! The level of lining closest to my body was forcing my thighs into some sort of tourniquet situation, they were begging for release, and everything below mid thigh broke out into full blown itchy madness.The nightgown feeling of the sample is in direct contrast to feeling like I’m rolling around in a sausage casing lined with sandpaper. Get. This. Off. My. Body. NOW.

????

I have no idea either. X and I sat there for 4 hours while they took the dress away, pressed all the layers, came back, tried it on, still itched, looked at the sample, figured out that the sample had thicker lining between my body and the tulle, then had to exit because the fire alarms went off, went back to the store, smelled burning rubber, hoped it was my dress so I could just get my money back and be done with it all, tried it on again, got stuck in it when the zipper jammed, had to slide out of it so they could fix the zipper, went out and sat with X who started planning how I should get my money back, then tried the dress on again, then it was itchier in the back of my thighs, then everyone said they didn’t know and I would have to come back tomorrow to talk to the manager. I’m making the manager try on the sample, then try on the dress that was made for me. And did I mention when you pick up the layers they are all shredded and tattered at the seams? THIS is a custom gown? Yikes.

As X and I sat there waiting for this to be figured out, I looked at him and said, “Considering this wedding is in 2 1/2 weeks, can you imagine how much I would be jumping off a ledge right now if I didn’t have a backup dress, safely nestled at my parents house?” It resulted in our having a conversation on how everyone should have a backup dress. Instead of blowing your whole budget on one dress, get a second one. It really helped me not lose my shit today.

X said, “Yeah, and we haven’t even discussed that black grease stain down the front of it.” Um. Yes.

Tomorrow I’m going to request that they keep the stained itch-factory,  clean and press the sample instead and give that to me.

And it makes me wonder - all these bridal salons try to convince you to not buy them from the ebay $100 sweat shops, but you know, considering the condition my dress was in, I’m not sure that I didn’t just overpay for something out of one of those very same factories.

What did we learn here today? Two. Dresses. You can always sell one.

Well, my mom has kicked into Mother-of-the-Bride mode. Woo hoo. Finally. Among other things, she told me that she was thinking to ask my brothers to make a toast at the wedding. I said, “You and Dad don’t want to do it?” She doesn’t want to speak in public. And my dad? Well, let’s just say that as children, we were so confused how the man who words failed on the regular could actually be a lawyer and argue, and win a case, that my brother went to watch him in court. He came home after and said, “Daddy is a totally different person in court. He’s not the Dad we know, who says ‘Velvet, it’s uh, time, uh, what’s this over here? Who left this here. Hey. Time for uh, dinner. Did anyone see my glasses?”

When my mom bestowed this news on my brother and added in that he needs to say something simple and nice, my brother responded with the following:

“I was thinking of doing a slideshow of all her ex-boyfriends and saying ‘Well, thank God THIS is over’ then slapping her on the ass and giving her a big wedgie in her dress.”

My mom was hilariously laughing. Camera pans to my dad.

With a totally straight face because the joke eluded him, he said, “Uh, I wouldn’t do that if I uh, were you. She uh, might get mad.”

YAY! I’m so proud of my muffins!

It won’t be long before we are fielding calls from Oprah and Chelsea!

X and I decided on a whim to leave town. We started discussing wedding, plans, and going away and realized that we weren’t going to be able to fit it in after the wedding. So we took the dogs and went to the Keys.

When I finished grad school several years ago, I found this place in the middle of nowhere in the Keys that allowed dogs and they could be off leash. I went down there and had the time of my life doing absolutely nothing. So X and I made arrangements to go back and while I was worried because there’s not a lot to do there and X needs constant entertainment, it was paradise. He loved it, I loved it, the dogs loved it. As we always do, we started talking about buying a place in the Keys and how nice it would be to live there. We always talk about that, wherever we go. Aah, if only money weren’t in the way.

The owner of the place came outside one night and we asked him to have a drink with us. He said he only drinks scotch. So X told him to go grab his scotch. He goes inside and comes back out, not with a little highball glass of scotch. No, that drunk comes back with a 16 ounce glass of scotch, filled to the top. No wonder he passed out on the patio every night and his wife had to drag him to bed! What a way to live.

I’ve had a lot of anxiety about getting married. It’s funny to get to a place where you finally feel ready and then, you get scared. I always said no one should get married before 35, but now, as I’m on the other side of that by 2 years, I think I’m revising my former sentiment. I think younger than 30 is still too young. But if you get married after 35, you’re set in your ways. It’s a difficult adjustment to think about consolidating households and merging lives. Not impossible - just an adjustment. Now I think that perfect window is somewhere between 30 and 35. At least for me I suppose.

We spent 2 days driving home and Sammy almost got himself molested at a rest stop. Some creepy guy got out of his car, had no shirt on, and had pants that were just hovering above his pubes on the front, and exposing full butt crack in the back. X said when I was walking the dogs the molester saw me and was just watching me with the dogs, and didn’t realize X was in the car behind him and that we were together. When we started walking back toward the car, the molester tried to get Sammy’s attention and I just knew that nosy little dog was going to go over and get all of us kidnapped and thrown in a basement somewhere. But that X. He saw it all unfolding, and jumped out of the car and shuffled me and the dogs in real quick. When we were driving off, we saw the molester had a security uniform in his car. Ugh. No telling what he’s up to.

X wanted to drive straight through to home, but I wanted to stop. Of course we picked the worst place to stop because there were like 3 family reunions in that town that weekend, so the hotels were all booked. We finally got a room in the far corner of a hotel, in the woods under a broken down billboard. It was scary. Of course, I have a low bar for what I find acceptable accommodations. This is honed from years of experience in the Velvet Family, where my dad made us stay at the most disgusting places you could ever imagine. I remember we stayed at this Thunderbird Motor Lodge once and my brother, the family elitist, was comatose for 3 days. This of course is the same brother who won’t eat at Denny’s, IHop, Waffle House, Huddle House or anything along those lines because they are dirty, gross, and have sticky syrup everywhere. He makes me laugh my ass off.

Because it was a bit scary, I slept with that “one-eye-open” thing. I felt like I couldn’t really relax, and questioned whether X was right and we should have just pushed onward to home. We woke up at 6 a.m to all this banging, and the stupid New Yorkers next door to us were leaving. We got to hear their entire conversation, as well as their door slamming over and over as they went in and out, packing the car. Just when it was almost over, and they were about to drive off, one of them had to take a shit, which he announced so loud they probably heard it up at the next exit. Shoot me. Really.

Anyway, here they are, my little muffins, doing what they do best. Lounging.

And, on the way home…

Well, not me, but Kelly does.  She’s a longtime reader/commenter here at Dysfunction in Dupont, and is trying out for Oprah. All you have to do is click the link and click the vote! Thanks!!!

I actually went out last night and had a drink with the Hostess and the Photographer. I haven’t done that in, um, years. We went up to Marvin for a Dupont Underground event. Because I love all things Dupont, I am obsessed with seeing the space below the circle. There’s a growing movement of artists trying to get the space opened for the exhibition of area artists. I can’t think of a better idea of what to do with that space in all honesty. I understand that the former trolley station was made into an underground mall in the 90’s with various shops and places to eat, but that it was such a crime magnet that they shut it down. Maybe the time is right to reopen that puppy and show the world.

Anyway, you can read more here about the Underground, more about last night’s event here and more about sponsor and friend of the Hostess and the Photographer, Phillipa Hughes and Pinkline Project here.

Damn. It felt good to actually know about something going on in Dupont, I’ve been so far removed from D.C. and Dupont and so wrapped up in my own little life lately.

But that couldn’t last for long. I do have an interesting wedding  update for anyone who cares.

When I went in early April to buy my wedding dress, the sample size they had didn’t exactly zip up. In fact, it was about 2 inches away from zipping closed. Embarrassing. But then when they tell you the sample size is totally off from normal sizes, I felt better. A little. They recommended I buy two sizes higher. I said, “No. One size.” They were trying to tell me that “every bride promises to lose weight” and better safe than sorry. My stance was, “No way. If I’m going to drop these annoying 5 10 15 lbs, now is the time.”

I busted my ass in gear. I am totally not kidding. I stopped running since that was getting me nowhere but to injury fast, and started walking. Then when the Hostess found out I was walking 4 miles a day like a maniac all over Dupont, Georgetown and up those stupid Exorcist Stairs, she started coming with me. I think I logged 80 miles in each month - March, April and May. Then the Hostess and I started doing the stairs multiple times. My doctor said to cut to 1200 calories. I don’t really count calories, but I can pretty much bet I’m not going over that since I’m hungry all the time.

I had a meeting today in a building adjacent to where I bought my original #1 wedding dress choice. I have been considering what to do if the dress comes in and doesn’t fit and they have to take it out. So I ran in there to try on the sample size again to see how I’m progressing. I saw the lady who helped me was there by herself when I walked in, but her back was to me. I snuck over, found the dress and ran into the dressing room. If this thing wasn’t going to fit, and I was going to have a breakdown, I really wanted to do it alone.

I unzipped the dress, put it over my head and everything was all stuck. There were parts and layers in places they shouldn’t be and I was concerned that the dress didn’t feel any looser. Then I realized I had an entire layer bunched up in there, so I pulled that out and started zipping. That zipper went all the way to the top, AND, it was loose. Holy effing crap. How on earth did I do this? I got on the scale last week and knew I was down 8 lbs, but in what world is 8 lbs enough to drop you 2 dress sizes? I guess the bridal world. Now it seems like the dress I ordered will be too big. Huh.

I came out of the dressing room and ran over to the lady and called her name. She turned around and said, “VELVET!!! I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU LAST WEEK!” Couldn’t believe she remembered my name, I haven’t seen her except for that one day two months ago. She remembered everything about me. She’s good! I told her I lost 8 lbs and showed her the dress and she was shocked. She said everyone promises to lose weight and most brides can’t pull it off in time.

Please. I’m not “most brides!”

And that dress is downright gorgeous. I really made the right choice the first time.

Anyway, since I have room to spare, does anyone have a bag of Chips Ahoy or 30 cannolis they can lend me? Thanks.

Maybe it was a bad idea to let my parents pick the Justice of the Peace. It’s no secret that the Velvet family likes to shop for price.

This past weekend, X and I went to Connecticut to work on some more details. I’m not sure why I thought a “small” wedding of just family and a few friends would be any easier. Damn. You still have to do all the same crap, you just mail less invitations and make less place cards. Yes. Sigh. Place cards. X thought that since it’s such a small group we could let people decide where to sit. Um. No. Have you met my family? We need to make a very strategic plan on who sits where. If we can keep my sister-in-law in a different city from my mom, we’ll be in good shape. When I was first making phone calls for a venue, every Venue Manager said the same thing at first: Describe your perfect wedding.

“Oh, that’s easy. One where my mom doesn’t punch my sister-in-law and one where my dogs can be a part of it.”

This did make everyone laugh. I think they thought I was joking. I wasn’t.

We went to the town hall to apply for the marriage license. Lucky for me, my BFF from high school works there and did the whole thing for us on the spot. No waiting! No blood tests! No proof of X’s divorce! No charge! Thanks Divorcee!!!! (Funny, I know. Even funnier she changed her status on Facebook to “engaged” this morning.)

As she was filling out the license, her co-worker, sitting at a desk behind her, said, “Is Larry marrying you?” I said, “Um, yeah, I think that’s it.” She said, “You’re not getting married at the Motel 6* are you?” I said, “Uh, yes.” She starts shaking her head. “He called here the other day to see if you had applied for your license yet. He said someone called him and said his daughter was getting married and asked if he would perform the ceremony and he couldn’t remember your names, the location, the date or the time.”

X and I looked at each other and started laughing. Divorcee said this was sort of par for the course with this guy and suggested we keep calling him to remind him. Then she said we should plan to send someone to pick him up. Jesus. Christ. She told me stories about people we went to high school with who never picked up their marriage licenses and she had to run them over to their wedding. Fuck DC, I love small towns.

When we went back to my parents house we told them what happened with the JP. My dad called him right then and gave him the info all over again. He said that the JP lost the paper where he wrote everything down. Wow. Just, wow. I was like, “Um, Dad? We sort of need him.” He kept saying “Don’t worry, don’t worry.”

Yeah. I think we need a Plan B. I told X since we have zero connection to this JP and he might not even show up, maybe we should consider just finding a Greek Orthodox priest to marry us. X is working on that today. Yikes. The only problem is that Greek Orthodox weddings last like three days.

We did get a cake last week. Devils food with cannoli cream. Devils food cakes and cannolis are my two favorite desserts in the whole world, and whoever thought of putting them together is a god damned genius.  As opposed to us picking a JP name out of a hat, at least getting the cake at this bakery felt right. It’s from the same bakery where my mom got my cake for my baptism.

We’re down to 8 weeks people.

*I’m not really getting married at the Motel 6. I promise.**

**It’s Super 8.