Hometown Stories: How I Lost the "Drunkard at Her Own Wedding" Trophy

Someone else’s wedding is not about me, I know. I kept telling myself that as the days before Laura’s wedding reception rolled on. But I still wanted to make a good impression. After all, we were getting a new family, and none of my family had seen me since before I had the baby. I wanted to look not as fat as I really was. I bought Spanx. I borrowed a pretty dress. I did my hair.

The reception was in Laura’s backyard at her house “in the country.” She and Jeff had gotten married at the home of a justice of the peace back in April, and this party picked up where the ceremony left off.

There was an open bar, passed hors d’oeuvres, champagne and toasting, placecards, the whole nine yards. But the backyard atmosphere lent itself to a casual, intimate feeling. A badminton net was set up in one corner of the yard.
The bar and food buffet were set up in the garage. Rented port-a-potties served as the “facilities.” And since I was nursing Brady, and wearing a dress that was not designed for a nursing mother, I got the key to the house and the sole responsibility of not letting anyone in but myself.

Laura brandishes the housekey

Laura was a vision of old-fashioned style in her tea-length wedding dress and hair gathered prettily at the nape of her neck. She looked like a movie star from a bygone age. Here is some stop-motion photography of her playing badminton.

Again with the backyard atmosphere – it wasn’t so formal that the bride could not kick off her uncomfortable shoes in favor of flip-flops for the father-daughter dance.
It was the groom who stole the show, however. Everyone loves to recall how I got famously drunk at my wedding. I had this double standard thing for my husband – I threatened him with the heat of a thousand suns that he must not get drunk at our wedding, yet after 187 glasses of pinot grigio and no food I remember almost nothing between the last dance and waking up in shorts at 7:30 the next morning. He says now that he gets a free pass for the rest of his life.

So imagine my glee that Laura’s new husband, Jeff, has assumed the role. By that evening, he had been drinking Jack and Coke since 2 in the afternoon. He normally drinks Bud Lite. You get the picture. The last I saw of him, he was on the floor, wrapped around the toilet in the single bathroom in their house. And he’s a big guy – left no room for sharing. Laura sat outside the bathroom door, adorably drunk herself, telling people that “Jeff isn’t feeling too well.”

Fortunately, up until he got sick, Jeff was a happy drunk, and the party was a good one. Uncle Fireman Kevin, who served as the emcee in lieu of a hired DJ, whipped up some tunes for dancing, and even drove to the next state to get more booze when the first batch ran out.

By the time he got back, everyone was gone, so he made Stewart stay up with him as he told stories of our childhood until 2:30 in the morning. I only know this because when I got up to go to the bathroom, I heard nostalgia floating through the window on the night air.

It was a good wedding. My parents should be happy. Two down, one to go.