On weddings and high school reunions...

The night began some what harmlessly. A wedding for a neighbor we had in high school, an invitation sent to the four of us with warnings from the other neighbors that 450 people RSVPed affirmative in a church that holds 400.

So we went early. Now the problem with some of these weddings is that you aren't sure there will be alcohol. Particularly when the groom is a youth minister and the bride at one time didn't drink. So on the way though we had to pick up a flask for the whisky.

Walking into the church as we arrived was the collection of neighbors that had been forwarned at the bridal luncheon that the guest list was growing. Then it hit us, this crowd was a Stratford crowd. As in the high school. My brother's prom date, his ex-girlfriend's roommate, the whole MDUMC crowd (including the Caldwell and Lesem sisters), Mark Bogart, my prom date's parents Carol & Ed, the Garfields minus MD, ex-coworkers (since I used to work for the bride's father), the lady that thought I looked like Mary Louise Parker, etc. etc. etc. The church was hot, the wedding sweet, and my brother and I quickly agreed that we needed to mark ourselves as brother and sister rather than as roommates. It is a problem.

The reception was held at a club, not a country club, a club. There was a bar but not enough food to act as a sponge which only became a real problem later. This was the point that the whole occasion turned into a quasi-Stratford dance with little neighbors and Baby Boomers gathered around little tables. There was a couple box stepping to Michael Jackson, we did the chicken dance (but no Village People). We ordered cokes and supplemented the flavor. When Sam got drunk enough he told my mom. She checked his back pockets, I told her it was in my purse. Ten minutes later she was sifting through the purse. Then we told her we'd lied.

Sometime in there cake was cut, I missed that. The sober people left. Sam introduced me to Parker, a TFA kid from Chavez. Scab. Mark and I reminiced over Uncle Jack Tracy and Mr. Gordon Utz, aka eggman. Our class was a class of cheaters. Guess what? Matt Smith and Michelle broke up.


What I didn't miss was the Stratford gang singing the alma mater, a song I never learned - but sounds just like all the other "We sing to you dear ___ High and pledge our loyalty..." songs you hear. See I never went to a pep rally. Not going to pep rallys meant you got to leave school twenty minutes earlier on Friday. Then there were cheers, which I also didn't know. Or forgot, but I'm a quick study "green and white! green and white!" I'm smart, I got that one handled.

I said goodbye to my new friend Parker The Scab and I promised Mark I'd see him again in three years.

Sam is chatty when drunk. He tends to start off on the flaw's of Pascal's wager and Pele's arguement and tells me I need to finish Bertrand Russell. We got home. He picked me up just below my knees and lost balance. I wound up on the floor. He got saltines and a bedtime story. At 4AM he was still sleeping in the hall.

Yea for weddings.