The cardinal wedding rule is no one looks prettier than the bride. For my cousin who was, shall we say, a big-boned girl with a great personality, this challenge was met with girls of various heights, weights, colors, amounts of acne and two baby bumps. All wore home-dyed lime(ish) dresses of taffeta and crinoline. The result was a bizarre pairing with great-grandmother’s yellowing white silk gown. Worse, the long-ago fashionable bustle and puff sleeves porked her out to resemble a squat hobbit.
A multitude of family females assembled at my aunt’s house to assist in make-up and dressing. My cousin had turned wacko (a medical term). She couldn’t stop crying and refused to get off the phone, presumably with the groom. The bedlam and frenzied arguing climaxed with her kicking everyone out. Calling her bluff, they went to the church to join the groom and his men who, for this hot August wedding, had matching outfits of heavy green velvet complimented by yellow shirts with huge front ruffles. (Oh, happy ’70s!)
The best man was also late. He had newly arrived the day before from Canada, so we assumed he had gotten lost and would arrive soon. We waited. Waited …
You guessed it. He never showed and neither did she!
We later learned when they met the day before, stars collided, hormones raged and wild, unspeakable acts took place in a closet. That morning, while we waited, they had torn off their silk and velvet, done the nasty again on the kitchen floor and eloped to Montreal.
Both mothers had hysterics, the groom and buddies left to get drunk and I led the deliciously scandalized mob to the crepe-festooned grange hall for the pre-paid buffet, drinks and dancing.
The art of name-dropping
I hate those name-dropping games in which everyone tries to top each other. Each repetition increases the details of implied intimacy. While interesting and amusing, these stories often border on the suspicious in terms of their veracity.
I am not good at these games. Dropping the names of my two conquests of famous persons – my lover for five years, a man who topped the New York Times best-seller list for 13 weeks; and an Oscar nominee with whom many a wild weekend was spent – is out of bounds for me. Furthermore, my celebrity friends in Japan: Akira Kurosawa and Yukio Mishima are unknown to all but a few here.
Luckily, I am not completely without well-known acquaintances. During my youth in Maine’s summer theaters, I worked with Lillian Gish, Tallulah Bankhead, Rudy Vallee, all the greats; plus I once said hello to Tony Bennet in an elevator. So if those other name-droppers want to do battle, bring it on.
OK. OK. I admit my repertoire lags slightly behind the competition. I gnash my teeth whenever they subvert the conversation to yack on and on about celebs they claim as “dear friends.”
Luckily, I have a secret supreme numero uno whom I have known for more than 20 years. If all else fails to silence them and get back on topic, I resort to … the Dalai Lama. (Ha! Top that, bitches!) I do not reveal any actual conversations, but I do hint at a request by His Holiness for my special brownie recipe.
