Subject Oil, lube and check the tires
DateCreated 5/23/2008 2:29:00 PM
PostedDate 5/23/2008 2:01:00 PM

Overheard in the express elevator at the Biltmore Hotel in Providence, RI:

Mom:  "Ok, honey, you'll be getting off at the ninth floor.  Our room is number 968."
Twelve-year-old (or so) daughter:  "MOM!  Why can't I go to the reception?  I'm totally old enough!"
Mom:  "We already discussed this:  you've had a long day; the reception won't be over until late; and we have an early plane in the morning."
Mom:  "Also, if you're there..."
Daughter:  "Yeah?"
Mom:  "Your father and I won't be able to get shitfaced.  Now go to your room."

  • Chicken FootballTM:  yes   
  • Cannoli tree in lieu of wedding cake:  yes   
  • Brand-new Jerry Garcia-designed ties:  yes   
  • Same old threadbare tuxes:  sadly, yes

We've had a number of weddings already this year, but this last one felt like the actual start of the season.  The weather's warm, the calendar is filling up and C is fighting with the wedding coordinators (or Function Divas as they are more commonly known).  This year - unlike the previous few - we're making an attempt to stay current with our songlist, and it's really energized the band.  Being able to head into the dance set with some Gwen Stefani/Pink/Jordin Sparks (rather than "I Will Survive/We Are Family/Play That Funky Music") makes the band members far less likely to physically attack one another.

Excerpt from Biltmore toast:
    "I've seen a lot of these toasts before, and given a few as well.  It seems that the Best Man always starts out by telling everyone what a great guy the groom has been since they grew up together/roomed at college/worked at the same company, and then he goes on to tell how he met the bride.  But I have no idea how I met Julie-Ann.  Really.  Here's why:"
    "Joe and I were frat brothers at Wheaton, and he was Sigma Chi President starting in our Junior year.  I remember him talking about her all the time - what a lovely, smart, funny girl she was; and how he thought he could really get serious about her.  I was thinking to myself, 'Serious?  You don't even bring her around to meet your friends, and you think there's a chance of her taking you seriously.  What an idiot.'"  Then I looked around the frat.  And I saw three guys passed out in front of the fireplace, covered in either talcum powder or flour; an empty keg; a coffee table covered in porn and martial-arts dvds; an apple that had been used as a makeshift bong; and, for reasons that escaped me completely, a large, half-used canister of industrial-grade grease.  It then occurred to me that far from being an idiot, he might actually be the smartest guy I'd ever met.

The Anniversary Dance is a nonessential but fairly common formality with a simple premise:  let's see which couple attending the wedding has been married the longest.  We play something appropriate such as "Grow Old With Me" or "Have I Told You Lately" and invite all the married couples onto the dance floor.  Then we excuse them chronologically, ie: "All those married five years or less, other than the bride and groom, please leave the dance floor."  Play a little more, then ten years.  Continue on until we have one couple left, at which point the newlyweds give them the bouquet or some other remembrance.  I've mentioned before that we have (rather, C has) a penchant for starting formalities without checking to see if the required parties are actually in the room.  A similar type of unpreparedness would be not knowing how long the final couple has been married, and blowing right past it.  So this particular night we went from forty to forty-five years, and the last three couples left the dance floor - leaving the bride and groom no photo-op whatsoever.  While watching C run after them shouting, "Wait!  Wait!  We'll go one year at a time!" H leaned over to me and said, "Now I KNOW we're back."