Let me get this straight.: Mawwage!

My sister got married this weekend. It was beautiful and chaotic and ridiculous and perfect. Jennifer – the only person in the world who has lived my life with me – has a new life now. I want desperately to be jealous of her and her new husband, Michael, but she is happier than I have ever seen her in my life, and that makes it hard. She was the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my life.

Long Island is nice, but the wedding industry there is its own kind of monster. The entire industry is run by the same “family.” Someone always “knows a guy who knows a guy” who can set you up with whatever you need, whether it’s legal or not. Our florist, I swear to God, was giving us tips on how to dispose of a body once you’ve had somebody “whacked.” (That's a direct quote, honest.) The trick, he says, is to befriend a gravedigger. Have him dig a grave a few feet too deep, and hide the body under the coffin, where no one will ever look, even if they exhume the body. Yeah, this was just our florist. I didn’t even talk to the deejay.

We had a rehearsal dinner on Saturday, even though there was no rehearsal. Apparently, the plan was to rehearse the ceremony a mere 20 minutes before the ACTUAL WEDDING the next day. I found this absurd, but whatever. The rehearsal dinner was lovely; there was a delicate balance between elegant dining and embarrassing, yet endearing, extended family. Every family has that boisterous uncle who constantly refers to people as “What’s-His-Ass” and completely embraces the concept of an open bar. My family has two. We also have several crazy cousins who are intent upon getting everyone over the age of 21 to do simultaneous shots of whatever liquor is available.

When we finally unwound ourselves from the Crazy Cousins and made it back to our hotel room, my sister and I crashed into bed and tried to sleep. We tried, despite the fact that some Random Drunk Guy (RDG) knocked on our door at 2:30 in the morning and woke us up. When Jennifer got up and answered the door, he tried to force his way in, apparently thinking it was his room. After trying unsuccessfully to reason with the RDG, my sister threw her weight against the door and said, “Look. I don’t know you. This is not your room. I am getting married tomorrow, and it’s NOT TO YOU. You just woke me up, and I’m starting to get angry. GO AWAY.” At that point, a security guy in the hallway stepped in. He was dressed in a suit and sunglasses (at 2:30 in the morning, indoors) and had a walkie-talkie. I’m pretty sure he wanted to be in the Secret Service when he grew up. He carted the RDG away, threatening to call the police, and we went back to bed. Unfortunately, it took them another two hours to figure out where the drunk man belonged, as they prowled the thin-walled hallways with their very loud walkie-talkies. At 4:30 I finally fell back to sleep, and our wake-up call came at 5:30. Sunday began.

At 5:35, a very tall woman with a giant bag strode into our room. I was still blinking myself awake as she whipped out hair dryers, curling irons, various gel products, and about 4,000 bobby pins. She was followed by a fast-talking woman carrying three make-up cases. Together, the two of them attacked us, Tasmanian Devil-style, with beauty products. In a couple of hours, the room was filled with chattering people, including, but not limited to: me, Jennifer, my mother, my father, Michael’s mother, the flower girl, the flower girl’s mother, the make-up lady, the hair guru, the photographer and her two assistants, and the bridal attendant. Chaos ensued.

Cindy was the bridal attendant sent to us by the wedding hall. Talk about a godsend. That woman was EVERYwhere. She had a pocket for every lip gloss, handkerchief, cell phone, and safety pin. She had eyes on every family member, guest, and staff member. She knew where everybody was, where they actually belonged, and how to get them there. I looked over at her once and noticed that she was holding Jennifer’s dress out of the dirt, had my purse strapped over her shoulder, was clutching a squirming flower girl by the wrist, and was sorting out which corsage went to which man, all at the same time. She should get a raise.

The weather was perfect and sunny, and so the ceremony was held outside the hall, in a beautiful garden with a fountain and trellis. It was a noon wedding, and after a few minutes of standing in direct sunlight in a floor-length, deep purple gown, I was beginning to wish it was an evening wedding. It was hot. Fortunately, it was not a long ceremony, and everything went flawlessly. Soon we were all herded into the mercifully air-conditioned reception hall for a cocktail hour, and then the reception. There was endless food and an open bar, and everyone was happy.

I had invited an old college friend to the wedding as my date, whom I hadn’t seen in about 4 years. He lives in Connecticut, and not only did he drive down to Long Island with no complaint, he showed up to a wedding in which he knew NO ONE except me, not even the bride or groom! He was beyond understanding when I had to go off and do Maid of Honor things, and was always there for a dance when I needed one. Bryan, if you’re reading this: You completely rock, dude. That’s an awesome friend, right there.

At the end of the day, Jennifer and Michael changed clothes and piled into a car that took them straight to the airport. They went on a mini-moon to Montreal for a few days; they will go on their actual honeymoon next year with a cruise to Alaska. With Jen and Mike gone, the guests filed out. My parents went off to spend some quality time with out-of-town friends and a bottle of wine, and I immediately collapsed into the hotel room bed. It had been a long damn weekend, and I was spent. I should have known that I would wake up with a searing soar throat and wicked cough.

All in all, it was a great experience. And now, for the photos!