After work on Friday I took a shuttle flight out to Chicago. I met Juan and Val at O’Hare and we drove to the lovely Skokie Doubletree, just outside of Chicago, where the whole wedding party was staying. As the family’s only known “friend of Dorothy,” it was my responsibility to make sure the wedding party knew that New York was in da’ house. So I decided to go in full-out Cuban pimp drag with a tan pin-striped linen jacket, khaki pants and … wait for it … a straw fedora. I was the fashion toast of Skokie that weekend, I’ll wager. Doubly impressive is the fact that the only item I actually brought with me from NYC was the jacket, white shirt and shoes. I purchased the rest of the ensemble just hours before the ceremony at the Marshall's next door to the hotel. How's that for living on the edge?The wedding day started off a bit rough for us. Per usual the Aunties drafted Juan, Val, Trish and I into singing for the ceremony. The organist was, to put it nicely, difficult. I guess we should have been prepared for some attitude, given that Al kept telling her we were “professional singers from New York.” I’m sure she came to the table ready to show us snooty East Coasters how they roll in Chicagoland. But let’s get real, it’s a wedding in Skokie not our premier at Chicago Lyric. You’re really going to choose this particular situation to have a my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours smack down?
First off, Val sent the organist dozens of music choices that we knew the couple would like and that we have performed at other weddings. But instead of honoring the family’s choices - because the wedding is obviously all about the organist - she decided we’d perform two songs of her choosing. Fine, yours is bigger than mine. This wouldn’t have been a problem had the songs been, well, good. But instead we got saddled with New Age-y, faux folk/pop ballads of the blandest sort - Christian elevator music.
We arrived at the church right before the ceremony with unreadable faxed copies from the hotel since the organist wouldn’t fax the music to us in NY because of some bulls*it about long distance faxing. After telling her we just wanted to plow through the song to learn the notes - remember we’re sight reading - she stops us two pages in to give us notes about dynamics. Really? The ceremony is set to begin in 20 minutes, we don’t know the song and you’re worried that we’re not catching that decrescendo in the fifth measure? Get a grip, lady. The funny part is she kept telling us we were singing too loudly. Um, we were marking (for you vocal laymen, that means we weren't really singing out, just sort of singing under our breath so as not to tire out our voices). I’m sure her ears were bleeding during the ceremony when we actually did sing with our "real" voices. On a side note, a few guests at the church commented about how the singing could have been louder and that it was difficult to hear us at some points. I'm just saying. Anyway, her wedding … I mean, Al and Bridget’s wedding ... went fine even with little rehearsal and bland music choices. Thankfully, Al is the last cousin to get married in that church so we never have to work with this woman again (knock on wood).
Twenty minutes into the reception, all thoughts of the organist from hell had dissipated thanks to the soothing embrace of beloved family member, Vodka Collins. I'm embarassed to say it, but we were “that” table. You know, the rowdy drunk group everyone whispers about and leers at. Don’t judge, we had a rough day. Regardless, we had a blast with our Canadian cousins, Serena and Jonathan, who can really put 'em back. And also our Indiana cousins, Hannah and Clara, who didn't drink at all (don't worry mamma Leslie), although they may have been privy to some mighty saucy language from the rest of the table. They're off to college soon, so I'd like to think we were just breaking them in.
My fedora was the hit of the evening, with everyone (okay, mainly the under ten set) fighting for a chance to try it on. Watch for my upcoming Fedora Series, to be published once I get the photos off Trish’s camera. And while we're on the subject of fashion, Gerry and I were disappointingly the only wedding guests to do a mid-reception outfit change. How can you attend an event and not have at least two costume changes?
Oh, and I almost forgot about the surly wedding photographer. I don't care how good your photos are, unless you're Ansel Adams it is not appropriate to tell your clients to shut up. While trying to get a group shot of the dozens of cousins, Little Miss Surly actually said (and without irony or joking smile), "If you don't shut up, this is going to take a lot longer." Oh no she didn't. Granted, we were all very drunk and rowdy. But it's a wedding reception, not a class photo shoot for Miss Buffy's Finishing School. After the initial shock and probably priceless shot of us all staring gaping-mouthed and wide-eyed into the camera, her comment only made us laugh louder and act even more inappropriately. That put Miss Surly-pants over the edge and she actually threatened to separate Margot and me. Seriously. It was like a real life Saturday Night Live sketch, only funny. (Note to photographer: if you want to take an organized group shot, don't wait until the end of the night after everyone's gotten plastered.)
The highlight of the weekend? - discovering the culinary Mecca known as Portillo’s Hot Dogs. The life changing experience can best be described in three words - dipped beef sandwich. ‘Nough said? Congratulations to Team Lucky (below). Bring me something nice from Hawaii.
(Photo courtesy of Leslie Cruz Ruegsegger)
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