Wedding Part III (Pt 2)
The day of Wedding Part III dawned more obscenely bright and blue-skied than Wedding Part I and II put together. After bacon and eggs and Sunday papers we slowly got organised. Here's Gareth ironing his shirt. He was continually amazed by these marvellous things Australians have called LAUNDRIES. A whole separate room, just for the washing machine. In Britain this room would be sub-divided into three studio apartments.
Note indoor use of sunnies and hat.
Clearly not coping with Australian climate.
I only needed about ten minutes to get ready as it was the third wedding and I finally had the routine down pat. Hair, make-up, squishy undies. And I'd lost enough blubber since the previous wedding that I could now breathe in the frock unassisted and zip it up all by myself! Previously it took two strong men and a tub of margarine.
The day gets pretty blurry after that. We arrived at the cafe for the party and it was hot hot hot. I had totally forgotten the sensation of sun crawling over skin. It made me feel rather light-headed and nervy. My friends started to arrive and all I can remember is talking a lot of shit. I was so anxious that people would have a nice time, find the food and the punch bowl; be able to understand Gareth's accent and vice versa. I cannot recall a single thing I said all afternoon. I just remember floating around, kissing people hello, thinking how foxy my pals looked and how strange it was to see Gareth wearing sunglasses.
We conducted a mock wedding ceremony just to give things a sense of occasion. Kind of like those dramatic reconstructions on Australia's Most Wanted. Jenny was my bridesmaid, Belinda was Gareth's Best Girl and the amazing Mattay became The Good Reverend.
Jenny led the way down the "aisle" and spontaneously bellowed the Wedding March, "DUN DUN DUN-DUUUUN!". This caused me to cackle 
and forget all about my vow to Act Cool And Classy so I wouldn't look demented in the wedding photos. Bugger.
I had just recovered my dignity when Matt welcomed everyone to the Wedding and pulled out a priest collar from his pocket and plopped it over his head. I had no idea where he got that from; it was genius.
I'd knocked up a script the night before, it was all very fluffy and tame so as not to alarm the elderly guests. I may as well cut and paste:
WEDDING CEREMONY THINGOCast:
RM — Reverend Matt
MS — Mothership
S — Shauna
G — GarethRM: We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Shauna and Gareth. Marriage is a sacred institution, one that is not to be entered into lightly. Therefore, since today is Shauna and Gareth's fourth wedding this year, we can all be safe in the knowledge that they are pretty serious about it by now.
So, who takes this woman away from this man, and then gives her away again?
MS: I do.
RM: Thank you Shazza. Now if the bride and groom could join hands, we can begin the vows.
[S & G join hands]
RM: [Turns to G] Gareth David, do you promise to keep on loving Shauna, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer; even though she always leaves bits of food on the plates when she does the dishes?
G: I do.
RM: Excellent. [Turns to S] Shauna Lee, do you promise to keep on loving Gareth, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer; even though you still can't always understand his Scottish accent?
S: I do.
RM: Do we have the wedding rings?
[J hands ring to S, B hands ring to G]
RM: Gareth, please take your wife's hand and repeat after me. With this ring, I re-wed.
G: With this ring, I re-wed. [G puts ring on S's finger]
RM: Shauna, take that Scotsman by the hand and repeat after me. With this ring, I re-wed.
S: With this ring, I re-wed. [And vice versa]
RM: I now pronounce you, once again, husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!
CROWD GOES WILD. THE END.
And then there was mingling. Captured here is a moment of confusion with my Auntie remarking how she never knew I had a friend who was a man of the cloth, and me explaining how Reverend Matt was not a real Reverend.
(Photos by the famous JinkyArt. They specialise in photographing kids, but kindly agreed to snap our party. We're good at acting immature anyway. I implore you, if you don't have children you should go out and GET SOME, just so Barb can take photographs of them.)
So I hope everyone had a good time. I mostly remember The Mothership's laughter bouncing off the walls. She has a great bunch of mates and they're always up for a good time. I know I sent out the dorky Thank You cards long ago, but thanks everyone for coming along. And thanks to everyone far and wide who were so tops during the whole wedding process; I wish we could have invited youse all. Right now here in Scotland it's turned dark and chilly and everyone seems so far away. It's a year ago on Monday, see. I've gone all mushy and pathetic.
Let's get on to the most important bit... THE CAKE!
You may recall The Mothership's request for a thistle to plonk atop the cake alongside a sprig of wattle, so to represent Oz and Scotland. This sparked alarmed emails from readers who thought I'd try and smuggle a plant past Australia's notoriously strict customs officials. But I found a nice fake one. Unfortunately all the local wattle had died off so we used some other native fluff.
The cake did look a treat. This may be the only photo 
from the day in which I am not grinning or gurning like a moron, because I was hypnotised by this vision of chocolately goodness.
Phwoar.
Wedding Part III (Pt 1)
Here's a theory: The fancier you make your wedding invitations, the more you increase the expectation that the wedding will be of corresponding fanciness.
Like a few months ago a friend of Gareth's got hitched. The event was announced by a posh, creamy envelope swishing through the mail slot. The two of us gawked at the invitation in horror. The embossed lettering. The silk ribbon. The date spelled out in proper words. The lack of exclamation marks.
Finally, Gareth broke the silence. "How SHIT were our wedding invitations compared to this?"
"I knooooooooooow!" I howled.
We really did have rubbish wedding invitations.
Some background if you're new around here - Gareth and I eloped last March in the madness of Las Vegas. This was followed by parties in both Scotland (July) and Australia (October).
Neither of us have ever been comfortable with being the centre of attention at social gatherings. For example, I loathed birthday parties as a child. Why give your classmates insight into all that dysfunction? Why try and meet their lofty expectations vis-a-vis party games and party food when you will no doubt fail them before you can say Home Brand Lemonade?
I initially felt the same about our wedding festivities. At least if your kiddy party was a fizzer, you could pap off the blame to your parents. But now we were the grown-ups, and I was consumed by this imaginary pressure to provide a Good Time for All.
Luckily Mary, my Mother-in-law-ship, was on the case - she'd organised the venue, the food, the flowers and the ceilidh band. All we had to do was the invitations. I knew Gareth was my soul mate the moment he uttered my exact thoughts and fears: "We better not make them too fancy, we don't want to get people's expectations too high!"
I think I may have set them just a tiny bit too low by knocking up the invite in Microsoft Word in under ten minutes. We did jazz it up with a photo from Wedding Part I complete with Elvis impersonator, but the effect was lost once it had been churned through the photocopier. And for the final note of crapness, I mailed them off in poo-brown envelopes that I'd found up the back of the stationery cupboard at work, so ancient that I had to glue them shut.
Invitation before spellcheck.
Wedding Part II turned out to be a nice event. A good time was had by the guests in proportion to the expectations set by our lo-fi invitations. I never really stopped think how rubbish they actually looked until Wedding Part III. The Mothership was at the helm this time and called me up to ask, "What are we doing about invitations?"
"It's under control," I said breezily, "I'll just edit the date on the Scottish invite and email it to you. All you have to do is hit Print!"
"That doesn't sound very classy."
"People don't expect me to be classy!"
When we arrived in Australia the week before the Big Day (which is now actually a year ago. I'm right on the ball with these blog entries, hey?), I was calm and serene. I was not feeling in the least bit stressed about the connubials. After all, I was a veteran by then! I was more concerned with catching up with friends and getting my mitts on my first decent mango in two years.
But this all changed at Jenny's house. She was cooking us dinner when I saw the familiar picture on her fridge. Gareth, Elvis and me. But it was in colour. On fancy marbled paper. With elegant fonts.
"Oh no," I squawked. "Is that the wedding invitation?"
"Sure is! Your Mum did a great job eh?"
"She did do a great job! That's terrible!"
"Why?"
"It's far too fancy," I whined. "It's too nice. It sets false expectations! People will show up thinking it's going to be a really fancy wedding but it's just a wee party with me trying not to burst out of my dress and they're all going to be disappointed and HATE me!"
I should have known The Mothership wouldn't just stick the invitation through the photocopier. She always has to do things properly. Now I had to deal with all this pressure. I started thinking about my friends who were travelling from far flung corners of Australia for the party, and calculated that the greater the distance one had to drive to get to a wedding, the more one should expect to be shown a good time! I'd say this expectation increases by a factor of ten for every 100 kilometres travelled.
And the prettiness of the invitation made it look like a Proper Event. Before when it was just a crappy Word document, I didn't have to take it seriously. I didn't have to worry about Wedding Politics, and who I had or had not invited; who I had or had not offended. I didn't have to think about the Family Issues I'd been ignoring for years, with the paternal side feuding to the point of Jerry Springer-ness (actually I wish they would hit each other over the head with chairs; some mild concussion or amnesia would do everyone some good). The Word document meant no pressure and low expectations, so I'd be able to tell any offended parties, "Oh you didn't miss out on much! It was just a naff little party!". But now I was wracked with guilt and panic.
The Mothership reassured that my worries were unfounded. People weren't expecting a Broadway production - they were just happy to come along and catch up with everyone; to eat and drink and find out if my Scottish husband was real or imaginary. But for the days leading up to Wedding Part III I was a melodramatic mess. It had taken six months, but I was finally having my Bridezilla moment.
To be continued!
One Year of Marital Bliss
Incidentally that's a backpack on my back, not some sort of quasi-Quasimodo growth.
What happened next? The snowball connected with my head and I screamed, "YOU HIT ME, YOU FUCKER!".
Despite the violence, we are still happy together one year on. I might just even renew my ring insurance policy.
The Partnership
As the Australian leg of the wedding odyssey rapidly approaches, it's The Mothership's turn to get the Wedding Fever. While she has a more relaxed approach than the Motherinlawship for the Scottish one, she's still a stickler for details. Because weddings are all about details. She came up with the idea of decorating the cake with some wattle and a thistle to symbolise the union of the Aussie and the Jock. I scrounged up a thistle and assumed we'd just yank a sprig of wattle off a tree on the way to the party, but I received this memo instead:
FROM: Mothership
SUBJECT: Photo and Size of ThistleGood evening to you both
Could you email photo of thistle (put something next to it that I would know for size comparison) and write the dimensions of thistle in the Email - we need to get the wattle the same size to represent your partnership with Gareth.
Luv ya
Ma
(Don't kill me Ma! Couldn't resist this one!)
It Happens Every Day
Cutting the cake was the only Official Wedding Thing we thought we'd have to do during the whole Official Wedding Party. We stabbed the slab, posed for pictures then poised to flee. But that's when people started hollering, "Speech! Speech!".
"Ummm," gulped Gareth. He briefly thanked our friends and family then we attempted to scurry away, but the guests were still looking at us expectantly. My sister Rhi bellowed from the back row, "How bout we hear from the BRIDE?! It's 2005, don't you know!"
The gin and tonic had impaired the part of my brain that makes one think before speaking. "Yeah! " I blurted, "Thanks David and Mary for putting on a great party. Especially Mary who ran round organising the whole thing while David played golf and me and Gareth sat on our ARSES!"
There must have been a dozen snowy-haired Friends of the In-Laws all thinking, "How did nice young Gareth end up with this uncouth Australian?"
I don't normally supplement with alcohol, but both of us had been terrified about the party. All these people giving up their Saturday night because of us? Wasn't there something better on the telly? Many people relish being the centre of attention but it turns my stomach to ice. What if no one had a good time? What if they thought the ceilidh was naff? I've always hated throwing parties because I feel personally responsible for the happiness of everyone in the room. So keeping fifty people happy, many of whom I didn't know, well... that's pressure, baby.
But the ceilidh was a brilliant icebreaker. We stomped around the dancefloor while the band fiddled and accordion-ed and a tall bossy lady told us what to do. It was a scorching evening by Scottish standards, soon our guests were red and glazed like Christmas hams. I handed out cards from our wedding gifts so the ladies could fan themselves between dances.
As I surveyed the room most people seemed to be in a reasonable state of happiness, so I started to relax. Perhaps a little too much. It was time for Strip The Willow and the caller instructed the men to, "birl the girl around a bit".
"What the fuck is a birl?" I boomed.
To my right stood three small children. To my left was my mother-in-law. Just dandy.
Birl: v. to spin.
I fled to the loos soon after that, remembering just in time that I was wearing my Amazing Squishy Bodysuit Thingy beneath the wedding frock that undos with three very fiddly clasps in the crotch area. Ladies, be sure to allow yourself plenty of fumbling time if you wear one of these contraptions and have a small bladder. If I'd had another wine it could have been disasterous.
Earlier that day I'd made a few dozen prints from Vegas and stapled them on a big noticeboard, so guests could trace our wacky path to the altar. Everytime a guest innocently paused by the display I'd rush over and sprout verbal captions for each picture, like the curator of the Dork Museum. It was surreal, standing there in the same fancy frock, gawking at photos of me and Gareth and that dude in the Elvis suit crooning into a microphone. It was no wonder I hadn't felt like we've been married these past four months. The whole Vegas thing looked so bloody pantomine ridiculous that it couldn't possibly be for real!
But on Saturday night, surrounded by friends and family and semi-strangers, reality finally sank in. As much fun as eloping had been, celebrating the moment with a room full of sweaty folk was extra special. There were Gareth's school buddies catching up over a smoke. There were aunties and cousins and golfing buddies. There were little kids who crapped their pants from excitment. There was the Ewins', without whom I'd never have met Gareth. There were generous and patient in-laws. There was my delirious sister untying balloons, gulping down the helium and bleating, "Does my voice sound funny? Does it? Does it?".
The evil gin makes me sentimental, so we could blame my misty-eyed antics on that. But as our guests trickled home I felt sappier than a box of Disney DVDs. I had had a blast and was feeling very fortunate indeed. I queued up one last song on our classy iTunes/speaker set-up and dragged the bloke that I now properly appreciated was my husband onto the dancefloor. The belated First Dance for the bride and groom was It's Not Unusual. Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh! What a day.
Youth of Today
One unexpected side effect of getting married seems to be an increased capacity for shouting at the telly and moaning about the state of the world. We watched a bit of Glastonbury this weekend and complained about: bands that plunder Talking Heads but with sharper suits, the honking huge void left by John Peel and of course the mighty suckfulness of Coldplay. Everything was better back in OUR DAY, don't you know; even though our day was only a few years ago. Gareth declared that the last Really Good Glastonbury was 1997; and of course I agreed, having formed this opinion in Australia from an imported copy of Q magazine six months after the event.
I'm hoping this curmudgeonly behaviour simply indicates we're now nicely settled into our state of hitchedness. And the timing is good since we have to get married AGAIN next Saturday, aka The Night of the Hot Ceilidh Action.
SHAUNA: Did you know that I've previously only been to four weddings in my whole life, but now I have to go to four weddings in one year alone? And they're all our bloody weddings!
GARETH: Yeah? I'm really getting sick of getting married to you!
S: Yeah? Well I'm really getting sick of getting married to you, too!
S & G: Hehe.
Dispatch
The stinking invitations have been sent. Thanks to all who offered to be guests; I have you all on standby!
GARETH: Can't we just run away from the wedding party?
SHAUNA: You can't elope when you're already married!
The Fiddler on the Phone
Gareth and I quite often forget we got married. It still feels like we just went on a really excellent holiday and there was that guy in the Elvis suit. That's why we can only blink confusedly when asked how the Wedding Party Preparations are going. Luckily Mary, Gareth's Mum, knows how lazy and inept we both are and has done much of the organisation already.
We had a Planning Summit around the dinner table last Sunday. It's surreal to find yourself with Parents-in-Law, but mine are lovely and I like going to their house. They have our wedding photo on top of the piano! I've never been on someone's piano before. They've tolerated our haphazard approach to marriage with grace and humour.
"So," said David, Gareth's father, "Your mother's now telling everyone you two eloped, haven't you Mary? Because it sounds more sordid that way!"
"Well! It's a good story!"
Gareth's brother entered the room and announced, "There's a fiddler on the phone."
"Oh! The fiddler!"
"The fiddler?" I whispered to Gareth as his Mum dashed out.
"Yes. For the ceilidh band."
There'll be none of your mulletted Foreigner-playing dodgy DJ's at our wedding party, thanks very much. We are having a traditional ceilidh dancefest, complete with twelve-piece band. It will be kilts ahoy. I can Strip the Willow with the best of them but I am already worried my wedding dress won't contain my boobs when confronted with such jaunty exercise. Then there's the high heels that make me stagger like a trainee drag queen. That was the beauty of running off to Vegas - I only had to look nice for ten minutes then I could get back into my slob gear.
The first order of business was the selection of items for the buffet. This involved Mary reminding Gareth and I that it was Our Party and it was really up to Us, Gareth shrugging, "I dunno", me giggling at how Scottish people pronounce it "boo-fee" and David saying, "As long there's no vol-au-vents! I can't stand vol-au-vents!"
"Now what about the wedding cake?" Mary asked. "Do you want a round cake or square cake? Fruit cake or sponge cake?"
I could see Gareth's head turning crimson, a sure sign of confusion and/or stress. "I'm not a fan of fruit cake."
"Me either!" I piped up, helpfully.
"Then we'll have TWO tiers with one of each flavour!"
"Good good, that's all settled!" David tapped his wine glass with a knife. "Meeting adjourned. Mary, I haven't seen you have this much fun since we were buying the new piano!"
This past week didn't sail as smoothly. First we started calling guests and found that many were on holidays or going to T in the Park. I don't know how you could turn down some accordion action for the likes of Snoop Dogg and Foo Fighters, but people have strange priorities. Then it seemed the ceilidh band were unavailable. Mary seemed gravely concerned that there'd only be half a dozen people in the giant room she'd hired, munching vol-au-vents in ceilidh-less silence.
"Don't you have any more friends?"
"I dunno!"
There is nothing that skyrockets a mother's anxiety levels than a listless "I dunno" from an ungrateful child. She suggested we invite all my work colleagues, random strangers from the phone book, bums off the street; anything to boost the numbers.
My favourite stress-filled exchange of the week:
"What's wrong with you today anyway, you're very grumpy!"
"I've got a lot on at work, that's all."
"Oh. You're not taking it out on Shauna, are you?"
"Nooo!"
"Well a friend's daughter's partner just came back from Iraq and he's taking it out on her."
"I'm not taking it out on her!"
"Well, I was just saying."
Good news came though on Sunday - the ceilidh band have made themselves available, after Mary explained the Bride was Australian and would really appreciate a dose of Scottish culture. We may end up with more band members than guests but for the moment there's an air of calm on Planet Wedding Party. Ahhh.
Protector of the Ring
So I finally got round to getting a proper wedding ring. I was hoping the perfect ring would come to me in a dream, delivered on a velvet cloud. But in the end it involved getting off my arse and going to the shops on a crowded Saturday afternoon, ensuring maximum flusteredness. I chose a simple white gold band just to get it over with.
The sales assistant with the pimples and gelled spikes seemed disappointed at the swiftness of my purchase. He had to act fast. "Did you know for only £6.99 I can give you Ring Protection Insurance? You'll be covered for theft or damage for two years!"
"Ummm. Ummm." As soon as someone tries to sell me anything, my face burns red and I lose the ability to form sentences.
"We'll replace the ring right away with one exactly the same, or one of equal value! It's a great deal!"
"Ummm!" Panic closed in. Ring Protection Insurance? What the hell did I want with Ring Protection Insurance for such a boring, inexpensive loop of metal? What kind of moron did he take me for?
I looked at the floor, I looked at Gareth; I riffled through my handbag as if my brain lurked there beside the scrunched up tissues and Breathmints of Yesteryear. "What do you think, Gareth?"
"Well I dunno," he replied helpfully.
"Only £6.99 and we'll renew the policy once the two years up if you're still married."
My brain finally piped up. You don't need bloody Ring Protection Insurance. We have contents insurance! And it's a plain wedding band, not the freaking Crown Jewels! But the words spewed forth regardless. "Okay! Okay! I'll take it!"
"Excellent choice, ma'am."
Back out on the street, I clenched my Ring Protection Insurance Policy in one fist and waved the other wildly in the air. I was spluttering with indignant, white-hot rage; the most infuriating kind because you know it's your own stupid fault and you can't pin it on anyone else.
But that doesn't mean you can't try.
"WHAT the hell happened in there?"
"Yeah, how come you got that Insurance? We have contents insurance."
"I KNOW!"
"And it's just a plain wedding ring. And how will anyone steal it when you never take it off?"
"I KNOW! I KNOW!"
"I bet he literally shat his pants on the spot," Gareth grinned, "From sheer shock that someone actually took that policy."
"Arrrgh!"
"He will be Employee of the Month for sure."
"This is all YOUR fault!" I squeaked. "You were supposed to stop me! You were meant to speak up! You know I am rubbish in these situations. As soon as someone puts on the hard sell I crumble like a block of feta. CRUMBLE!"
"But I didn't think anyone could actually say yes to a Ring Protection Policy."
"You have FAILED!" I cried dramatically as I stomped down the street, "You have FAILED the first test of our marriage!"
Later I poured over the wretched document and realised the policy had a 20-day cooling off period. But it meant I'd have to go back to the shop and say, "Hello, I am a buffoon. Gimme back my seven quid." I calculated that I had wasted almost $25 Australian on this escapade. Whenever I do something stupid with money I always convert it back to Australian dollars, so I can intensify the humiliation and prolong the pointless rage.
This sort of thing happens to me all the time - me handing over money to strangers on autopilot, not fully comprehending until I look down at an empty purse and scream, "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!". Just last weekend a dreadlocked woman approached me and told me she was a nun, and did I want to buy a CD of some crazy music? Only £7. I immediately opened my purse and told her I only had £2. She said that was more than enough to buy one of her books. So now I am the proud owner of some Hare Krishna meditation tome with no English text whatsoever.
And a few months before that I was walking home, huddled beneath my headphones. A surly teenage chick with a sidekick boyfriend stopped me and started babbling. I turned down the volume and finally heard, "We've got no money for the bus, can you loan us a couple quid?". Ten seconds later I'd handed over all my change and apologised for being so rude with my headphones and all. She looked at coins in her hand, blinking in disbelief.
"Cold today, innit?" said the sidekick boyfriend.
And then they disappeared into the shop next door. Even with my headphones back on I could still hear their laughter. The bus hurtled by, spraying a mucky puddle over my shoes.
"So what does this policy cover you for?" Gareth asked.
"Umm. Theft. And stuff. IF it's in our house."
"Well. For just £6.99 you have bought piece of mind. If there's a freak flood or stealthy burgular, or if a magpie flies in the window in the middle of the night and bites your finger off, we're totally covered."
Franklin Minted
I neglected to mention that as part of our Sorry You Had To Get Married Twice compensatory gifts, they also threw in this genuine replica of Elvis and Priscilla's Marriage Certificate in a white vinyl presentation folder! I assume Elvis' floating head was part of the State Seal of Nevada at the time.
But even that pales in comparison to the stunning gift we received from Rory and Jane - a genuine 1981 Charles and Diana commemorative coffee mug. We are having the velvet-lined display case custom built as we speak!
People keep asking, "How does it feel to be married?". It still doesn't feel real. I don't think it will until I get my passport and Spouse Visa back from the Home Office, the official word that I am allowed to stay in the UK. Until then I feel like a fraud; I am Gerard Depardieu to Gareth's Andie McDowell with a lower maintenance hairdo. I keep waiting for Immigration to knock down our door and scream, "SHAM MARRIAGE! SHAM MARRIAGE!" because the wedding was a bit too ridiculous to be real.
But it is real. Sweeeeet. Can you believe we pulled it off? Just three years ago I caught the bouquet and bitched all about it, but somehow I ended up hitched. Am I supposed to act different now? Should I bake some pies?
The King And Us
The foyer was decorated with photos of the veritable galaxy of stars previously wed at the Chapel. Jon Bon Jovi, Jay Leno, Billy Ray Cyrus, Chucky & Bride of Chucky, and some guy that used to be on The Young and the Restless. I gazed up at them as the receptionist handed me an bouquet of white flowers. "You're here for the eleven thirty?"
"We're the eleven."
"Oh right! Groom's name... Garth? Garett?"
"Gareth!"
"Oh, that's unusual! Okey dokey then! You guys ready to get married?"
The photographer took us into the chapel and arranged us into a dozen different poses in three minutes. Bride stand here, groom stand there. His arm here, her feet there. Hand up, chin down. Kiss here, grope there.
"Now, will you be exchanging rings?"
Gareth and I grimaced, "Umm, sorta."
I pulled two rings off my finger. "We didn't get round to buying them so we're just going to use these and turn them upside down so they look like wedding bands."
The photographer pointed at one of them. "What is THAT?"
"It's jade! Or plastic, maybe. Got it from a market in Moscow for 20 roubles."
He raised his eyebrow at Gareth, "Big spender, aren't ya buddy?"
Next we were introduced to the Reverend who'd be doing the officals. She was all cute and round like Dawn French in the Vicar of Dibley. "So it's Shauna and.. Gar-eth?" She pronounced his name like it rhymed with "caress", with added lisp.
"Gareth!"
"Shauna and Gary, okay. Now Gary you come with me down the aisle and we'll shut the doors so the bride can make her dramatic entrance. I'll say a few words, then we do the vows, and then you'll be married!"
It was so surreal. Even as the Bridal March cranking up, I couldn't comprehend that this was our wedding. I just stared at the cheesy photos on the wall muttering, "Heh heh heh." Someone opened the double doors and I strolled down the aisle, vaguely thinking "Oh, there's Gareth", but mostly "Woohoo! I can walk in these shoes!". I half-listened to the Reverend as she said a prayer and some words about love and two lives coming together, blah blah blah.
But as soon as she started the vows, pow! I was finally in the moment. We didn't know beforehand how the vows would be phrased, but they turned out to be simple and eloquent. Gareth was holding my hands, absently brushing his thumbs back and forth like he always does. That gesture always makes me feel so calm and reassured, this time it was electric. Until that moment this whole Vegas thing had just felt like some really elaborate vacation. But now we looked at each other with this mixture of nerves and warmth and tenderness and Holy Fucking Shit Batman, We're Getting Married!
"Now repeat after me," said the Minister. 'Gar-ethhh, I love you.'"
"GARETH!" I corrected, "I love you!"
And I'd never meant it so much as right then. The tears prickled and my heart pounded like a Bon Jovi power ballad. Five stars to Boots No 7 Waterproof Mascara!
We then promised to love and cherish, but nothing about obeying, dammit. Gareth slid the upside-down ring-o-shite onto my finger. Then I stared at his hands in confusion, my usual battle with Left and Right made worse by the fact it was in reverse, but I eventually chose the correct digit without having to make an 'L' with my left hand.
The Minister smiled. "Now you may seal your marriage with A BIG KISS!"
And then we were hitched.
We headed to the counter to collect our certificate and pay the bill. A lady in a red and black sequined minidress was next up at the white doors, her tight-demined fella waiting down the aisle. They'd shelled out for the Elvis impersonator, and what a strapping specimen he was! Tall, lean and leather-suited; this was Elvis in the prime of his Vegas years, before he messed with the fried peanut butter sandwiches.
"So that's you guys all done," said the receptionist, handing me a receipt.
"Cool!" I gawked at the wedding certificate in disbelief. "Oh! I almost forgot. Do we get the DVD now or do you post it to us later?"
"You ordered the DVD? I don't think there's a DVD included your package?"
"True, but I rang back a few weeks ago and added it, remember?"
The receptionist flipped through the book. "Oh yes. Here it is. OH. Right. Umm. Let me go check with the photographer."
A few minutes later the photographer rushed in, clutching his forehead, "OH... SHOOT!"
"You didn't film their wedding?"
"OH... SHOOT!"
The staff were aghast and apologetic. Maybe they thought I'd be Freakout Bride and sue! "We are SO sorry!" said the lovely blonde lady that owns the place, "The photographer just saw the package name on the sheet and didn't see we'd added a note about the DVD. I can refund you right away?"
"It's okay, really!" I said, "But the only problem is that my mother was very insistent we get the DVD, so I don't dare go home without it."
"Okay," said Blondie, "We'll just have to reshoot."
"Reshoot? You mean, do the wedding again?"
"If you guys don't mind. It's the least we could do!"
She was all apologies, but Gareth and I were in stitches. It was just so beautifully ridiculous. Two weddings in ten minutes? Classy! If we stuck around another hour we could beat Elizabeth Taylor's record.
"I'll tell you what, how about we throw in Elvis, too?" Blondie offered. "Since you're being so good about this. He's right here and ready to go!"
By then Mr & Mrs Minidress were done. Elvis sauntered over to be briefed on the situation. He grinned and gave the thumbs up.
Next thing Gareth was back at the altar and I was poised behind the doors for my second jaunt down the aisle. It was then I recalled The Mothership's reaction when I told her we were running away to Vegas. There'd been a long pause on the line before she asked, "Are you sure you're taking this marriage thing seriously?"
"We're taking the marriage seriously, Mother!" I explained. "Just not the wedding!"
The doors swung open and there was Elvis waiting for me, strumming his guitar and crooning Love Me Tender. I hooked my arm through his and willed myself not to laugh for the next five minutes. I could hear the tripod screech every time the video camera changed position. This was going to be one classy production.
"Who gives away this woman today?" the Minister asked as we reached the end of the runway.
"On behalf of her friends and family," drawled Elvis, "I do! Elvis, the King of ROCK AND ROLL!"
He winked at Gareth, "She's all yers, buddy!"
"Thank you. Thank you very much!"
The Minister plowed through the vows again. For the benefit of the camera we tried to recreate the sincerity and emotion of our first marriage. I tried to get my voice to waver on the vows, so people wouldn't know this my second time around. And I managed to kiss the groom with the same enthusiasm as I had all those minutes before.
As we unlocked lips there was the plasticky CLUNK of a portable CD player. Muzak dribbled forth as Elvis burst back into the chapel. The Minister gestured with her eyebrows for us to take a pew and be serenaded. We smiled awkwardly into the cameras as the King sang Can't Help Falling In Love.
It's cool to be on your second marriage without encountering lawyers, bitterness, custody battles or property settlements. Best of all they gave us a free t-shirt that says, I RENEWED MY VOWS AT GRACELAND CHAPEL!
Note: The wedding pics have now been archived. Let me know if you missed them and want to have a peek!
Wedding Part I
I woke up cucumber cool and dead keen to get down the aisle. Gareth, on the other hand, wandered round the hotel room singing, "Whacking Day, O Whacking Day!". It's one of my favourite songs from The Simpsons, but it troubled me that this was Gareth's tune du jour. Was it because "Whacking Day" has the same number of syllables as "Wedding Day", or something more disturbing? Was he comparing his impending nuptials to being clubbed over the head with a big stick?
I was too busy being vain and obnoxious to be nervous. Ladies, if you've ever thought of eloping, consider a few things. Are you capable of dressing yourself? Can you apply mascara on without smearing the wand across your nose? Can you remember to break in your shoes before the day of the wedding? Can you do up your own frock, or do you need five people to hold down your guts while a sixth hauls up the zipper?
If not, you should go the traditional route, i.e. with bridesmaids and mothers and make-up artists and hairdressers - also known as PERSONAL SLAVES. These people will remind you unpick that wedgie or powder your shiny nose before the photos. They will give you Something Blue so you don't have to write it on your foot with a pen. They provide the brains on the big day, so you don't have to climb onto a hotel room sink and batter your head against the mirror like a moth as you try to apply eyeshadow under a fluorescent strip while shrieking, "My eyes! My eyes! I can't see my DAMN EYES in this DAMN LIGHT!".
They would also make sure you didn't get married with just one earring. Somewhere on the journey from our room to the Inclinator (the Luxor elevators that run on a diagonal down the side of the pyramid), I lost one of mine. It was only £4 worth of earring, but they were long and dangly and foxy, dammit! I made Gareth crawl around on the pharaoh-patterned carpet for ten minutes to no avail. Cue Bridal Hissyfit.
"Great! ONE DAY of my life I need to be classy. Why not just ONE DAY?
"Just wear one earring!" said Gareth, ever-tolerant. "You'll be totally punk, like Cyndi Lauper or something."
"Bah!"
I finally stopped grumbling when we got into a taxi and headed down the Strip. We zoomed past our fake Pyramid, the fake Statue of Liberty, the fake Eiffel Tower, the fake Venice. With every tacky landmark my grin got bigger. I was about to marry the love of my life in the most ridiculous town on earth. Rawk!
The chapel was in downtown Vegas, conveniently located between a seedy motel and an establishment that promised HOTT NAKED CHICKS!
To be continued! When my brain works!
Viva Las Vegas!
What do Gareth and I have in common with Jon Bon Jovi and Billy Ray Cyrus? We all got married at Graceland Chapel!
In all the excitement of Thursday I accidentally neglected to post THIS CRUCIAL PHOTO in which I revealed the Freaking Huge Dramatic Surprise that we had run away to Las Vegas to get married! What a turkey am I?!?
Anyway we had a cracking few days in Sin City, earning a grand total of $2.00 on the slots and staying in a giant pyramid and saw Tom Jones on our wedding night! He even played What's New Pussycat and I swear he has a sock stuffed down his trousers.
Now we are in San Francisco, I am blogging from the Apple store and we have another few days of honeymooning. Thank you to everyone who sent such kind messages to us! The wedding was unbelievably hilarious and what Gareth calls "Blogging Gold" so I will tell you all about it when we get home next Saturday.
In the meantime, my apologies for cocking up the big surprise. Hope you're all well! Hee hee!
We Have The Technology
Be sure to tune in this Thursday 3rd March because I will attempt to post a few pictures LIVE from our nuptials. They will be of the shoddiest, low-resolution cameraphone kind. My grasp of mobile technology can be described as "shithouse" at best, so if it doesn't work please don't come after me with sharp knives.
I tried to send a test pic to WNP via Flickr but it just won't bloody work, so just check my Flickr page every now and then coz that is where the grainy delights will be. Hopefully.
At a very rough guess you may see a trickle of images around 7PM Edinburgh time (GMT), which translates as:
11AM San Francisco
1PM Guatemala
2PM New York
4AM Tokyo (Friday)
6AM Sydney (Friday)
So Mothership, set your alarm!
Update: Wedding pics have now been archived. Thanks for all your good wishes!
Three Ring Circus
One week to go and I have a rotten cold. I caught it deliberately, so when I say "I do" I will rasp like Bonnie Tyler and Gareth will say, "I DO TOO! I cannae resist a voice so sultry!".
I seemed to have caused blogging confusion again. I didn't make it clear that I was just moving to Chez Gareth -- the hitchin' doesn't happen until 3rd March. So that's a whole week of living in sin. Woo!
Last night I was doing some laundry and was strangely mesmerised by my socks thrashing around in the washing machine. I'd visited Gareth's flat a million times before but now this was meant to be my flat too. Our flat. And this was the washing machine that I'd be using until death do us part. I'm so used to living with six other people and Soviet-style queues that I'd waited politely until Gareth had washed all his stuff instead of chucking mine in too. But the thought of having both our clothes jumping around in there together felt so bizarre. His manly boxers and my PURPLES struggling together in this crazy modern world. What a great metaphor for marriage!
So! I'll let you in on our wedding plans.
So Long, Suckers!
Moving house would have been quick and easy if I wasn't so sentimental. I came here with just two wee suitcases, but now I have those same two wee suitcases plus eleven boxes chock full of "mementos". I like to sift through this magpies nest and let random objects trigger memories, rather than having to remember things with my actual brain. So in lieu of packing, I spent Saturday sniffling and blubbering over two years of Scottish detritus. The wrapper from my first Tunnocks Tea Cake. A tiny lump of Icelandic volcano. Twenty-two boarding passes from our travels. A Durex wrapper from a Particularly Good Shag. A handwritten sign, SHAUNA AND RHIANNON'S FOOD CUPBOARD: KEEP OUT!
And what a crying shame to be parting company with my treasured flatmates, what with their radioactive cheese in the fridge, penchant for playing The Best of Elton John at midnight; their rainbow of pubes on the bathroom floor. I haven't bothered to actually tell them I'm leaving, but maybe I'll reminisce as I waltz out the door, "Remember when you brought that guy home from the pub and your fake orgasm sounded like a cow being slaughtered?". Or, "Remember the time I peed on your bra?".
Yesterday I woke up and thought, This is the last day on my own. Tomorrow it's off to the marital home. What would you if you had just 24 hours left as a single person? Take yourself out for lunch? Go clubbing? Bungee jump? Furiously masturbate, all day long? Well I chose to go the gym, scramble some eggs then arrange my boarding pass collection in chronological order. I was a thrillseeker right to the end!
The Scientist
Cheers to the anonymous eagle-eyed commenter who pointed out the logistical flaw in the last entry. How could the bodysuit possibly have pinned my arms over my head if I still had the crotch snaps done up? Good point!
I can only blame that inaccuracy on hurried blogging close to midnight with a bellyful of champagne. I actually tried on two evil bodysuits. The first one got stuck on the hips and then we discovered the snaps. The second one saw me undo the snaps but still getting stuck when I tried to pull it over my head. Obviously the chronology of events became blurred by Veuve Clicquot. My apologies for any confusion, but one reassuring thing is that the bodysuit is definitely in the Warm Autumn Palette, as is the wedding frock.
. . .
I'm having sporadic Freak Outs about getting hitched. I was whining down the phone to The Mothership that I was genetically predisposed to being crap at marriage. For example, The Fathership is on his third wife. The Mothership told me that you don't have to let your genes dictate your path in life. Which is true. Joe Stalin had kids, and as far as I know they're not genocidal tyrants. There's no reports of Apple Paltrow-Martin writing boring but heartfelt songs. YET.
So is life all about Nature or Nurture? Or is it the Nature of the Nurturing? An example. The Mothership always sends me Sensible Cotton Undies in the post, because she doesn't want me wasting money on British Knickers when Aussie ones are so much cheaper. Parents seem to like buying smalls for their kids no matter how old they get, it's a way of keeping their hooks in; a machine-washable reminder that no matter how cool you may think you are now, there is still this lady that used to wipe your arse.
The Mothership once sent a six-pack of Bonds briefs. Two white, two grey marle and two lilac. The lilac ones had the word PURPLE printed all over them in giant white letters. PURPLE! All scrawly and cursive, like the Plat du Jour on a restaurant menu. PURPLE! Just in case you were colourblind and couldn't see for yourself. PURPLE!
"She hates me," I brooded. "She is trying to sabotage my love life. She never wants me to find a man. These aren't even in the Warm Autumn palette. Who will love me with PURPLE undies?"
When my birthday rolled round Mum asked did I need another shipment. "Sure," I said, "But can I have them sans-graffiti?"
"What's wrong with the Purples?"
"Every time I wear them Gareth cackles, 'PURPLE! Woohoo!' and it's bloody embarassing."
Anyway, my point is: I managed to convince someone to marry me IN SPITE of the off-putting undies, thus overcoming both Nature AND Nurture. Therefore there is a chance I can outwit the divorce gene. Hurrah!
Carry On London
The very first dress in the very first shop. Surely this was a Guinness Book of Bridal Records moment! But not if you're working with the Grand High Priestess of Shopping, my trusty sister Rhiannon.
Would you expect anything less from the organisational mastermind behind the Plastic Bag Luggage System and the Maximum Efficiency Grocery Run? She'd spent the last two Sundays trawling Oxford Street on what she called The Pre-Shop. She knew that my usual technique -- stomping reluctantly into a store, glancing round once, and if nothing comes dancing off the rack singing PICK ME within thirty seconds I'll just say, "Nothing to see here," then break for lunch -- would be particularly unsuitable for finding a wedding dress on a murderously crowded London Saturday.
The girl thinks of everything. She'd sussed out the perfect frock in a big department store, but tracked it down in a small boutique in the suburbs. We arrived just as it opened so there were no crowds for me to freak out about. No hovering salesladies or queues for dressing rooms or abandoned husbands cluttering up the aisles. She simply strolled in, plucked a dress from a rack and declared, "Here it is!"
Twenty minutes later we were back out on the street with my wedding dress. I ran up the block bellowing, "WOOHOO!". Rhi grinned modestly like the cat who'd swallowed a thousand canaries. She had delivered the project ahead of schedule and within budget. Two hours later I also had shoes and jewellery.
All we needed then were the Squishy Undies.
There's two types of women in this world. There's chicks who can toss any scrap of fabric over their head and waltz out onto the street without the need for serious hydraulics under the surface. Then there are those who require smoothing and shaping and lifting and flattening. Rhi walked into the Shapewear section of Marks and Spencer Lingerie department and says, "Looks like we have choice of Light Control or Firm Control."
"Are they the only levels? What if your flesh is Out of Control? We need like, HEY You're Not Going Anywhere Little Lady Control-Freak Control."
I picked up the dubiously named Variable Modulus Body, a garment so hideous and smothering that it made Bridget Jones' mumsy knickers look like the tiniest whisper of a thong. I didn't really look at it closely before putting it on, I assumed you just stepped into it like a swimsuit. But things got dicey around mid-thigh when I couldn't pull the bra bit up any higher. My knees were fused together by the crippling power of lycra. All I could do was sort of helplessly slide to the floor. I poked my head beneath the curtain and bleated, "Rhiannon. Please. Help!"
It was such a pretty picture. I was bent over, hands braced against the wall, Rhiannon positioned behind me trying to haul the fabric over my hips, me wheezing away, "It won't FIT! It's just too TIGHT!" and Rhiannon huffing and puffing, "Just stay STILL!"
Finally it was on. All was well. I tried it on with the wedding frock, everything looked under control. Now all I had to do was get the damn thing off.
"Okay, I'm going to turn around while you undress," said Rhi. "Don't worry, I won't look."
"Good, good."
Five minutes pass.
"Ummm, Rhiannon I think I might need you to turn around."
"Jesus christ!"
My arms were over my head, pinned to my ears by the evil forces of lycra. My fingers were turning purple from lack of circulation. One underwire was still holding a boob while the other provided firm support for my chin. It took ten minutes of grunting and groaning to remove it, and only afterwards did I discovered that the crotch has little snaps on it that you're supposed to undo first, then put the garment on over your head! Instead of trying to wrestle it over your prime-for-childbearing hips!
Aside from that, it was a great weekend. Tonight we said our goodbyes as I headed for Heathrow. The two of us suddenly started bawling like babies, really sobbing. We said it was because weddings bring out the emotions. But it's possible she was crying from the sheer trauma of seeing me tangled up in a lycra bodysuit. And perhaps I was crying coz instead of Wedding Night Action™, I will be too busy having the damn thing surgically removed.
The Warm Autumn
Three weeks til our wedding and Gareth is all smugly sorted with his kilt. Meanwhile I'm sitting around like Cinderella, waiting for the fairy godmother to show up with a frock for the ball so I don't have to go to the shops.
At least when I do go, I'll know what to look for. About five years ago when I was lounging in my life of trackpants, depression and unemployment, The Mothership decided to cheer me up by Getting My Colours Done. She dragged me along to the Women's Weekly Craft Fair at Canberra's Exhibition Park. Amidst the cross stitch, teddybear and decoupage stalls lurked a lady with prim lips and clanky bracelets. She peered at me under the fluroscent lights then wafted a rainbow of scarves around my face to determine which shades suited me best.
"Right darling," she purred. "With your orange hair, brown eyes and pale, on-the-brink-of-death complexion, you are definitely a Warm Autumn."
I gave her a Cold Winter glare.
She flicked her wrist like a magician and produced a little fan of plastic strips, in graduated colours like Dulux paint samples. "These are the colours you must stick to when out buying shoes or lipsticks or suits for your non-existent job interviews. This," she paused dramatically, "Is the Warm Autumn palette."
At one end of the spectrum we had dirt brown, which wandered along into cack brown, cack green, khaki, diluted mud and so on to BEIGE. The message was clear: You look good in poo!
I am starting to get worried that I'm not that worried about not having a wedding dress. I'm also worried that other people are worried that I'm not worrying. Example: Gareth's lovely Mum's innocent enquiry:
"Do you know what you're going to wear?"
"Ahh, not yet."
"Oh. Do you think you'll wear a dress? Have I ever seen you in a skirt before?"
"Hey, I HAVE skirts." My paranoid translation: She thinks I'm a lesbian just using her son for the visa.
Anyway, if anyone knows the best place for poo-hued frocks, please let me know.
Mere Male
There's some big issues to consider with all this marriage palaver. Like what do you call the husband when writing about him? Some blogging types refer to theirs as "DH", as in Dear Husband. I first saw this term in the mid-90s in sentences like, "Took DH to Safeway and we argued about papayas" or "My DH is fine with it as long as I wear the crotchless undies".
For two whole years I thought that DH actually stood for Dick Head. A lot of people heap shit on their spouses online, so Dick Head seemed a reasonable translation. Plus my grandfather used to call my grandmother DH. He claimed it was coz her name was Daphne Hazel, but the evil grin every time he said it suggested otherwise.
The DH abbreviation always reminded me of "MM", as in "Mere Male" -- Australians may be familiar this infuriating column in New Idea magazine. You could win $10 by writing in about some wacky thing your MM - husband, partner, casual shag - has done, usually relating to a toilet seat or DIY. Ten bucks for a dull, patronising little paragraph like, "I sent MM to the shops for skim milk and he came back with WHOLE! Oh how we laughed!". Or, "On Sunday MM was laying carpet and he accidentally stapled the cat's tail to the floor! Oh how we laughed!". And the women reading the column all sit back with a knowing chuckle, safe and smug in the knowledge that they are the superior species. Why don't they just call it, My Husband, He's Such A Dick!
I shouldn't scoff though, I might get desperate for cash and have to write in. "Last month MM couldn't find the ironing board so he ironed his shirt on the floor and it stuck to the carpet. MM now has a shirt-shaped burn on his bedroom floor! Oh how we laughed!". True story.
The Countdown Begins
Help! There are bazillions of folks dropping in from the Bloggies site and here I am without Quality Entries to woo the voting public. All I can offer is Mild Hysteria since it's just five weeks today until me and the Kilted One get hitched.
I bought some bridal magazines. I still don't know why I did this. Perhaps I wanted a two-hundred page reminder that I have no money, time or style.
Wedding Day magazine had a story on how to plan a wedding on four different budgets: £1000, £10 000, £100 000 or ONE MILLION POUNDS! For £1m they suggested buying your own Mediterranean island and icing your wedding cake with solid gold. I was more interested in the £1000 job. They told me to save money by purchasing a vintage dress. Who actually finds decent vintage clothing unless they're a titless size 2 or work in the costume department of a happening TV show? Vintage for me will involve going to the Romanian Orphans Charity Shop in Tollcross and asking, "Has there been any donations in white polyester? Puffed sleeves? Pit-stains not too prominent?"
You and Your Wedding sounded like a friendly enough title, making the event sound comfy and managable. They probably also do You and Your Cocker Spaniel and You and Your Tracksuit. I pondered the article, Are You A Summer Bride or Winter Bride? Pollen-choked daisies or whiskey shots by a roaring fire? I don't bloody know. Where is the option for Threat of Deportation Bride? Surely that's a niche market, I can't be the only Scot-loving Antipodean who likes to leave things to the last minute.
There's no scope in these magazines for people in a hurry. They just publish bossy little Wedding Countdowns that start at least a year in advance, so you'd best take advantage of their subscription offer! Apparently twelve months ago we should have met with our priest or rabbi and finalised the guest list. We should have picked the rings at Christmas and the Going Away Outfit should have been rotting in my wardrobe since November. What the hell is a Going Away Outfit?!
Most damning of all I was supposed to start a "skin, hair and nails regime" eleven months ago. My skin regime consists of me glaring at the alarm clock at midnight thinking, "I should get up and wash that mascara off. I should moisturise. I shouldn't sleep in stinky gym clothes". Furthermore, the bags under my eyes are so dark and fat that it looks like I've glued on a pair of slugs from the garden. My sleep has been rubbish since Engagement Day coz I keep waking up middle of the night going "Hee hee hee!", still euphoric and unable to believe he wants to marry me. Sucker!
As for the nail regime, I've never had a manicure in my life, unless you count pushing my cuticles back with the front door key.
They also tell me that beautiful bride needs to use a body brush and exfoliate regularly. The only time I exfoliate is when I have a bath at Gareth's place and have to use his Towels of Torture. He reckons fabric conditioner is environmentally-unfriendly, so the towels are so stiff you can snap them in half like a Salada biscuit. I admire your eco-warrior streak, but when I move in THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE, BUDDY! I may as well towel off with a cheese grater.
The Word On The Street
Mothership, Mothership. That's all I ever hear from you people. I told her about all the comments and emails I got asking for her response to the engagement, and she was delighted to know she is still famous. She released this official statement:
"The Mothership knew it would happen! She started making the official Wedding Quilt as soon as she came back from her trip to Scotland last April! Motherships know these things. Hee hee!"
Yes, she now refers to herself as The Mothership and often talks in third person. She's also a mad keen patchworker.
Everyone has been happy for us, and here on WNP the old Comment Count Record has been smashed! You all rule the school, thanks for your kind words.
Here's a few more reactions to the good news.
SISTER RHI: Woohoo! I knew he'd come through!
GARETH'S DAD: Well done son! We're so happy for you! I was hoping you wouldn't screw it up!
GARETH'S MA: [dabbing tears of joy] Married by the end of March? That's not much time for me to go on a diet!
SISTER HOLLIE: [in email with subject: oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!] CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAARRGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! I can wear my formal dress! LOL!
AUNTIE BARB: [one of The Aunts] So is this Gareth a nice boy? Because if he's not The Aunts can come over and bail him up. We can be very formidable, you know!
MY FORMER BOSS: Will you consider wearing a tartan bridal gown... like the famous one designed by Vivienne Westwood and modeled by Kate Moss? Now there's something for you to ponder (from memory she had her left breast hanging out - so may not be quite you).
I'll Have What He's Having
And there we were in the fancy restaurant, poised to celebrate. I chose the chair that gave me the best view of the other diners, leaving Gareth with only myself or the specials board to gaze upon.
"Soooo," I said as we waited for the entrees. "How ya feeling about this marriage stuff? Nervous? Nauseous? Totally shitscared?"
Just as the words left my mouth, a Very Old Man behind us leaned forward over his dinner plate and threw up all over the table.
It was silent, discreet, almost dignified. The poor fella was pushing 90, he had on those baggy Old Man Trousers that come up near the armpits and are held up with braces. He was dining with a dour middle-aged woman dressed in black, who was patting her mouth with a napkin like she'd seen it all before. There was a younger blonde woman too, who stood up and shuffled from foot to foot as waitresses appeared with teatowels and dabbed at the deluge.
He sat back in his chair with a faint smile, hooking his gnarled fingers around his braces.
Pause. Pause.
Lean over.
Spew.
And so on, a dozen times over. It was orange and vile but hypnotic. His motion was so quiet and steady that the entire room, except Gareth with his fortunate choice of seat, had our forks hovering mid-air, unable to tear our eyes from the man and the steady stream he produced.
"What are you looking at?"
"The old guy behind you is spewing on the table."
"Behind me?"
"Oh, yep, here he goes again!"
One waitress arrived with empty ice cream tub for the old fella as another deposited Gareth's entree in front of him. He went a little grey as he looked down at the half dozen barbecued shrimp, sprawled around a chunky puddle of pink dipping sauce.
At that the point the old guy didn't have much left in the tank. Even the direness of the Dido on the stereo was drowned out by the steady BLURRRK BLUUUURK BLUUURK of the last of his dinner returning to the table.
I rearranged my entree on the plate and decided the staff were handling the spectacle pretty well. I mean, if someone started hurling in your crowded dining room, you might be tempted to chuck them into the street. But this particular creature was not built for speed. Who knows how many customers he'd anoint during his long journey to the door? It's important with biological disasters to CONTAIN the danger.
Finally he seemed done and asked for the bill. He plucked a wrinkled envelope from his back pocket and counted out some notes. His strangely silent companions got to their feet as the waitress appeared with their coats.
"You forgot my stick, hen, my stick!" he trilled, "And my umbrella. It's the tartan one."
He stood very gingerly. The whole room gave him nervous but sympathetic smiles.
"I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, you know!" he explained to the crowd. "And I ate everything tonight! Everything! Entree, main, dessert! AND wine! It was very very rich!"
It took him ten minutes to walk to the door, but of course Gareth couldn't see anything, only hearing the slow shuffle of sensible shoes riiiiight behind him. It wasn't most romantic evening, but definitely worth it just to watch Gareth hunched over our table in fear, praying the spewnami would spare him.
Crikey!
I suddenly woke up at 2.02 AM today to find him peering at me in the half-dark. I reached out and patted the furry face and said, "Are you STILL bloody awake?"
To which he replied, "Will you marry me Shauna?"
I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?"
(Which really annoyed me because, if/when the moment ever happened, I had planned to respond with something witty and memorable like, "Depends... will you wear a kilt?". But instead I said, "Are you SERIOUS!?" in a broad, booming Aussie accent, like I was Steve Irwin and I'd just spotted a rare saber-toothed kookaburra or something.)
Gareth said that he was serious.
So I said, "Am I awake?"
He said that I was indeed awake.
So I said, "Yes! Of course!".
Fourteen hours later I still feel too excited and stunned and grinny and teary and lucky and so freakin happy to articulate properly, so for now it's just... WOOHOO!
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