…He told me I should go to the gym more.

…We had a lovely first date and then he sent me insane texts all night, the last one being “you should come over and hang out with meeeeeeeeee” sent at 2am.

…He threw a football at my head at recess. (Yes, this was in fourth grade, but still! The shame!)

…He sent me a manifesto of how we should spend our mornings (with time slotted in for things like using the toilet).

…He constantly quoted that “O face” line from Office Space. In bed.

…He was cheating on his girlfriend.

…He was cheating on his fiancee.

…He was cheating on his wife.

Shortly after I started dating Luke, he began talking about his friend Rick’s wedding.  Rick was a boisterous member of Luke’s hometown crowd, a generally convivial group who grew up in a tiny town where the primary ways to have fun as teens were apparently drinking, sex, and more drinking.  They were REALLY good at drinking.

Rick was set to marry some girl whose real name I cannot even recall but which may or may not have been Melanie, so that’s what we’ll call her.  Melanie, it was clear from Luke’s conversations with his friends, was generally zero fun and just looking to get knocked up as quickly as possible so she could quit her job, be a mom, and spend Rick’s money.  However, Rick’s wedding promised drinks, reunions with friends, and more drinks, so the guys were excited to go.

I waited with bated breath to see if I would be invited to this shindig – did Luke think of me that way?  We’d only been dating for a few months, but things were fairly serious…however, most of his other hometown friends were MARRIED.  Would I make the cut?

Fortunately for this blog, the answer was yes.  Luke and I booked tickets on Alaska Airlines – we’d head to Minneapolis and then carpool up with some others to the most northern part of Minnesota, where the wedding was to be held.

Alaska Airlines smelled like vomit.  And dead animals.  Who may have vomited as they died.  We boarded the not-quite-long-enough-to-be-called-a-red-eye flight around midnight and held our breath for the four hours it took to arrive in MN.  We then headed to the house of one of Luke’s friends and prepared for the caravan north.

Now, I understand basic geography.  You’ve got the honor of reading the words of the winner of the sixth grade geography bee.  That said, I had no clue how freaking HUGE Minneapolis is.  We were smushed in that car for what felt like 900 hours (but could have been more) and spent most of that time listening to Luke argue with his best friend Trevor’s wife Hortense (why yes, the quality of your pseudonym IS directly related to how much I like you, thanks for asking).  Luke and Hortense hadn’t ever gotten along.  Luke was certain Hortense was a stuck-up bitch so he didn’t like Hortense and Hortense WAS a stuck-up bitch so she didn’t like Luke.

We finally arrived at the idyllic hotel grounds, set against a (surely freezing) beautiful lake.  And the fighting continued.  When we checked into our condo, we realized there were only three bedrooms for the four couples who were staying there.  Hortense’s solution: since Luke and I were the only unmarried couple, we should sleep on the two double beds in the rickety attic while the other couples, who presumably shared a bed every day of their lives, got to sleep on the divine-looking king beds in the downstairs rooms.  Luke and I were pissed about this, but after putting up with Luke’s grouching at Hortense the entire ride up, none of the others were in the mood to take his side.

The rehearsal dinner was a low-key affair – beers and bar food at a nearby restaurant – the night was crazy and late but that was to be expected with Luke’s gang.

The true culture shock came the next day.  The wedding was outdoors and it was gorgeous weather for it.  Luke and the groomsmen were occupied with wedding events, pictures, etc during the day – I met up with Luke briefly before the wedding, then found my seat while he participated in the festivities.

The first sign that this was like no wedding I’d attended (or seen on TV, in the movies, etc) was the amount of God invoked during the ceremony.  Not being particularly religious, this still didn’t bother me, it was merely interesting.  Until the minister brought out the jars of sand.  These were glass bottles holding colorfully-dyed grains of sand, the likes of which I’d only seen at the Colorado State Fair while visiting my grandparents.  I had absolutely no clue what these could be for – had Rick actually won Melanie in a carnival game?  The minister then explained that two of the jars of sand represented Rick and Melanie, and the third represented Jesus Christ.  The almost-married couple and the minister poured all of the sand into the same jar, representing that now Rick, Melanie, and the son of God were forever linked – it would be impossible to separate those grains of sand from one another again (you know, despite the fact that they were dyed different colors and if you had a lot of time on your hands you could probably figure it out).  The sentiment here was lovely; I just couldn’t stop internally giggling at the idea of Rick and Melanie’s mantel holding a jar of fluorescent sand CONTAINING JESUS in a place of honor for the rest of their lives.

No matter – on to the party!  We arrived at the cocktail hour where I was confused at the guests’ glee to see Rick’s dad at the keg happily pouring beer after beer for those in line.  My confusion was soon explained when I walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of champagne.  No champagne, I was told, only wine and cocktails.  Okay, then, I’ll have a glass of white.  The bartender opened the spigot of a varietal of boxed wine I hadn’t seen the likes of since college and poured me a meager glass.  “Five dollars,” he said, as he handed it over.  The look on my face would have broken a mirror.  “Oh – sorry – was there a different type of wine on the open bar?”  The bartender smiled at my ignorance.  “Only the keg is hosted – everything else is cash.”  I flushed red and scrambled to produce wrinkled bills from my purse.

Grasping my plastic glass of alcohol, I scurried over to Luke.  “THIS IS A CASH BAR,” I whispered.  He looked at me like I’d told him his favorite hipster band had gone Top 40.  “Of course it is.  Why do you think we were so excited about the hosted keg?”  Right.

Sidebar: I realize how utterly snobby and entitled this story makes me sound, but to be fair, how many of you have attended a wedding (not to mention a wedding you spent hundreds of dollars on airfare, car rental/gas, and board in the shape of a shitty attic bedroom) where the drinks were not free?  I rest my case.  Of course I am in no way qualified to give anyone advice on what to do and not to do at their wedding, but it would seem that giving the guests a few free cocktails for their trouble isn’t too much to ask.  I STAYED IN A FREAKING ATTIC, PEOPLE.

Back in the flashback, I sucked it up, raised my glass, and thanked the Lord (if he wasn’t already suffocated in that jar of sand) that at least these drinks were sold at mid-western prices.

The rest of the wedding was uneventful – drinking, paying for said drinking, dancing, speeches, you know the drill.

I believe Rick and Melanie are still married, with at least one munchkin they’ll have to host a keg for in 20-odd years.

Trevor and Hortense got a divorce last year.  I hope she’s stuck in an attic bedroom as a newly-singleton and he’s off carousing with women who deserve him way more than she did.

One of the first acquaintances I made when I moved to a new city after college was a guy who worked (and still works) in the same industry as I do. We hit it off as friends immediately – he’s snarky, funny, smart, and loves restaurants (a huge plus) AND cooking (an even huger plus, considering that my cooking abilities hover somewhere between “can boil water” and “might burn apartment down if left alone with said boiling water for too long”).

We were friends for our early years of climbing the job ladder, dating and/or crushing on other people but always in touch. I knew most of my girlfriends thought he was a bit of a jerk, but who cared – they didn’t have to be friends with him! However, one of my guy friends dubbed him “The Jackal,” for reasons I have long-forgot but (in the wake of our breakup) I found incredibly apt, so that’s how we will discuss him here.

When I was dating Luke (that story to come) I started to realize The Jackal was interested in moving past the friend zone, and shortly after a brief period of dating another Guy I(‘m Glad I) Didn’t Marry (that story may never come only because I’m not sure how to make it hilarious rather than horrifying) The Jackal and I got together. It was 4th of July, there were fireworks, it was all very romantic.

Unfortunately, romantic moments were few and far between with The Jackal. As our months of dating went on, it became clear that Jacky Boy really wanted a girlfriend so he could fit in with his best friend Hayes, a prep school-educated cad who had recently focused his oft-wandering eye on the lovely Audrey. However, didn’t I kind of want a boyfriend for the same reason? I’d quickly realized – in the wake of the Luke break-up – that when you lose a boyfriend, you lose the ability to double date. I missed double dating.  I currently miss double dating.  WHY WILL NO ONE GO OUT WITH MY IMAGINARY BOYFRIEND AND ME? (Yes, I am willing to feign mental illness to get a good double date on the books.  I know…)

So The Jackal and I became a pair and my long-suffering friends (and their boyfriends and husbands) double dated with us (and then complained later about every Jackaly thing The Jackal had done).  I shrugged it off – we had fun (even if he didn’t want me to sleep over on weeknights) with our kind of mean inside jokes and our double dates with Hayes and Audrey.

The Jackal deserves credit on these pages, however, for his utter support when two close friends unexpectedly passed away.  We got the news when about to walk into dinner with one of my closest friends and her then-boyfriend (now husband) and while The Jackal certainly did not turn out to be my knight in shining armor he definitely was for me that night.  (Jackal, if you ever read this, thanks and sorry for the general character assassination…)

The Jackal deserves ZERO credit, however, for the way he broke up with me.  I was being sent off halfway around the world for an almost-month-long work trip and had a weird feeling that he might break up with me right before I left.  He didn’t, and I chalked my feeling up to insecurity and nerves about leaving town for so long.  However, when he sent me a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day (while I was gone) and the card said (as I recall) “From, Jackal” rather than “love” (I wasn’t expecting an “I love you,” but signing a card “love” is kind of different, right?) or even “miss you” I was like “yup, I’m getting dumped.”

Despite having this sixth sense that I was about to get kicked to the curb I remained faithful to The Jackal, spurning the advances of a very handsome and persistent foreign suitor.

The night I returned home, The Jackal suggested we go to dinner with Hayes and Audrey, and I figured that I was again being a paranoid person.  Hours later, however, he canceled the group dinner and said “why don’t you just come over?”  Yes, Jess, why don’t YOU, after getting off a 16 hour flight, come over to my Jackally house (where parking is impossible and he was never chivalrous enough to let me park in his assigned parking spot) so I can DUMP YOUR ASS.  Why oh fucking why didn’t I at least hook up with the cute foreigner?

I called his bluff and told him to come to my place.  He did, I got dumped, I went to the restaurant down the street and ate my feelings, the end.

Well, not totally the end.  Hayes and Audrey remained my close friends (and his) and got married about a year later.  Look out for my rendezvous with His Jackalness in a later post…and no, it’s not what you think…

One of my biggest pet peeves is people who complain about something they already agreed to do. “Ugh, I’m so annoyed, I have to pick up my friend from the airport.” Well, you don’t HAVE to. You agreed to because you’re a good friend and presumably you like the person enough that you want to make their arrival into town a little smoother (and cheaper). You weighed the cost of the annoyance against the happiness it would bring the other person and you decided the annoyance weighed less. It’s totally fair to still feel annoyed about driving all the way to the airport, but don’t tell everyone you know about it.

I try very hard not to complain about the time and the money I spend going to weddings. If I didn’t have the time or the money, I could always say no, right? That said, some grumbling does get through from time to time, which I am now of course expressing in a more positive creative fashion.

Anyway – the big reason I always say yes when invited to people’s weddings is that I have never once regretted going. For all my sarcastic talk about ridiculous things that happen at weddings, I have truly loved being present for one of the most important days in my friends’ lives.

Back when I was 22, working crazy hours for no pay, I didn’t have this understanding yet, so when my new friends Kassie and Cameron invited me to their wedding in Mexico, I made the disappointing mistake of saying no.

To be fair, their wedding was somewhere that involved taking two different flights and then riding a burro up a mountain (maybe not the burro part…) which was a) expensive b) meant I’d have to take extra time off of work and c) terrifying (what if I’m allergic to burros?).

That said? I still really wish I had gone. I’m close friends with K&C to this day and from time to time someone will mention something that went on at the wedding and I’ll feel bummed. I never feel bummed about having attended a wedding. I do feel really bummed about not having a crazy story about the flatulent burro in front of me the entire way up the mountain or about the cute waiter at the reception who murmured sweet nothings in Spanish to me all night long. Because both of those things would have happened had I sucked it up and gone.

So yes, I will happily come to your wedding. I promise to keep any and all complaints to myself. Er, and this blog.

Too many weddings, not enough blogging!

Dear Readers, I apologize for my absence and am ready to jump back into reliving my wedding adventures. Watch this space.

-Jess

Another of my college boyfriends was a straight-up nice guy. Like nice to a fault nice…I eventually walked all over him and broke up with him via phone while across the country on a summer internship. In retrospect, this was not the nicest thing to do, but I was 21 and could be kind of a bitch. And honestly, it was CONFUSING dating someone who doted on me after being used to guys who, you know, had no interest in sleeping with me!

When I returned to school for the start of senior year, he came to my door, distraught. I believe my exact thought was “seriously?” He told me his parents were getting a divorce and so he needed us to get back together. While I’m very sorry for his family troubles, I had no clue what that had to do with us getting back together and told him that. Told you I could be kind of a bitch.

Near the end of senior year, we met up for drinks and a long-overdue catch-up…which of course led to us making out…which of course almost led to us back in his room, until I asked if he’d slept with anyone since we’d broken up. He admitted that he had – with one of my roommate Ruby’s good friends! I put the brakes on immediately and got completely pissed (not that I had any right to be).

Have barely run into him post-graduation, but will be seeing both him and Ruby’s friend at Ruby’s wedding next month. Dear readers, you will of course get the updates then…

The first guy I was genuinely crazy about in college (not the first guy I seriously dated in college, for whatever that says about me) had a family who wasn’t so much actually observant of their Christian faith (in the going to church on Sundays sense) but more just passionate about, shall we say, keeping the bloodline pure.

I’m not sure if he ever actually told them we were dating – he certainly snuck me in and out of his house (during winter and summer break the year we dated) as if he didn’t want them to know.  Apparently my half-Jewish/half-Christian status wouldn’t pass muster with the creme-de-la-creme of New York society, despite the fact that my father being the Jewish one meant that I wasn’t actually accepted as Jewish by the Jews (but that’s a whole other rant that’s slightly off-topic for this blog, consider yourself spared).

The best part, however, was that he wouldn’t sleep with me.  He was a virgin and was very clear on the terms: he wasn’t waiting for marriage, just waiting for SOMEONE SPECIAL.  Well, for a competitive 18-year-old like me, this wasn’t a red flag (12 years later, I’d be inclined to say “if you don’t think I’m special in general – not just related to sex – I’m out of here”), it was a challenge.  I was going to be the most amazing girlfriend ever.  I was going to PROVE to my boyfriend that I was indeed special enough to have sex with.

Oh, and there were many times I was sure it would happen…the night of the spring formal…the weekend we spent at his family’s beach house where I spied a condom in his toiletry bag (but then he never asked if we could use it)…and then there was the time it could have happened:

He’d broken up with me mid-summer.  I’d used the anger and self-pity to lose twenty pounds (hey, what girl hasn’t gained the freshman 15?).  When I showed up at a house party he threw right before the start of the school year, he couldn’t take his eyes off me.  We drank and danced and he played the worried “friend” – “I’m concerned about how skinny you’ve gotten” – which I of course read as “damn, girl, I made a MISTAKE dumping your fine ass.”  The night continued and ended, naturally, with the two of us in bed.  Most of me knew this was a terrible idea, but part of me thought HA! I WIN!  What I wasn’t expecting, however, was for him to say “I have a condom.”  I just looked at him in disbelief.  “I really want to…” he trailed off.  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I replied.

Apparently “special” either meant “skinnier,” “less available,” or a combination of the two.

I didn’t sleep with him.

The next year, he went on to lose his virginity to the girl who tapped him into his secret society.  She was fat.  That’s certainly not a nice thing to say, but it is a true statement.

I lost track of him after he graduated (a year before me), but saw his wedding announcement in the Times a year or so ago.  His wife is from an affluent New York family and has one of the waspiest names imaginable.  I do sincerely hope they’re happy…if you don’t believe me, go back and read the title of this post again.

At twenty years old, I finally attended a wedding – my cousin Jim’s, who was marrying Melody, a woman 20 years his junior (only six years older than me).  My two younger sisters and I were SO excited.  After all, this wasn’t just a wedding, it was a FAMILY wedding, meaning we were sure to be bridesmaids or at least flower girls.  Right?  RIGHT?

Well, no.  While the happy couple’s dog got to walk down the aisle ahead of the bride, we were not invited to take part in the wedding at all.  However, upon arrival (after picking up my youngest sister Annie (12 at the time) from summer camp), clearly someone felt guilty and let us know that we had a very special job – we could go around and get people to sign the guest book.

Future brides and grooms – here’s a tip – getting people to sign the guest book is not a special job, it is an annoying chore.  Can’t you do what people have done for ages and stick the guest book somewhere obvious where people will naturally walk by and sign it?  Little did I know then that this was just the first of many “special jobs” that would be assigned to me at future weddings.

At this wedding, however, my middle sister (Ella) and I were more than happy to let Annie handle the “job.”  While Ella and I wandered the wedding, bored out of our minds, Annie gleefully ran around making SURE every single guest signed the book.  Ella and I shook our heads at Annie’s excitement – didn’t she realize THIS WAS NOT THE POINT OF WEDDINGS?  Our first wedding was meant to be a gorgeous, special affair, like Cinderella at the ball (minus the magic-ending curfew) or Elizabeth Bennet at the Netherfield dance (minus Lizzie’s haughty attitude and Mr. Darcy’s snobbishness).  It was supposed to be perfect.  This?  Was not.

Ella and I sucked it up, however, as good party girls do, and managed to semi-enjoy ourselves through the Electric Slide and even found slow-dance partners around our age.  The reception dragged on but finally, mercifully, ended, and our family – glum and exhausted – headed back to the local hotel.

The next day, we dropped Annie back at camp, and as our huge white minivan drove off, my mother broke news to Ella and me that she’d been saving til the wedding was over.  “Your sister has lice.”

Ella and I looked at each other in shock.  LICE?  Didn’t we outgrow that when we were 8?  Apparently one of the other girls in Annie’s bunk had arrived at camp with it (my mother was sure it was due to the cornrows put in her hair after a recent island vacation, proving that she’d been right to never allow Ella and I to get those cool braids when we’d been in the Bahamas the previous year) and the entire bunk had caught it.

“I didn’t want to tell you before the wedding because I worried it would ruin the fun.”

The fun?  What fun?  As I thought about the ramifications of this news, however, a grin broke over my face.  I started laughing uncontrollably.  My mother, afraid the news of lice had sent me over the edge, nervously asked what was wrong.

Between my guffaws, I choked out “Annie…she talked to every single person at that wedding…getting them to sign the stupid guest book…”  My sister and parents realized what I meant and we all devolved into helpless giggles.

“NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW IT WAS US,” said my mother, no doubt thinking of my cousin and his child bride discovering very itchy scalps on their expensive honeymoon.

Mom, I apologize for outing the family…but it was the only thing that made that terrible wedding worthwhile.

If you’ve ever been to a wedding, bachelor/ette party, shower, engagement party, etc, this blog’s for you.  Hope you appreciate my trials and tribulations as I run the wedding circuit for the sixth straight year (with nary a suitor of my own in sight).

-Jess