When Your Little Brother Gets Married

My brother and sister-in-law, Steve and Kali, are celebrating their first year of marriage. In honor of their inaugural anniversary, I am exploiting - - I mean, devoting this week's blog posting to their merry nuptials that occurred one year ago today.

Like any dedicated older sister who moonlights as a humor blogger, I took notes in the midst of all the festivities last year and then proceeded to misplace the notes which led to a minor freak out a few days ago when I had finally decided to write about my sister-of-the-groom experience. Fortunately, I found them tacked onto the back of a 2008 journal entry that had nothing whatsoever to do with the wedding.

So, lucky you, here it is: my first official wedding blog post, through the eyes of the older sister.

I arrived at the rehearsal to find out that several members of the wedding party were suffering from various ailments. I had just gotten over a head cold. My father, who was officiating part of the ceremony, had been battling laryngitis; both of my stepsisters had colds, one of them had even caught strep throat; and Kali, the bride, had also been recently diagnosed with strep. One of the bridesmaids was on crutches, and the flower girl was at home throwing up. That's how the wedding weekend commenced.

The restaurant for the rehearsal dinner had been double-booked, and the banquet room that my father had supposedly reserved was unavailable. Instead, after a discussion that ended with profuse apologies from the manager, the hostess sat us in several booths and tables that were grouped together in the middle of the restaurant. (I should mention that every time my father steps foot in that restaurant now, he is instantly recognized and gushed over. And he has since received a few free meals as a result of the ordeal.)

We spent the evening laughing, sharing family memories. Steve's childhood friend, Luke, entertained everyone with his animated storytelling just like old times. Aunt Rita and I relived stories about my 4-foot-9, 66-pound, 97-year-old grandmother. Dan refused to smile for the candid photos ("You will smile tomorrow in Steve's wedding pictures, even if I have to tickle you," I warned) and then he applauded when, during a rare moment of speechlessness, I announced, "I don't have anything to say!" My point in sharing this snapshot of rehearsal dinner anecdotes is simply to illustrate that the minor wedding mishaps did not succeed in dampening anyone's spirits.

The next morning, we were taken by limousine to the Boise Train Depot to have our pictures taken. The wind was in a rather uncooperative mood, obviously not understanding that all of the bridesmaids were wearing hot pink, sleeveless spring dresses and had already collectively put on their make up and styled their hair. And my skin turns purple when I am cold, so I figured I would end up looking like a purple and pink Popsicle in all of the photographs. It also occurred to me, as I tried to squeeze my body into a corner of the depot's outer wall to block the obstinate wind for a moment, that I was being placed at the end of every line. Even in my 2 1/2-inch heels, I was still the shortest.

But not as short as the organist whose feet barely reached the pedals . . .

She ended every sentence with "honey" even when addressing the minister: "Okay, honey." "I'll play that in E-flat, honey." "That song comes after the unity candle, right, honey?"

And the wedding coordinator?

A nice lady, graying hair, probably in her mid to late sixties, she showed up at the church in a wide-brimmed, Titanic-era hat, with a huge flower hanging off the front. It was hot pink.

"I found the perfect hat to match your wedding colors!" she told Kali excitedly. "How do you like it?"

"It's very nice," Kali attempted politely.

I entered the bride's room to find my stepmother, Kali's mother, and a few bridesmaids huddled around the bride trying to figure out how to put up the bustle for the reception.

"No, that doesn't look right," Kali kept saying in futility as everyone kept prodding and poking at her rear-end trying to find the ever elusive hook.

I was reminded of a similar scene in my own pre-wedding dressing room almost seven years earlier: an already jittery bride, crowded by the entire female wedding party, hunting for one little button on which my entire mobility at the reception relied, a task that did not seem all that complicated but had, in fact, proven to be rocket science.

Eventually, an exasperated Kali sent everyone away from her - as I had seven years before - resigned to the fact that her wedding train just might drag behind her on the floor all night long. (Luckily, the photographer was able to fix her bustle later that afternoon.)

The wedding ceremony - complete with the tiny organist, the hot pink hat on the head of the wedding coordinator, the bridesmaid on crutches, and the flower girl who had recovered from her stomach bug - went quite smoothly. My father, in typical form, worked in some sort of baseball metaphor when talking about Steve's marriage to Kali. I was just relieved he didn't say anything about getting to first base (or hitting a home run that night).

At the reception, Kali surprised Steve with a St. Louis Cardinal penguin wedding cake. Besides Kali, penguins and the St. Louis Cardinals are two of Steve's favorite things in the world.

Apparently, the D.J. had strict instructions from Kali not to play certain songs at the reception ("The Chicken Dance," "The Electric Slide," "YMCA," etc.). But Steve's friend, Luke, requested every song that was on Kali's do-not-play list. Of course, these are the songs that drew the most people to the dance floor.

Imagine my amazement when my father, the Baptist minister, showed up on the floor to dance to the "YMCA." I had never seen my father dance aside from the one time I tried to give him lessons for a charity ball when I was about six. I tried to teach him how to box waltz to one of my Sesame Street records. I don't think he learned much. Dan, the anti-dancer just sat and stared at me, relieved I was not forcing him onto the dance floor. (Between my father and my husband, this explains why there was no dancing at my wedding.)

So the evening ended, and my brother was happily married off.

Anyone who knows my family at all knows there was one part of the puzzle missing. But I think my stepmother, Emmy, said it best at the rehearsal dinner the night before.

"I am privileged to be a part of this. But I want everyone to remember that Steve had a wonderful mom, and it's such an honor for me to represent her."

Missing, but not forgotten . . .

A Brief Exposition on My Grocery Shopping Habits

I am a rather unusual grocery shopper. Not only am I extremely neurotic, but I often suffer from open-mouth-insert-foot syndrome. I try to keep this ailment in check most of the time except when I get behind a grocery cart.

Before going shopping, I make a list every week from my monthly menu grid which is color-coded according to the season. I then number each item in the order of the supermarket aisles, and I put a dot next to the items for which I have coupons. I draw a cloud around some of the produce items. The clouds mean that those particular fruits and vegetables are traditionally the most pesticide-ridden and that I need to buy the organic versions. After I am sufficiently organized, the fun begins.

Here is my "grocery list" of some of my most infamous remarks during the weekly act of supermarket hilarity.

1. "See those strawberries? They are much redder because they have pesticides all over them." (I saw a fellow shopper put down the carton he was holding as I loudly made this remark.)


2. "Should I start dressing older now that I’m getting gray hair?" I asked my husband, Dan, as he bagged (organic) apples. Of course, I was standing by the bananas which were at the opposite end of the aisle. In other words, not only did I ask Dan this question, but I asked it of all the other Saturday grocery shoppers as well.


3. "Think again!" I said, giving my husband "the teacher look" as he tried to sneak donuts into the cart.


4. Dan always wants to “help," but when I send him after fresh ginger and crackers, he will say, “Ginger is not really on the way to the crackers.” My husband is a shortest distance between two points type of person. He doesn't like to backtrack.
   
   One week, I finally said to him (I think I remember my own mother saying this to me when I would "help" her with the grocery shopping), “You said you’d go all over the store for me. So I’m sending you all over."


5. "Fine, I won’t buy tortillas!" I said, tears welling up in my eyes. "Why does everything contain partially hydrogenated oil?"


6. "See if you can find any - " I paused, glanced around warily, and lowered my voice, " - Fair Trade spices."
   
   "Why are you whispering?" Dan asked.
   
   "So people won't think I'm liberal. We are in Idaho, after all."


7. "Should I buy these biodegradable tampons and pads? They cost more than Tampax and Stayfree, but they are packaged with less plastic."
   
   It was the first time Dan refused to acknowledge my existence as I followed him around the produce aisle, my arms overflowing (no pun intended) with three large cardboard boxes of feminine hygiene products.
   
   "Why won't you answer me?" I asked him.
   

There you have it. If you hear someone making odd, random statements during your weekly trip to the supermarket, look down the aisle. You could be witnessing the grocery shopping habits of one of your favorite bloggers . . . me.

Flashlight Man: A Story of Neighborly Espionage

As of Monday night, my husband Dan and I unofficially joined the ranks of the Neighborhood Watch, inevitably trading in our edgy, progressive, quiet-young-couple-on-the-block status for a new role: the nosy, responsible, suburbanites who could be watching you — yes, you — through binoculars from a perch in the kitchen.

The evening began innocently enough. We were watching Castle, starring our friend Nathan Fillion (big fans of his ever since Firefly, just in case you forgot we are sci-fi nerds) when Dan saw a beam of light shining from the house diagonally behind us.

After rejecting my idea that there was an alien abduction occurring in our backyard, Dan noticed the beam of light was protruding from a dark figure circulating our neighbor's house. Dan concluded that the dark figure was carrying a flashlight.

I, in turn, concluded, "He's trying to break in!"

The dark figure was actually a middle-aged man, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans who looked as though he was checking out the siding and the second floor window frames. Why he was doing this at 9:00 in the evening rather than during daylight hours was a mystery to us. And that also begged the question, why, if he was a burglar — a very preppy burglar — would he be trying to break into the upper story windows?

“Should we yell at him?” I asked Dan.

“What would you say?”

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Call Paul," he suggested, referring to a neighbor friend and an active Homeowners Association member. "He knows everyone. He’s probably watching this guy from his own house.”

Dan flipped on our porch light. It didn’t get Flashlight Man’s attention, so I started flicking the light on and off.

“What are you doing?" Dan said. "Sending him Morse code?”

I kept flicking until Dan put his hand over the light switch.

“Don’t do that! That’s just stupid!”

By this time, I had thoroughly amused myself and was practically rolling around on the floor laughing at my poor mortified husband.

Dan left the kitchen for a minute and then returned, motioning to me excitedly, "Come in here. You can see better from the bathroom window!"

The only way to see through the window in our master bathroom is to stand in the bathtub. So the two of us climbed into the bathtub, making sure to keep the lights off, lest Flashlight Man discovered us on our clandestine mission.

Flashlight Man circled the entire house. At times, he looked as though he were measuring the windows and examining the side panels. If he was casing the joint, he wasn't being very sneaky or inconspicuous. He was also shining the flashlight right by the house's lit-up living room, which made me think our neighbors were actually at home. In fact, it finally dawned on me, maybe Flashlight Man was our neighbor, and this was his house.

Eventually, Flashlight Man went back into the house through the unlocked garage door, simultaneously turning off the porch light.

“He wouldn’t have the porch light on and casually walk into the house through an already unlocked door if he was trying to break in, would he?” I asked Dan.

Dan didn't answer. He was too busy watching Flashlight Man, who had just appeared inside the house.

“What’s he doing now?” Dan whispered. “He’s getting into the fridge.”

“And now he’s picking up a T.V. remote," I said. "And now . . . I think he’s looking at us! Can he see us?”

“Probably, especially after you used our porch light as a telegraph.”

“Eeeek!” I squealed, and I clambered out of the bathtub, giggling.

That night, when we were getting into bed, Dan climbed back in the bathtub and looked out the window longingly. (I think he may have pictured himself as a skinny Jack Bauer in an episode of 24.) Then he gasped.

“He’s got the flashlight again!" Dan said, a little too eagerly. "Oh, never mind. It’s just a reflection from someone's living room light.”

And that is the story of how Dan and I became our neighborhood's most voyeuristic couple. Good thing nobody knows about this self-appointed covert operation of ours . . . yet.