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 . . .