My sweet cousin, who I still think of as an apple-cheeked toddler, got married on Sunday, to a nice, young Jewish lawyer. I wore my fancy dress.
The whole event went smoothly. In fact, I was shocked by how well it went, considering that my family can be a bunch of drama queens.
The bride was gorgeous, the decor was classy, and a live band raised the roof all night. This was the first party I've ever been to where the dance floor was packed before the appetizers were even served. The food was good, especially the mini-burger hors d'oeuvres. What more could one ask for?
If I had one complaint, it would be the seating arrangements. My uncle is involved in the family business that I work for, and I got stuck sitting at the Professional Contacts table. I was across the table from a work friend of mine and her boyfriend. The rest of the table was filled with people I see enough of at work.
I was seated next to a "wife of". She's a very nice lady who always picks an excellent gift for her husband to pass along to me every Christmas. Her taste in home decor is flawless. Unfortunately her taste in dinner conversation leaves something to be desired. She decided that the main course was the best time to tell me the story of her recent bout of c. difficile.
As I attempted to swallow a mouthful of chicken, she leaned close to my ear and confided about how it had been "so embarrassing... you know... it happened in the elevator, at the supermarket..." I had no idea if she was telling me that she had tooted big smelly farts in public, or if she had actually pooped her pants, but I didn't care to ask. I'm not terribly squeamish, but I really would have preferred just about any other topic while I was eating.
Later I told my mom, and she said that the last time she had dinner with this lady, she was treated to the same story. What is up with that? I'm all for people being honest and talking about the tough stuff, but there's a time and a place.
We all got a chance to do a lot of dancing. When the first hora dance started up practically the entire room rushed onto the dance floor. It was so packed that there almost wasn't enough room to form the circles.
Even my 92-year-old buby got in on the action. When the song was all done, she was feeling a little warm. The slightly sheer, colourful blouse she was wearing had come with a black shirt to wear underneath. However, she had forgotten to put on that layer when she was getting dressed. She didn't realize that she was only wearing one shirt. She had every button on her top undone by the time my mom and my aunt caught her in the act. They were both collapsing with laughter as they hastily buttoned her back up again. My buby also had a chuckle at herself. We kept warning her the rest of the night: Buby - no more stripping!
Before the night was over there was a sweet table, speeches, slow dancing, fast dancing, and a conga line. You know it's a good party when there's a conga line.
I think my cousin picked a keeper. I wish them all the best.