I can control the weather. I recently got married. Recently as in eight days ago. I went from a miss to a “Mrs.” From a Sheppard to a “Switzer.” A hot, single piece of ass to a “wife,” just like that. My wedding could not have possibly been more awesome even if Justin Timberlake himself had shown up. This is a fact. The weather forecast for Saturday, June 12th was “thunderstorms and rain throughout the day and into the night – 60-70% chance of precipitation.” Things were not looking good.
“What’s your backup plan?” people asked apprehensively.
“Did you rent any tents…?”
“Um…have you seen the weather?” guests pried.
“It’s not going to rain.” I declared. “Don’t even worry about it.”
People looked at each other with doubtful eyes that said, “Sigh…she’s in denial. Poor thing.”
But alas, my wedding day came and went, and not a single drop of precipitation fell from the sky. I should start gambling.
I got an entire glass of blood-red sangria poured down the front of my $1,000 wedding dress on my wedding day. It had to happen. I wasn’t even mad. On a day where Noah would have hurried to finish building his ark, and not even a speck of rain seeped out of the threatening clouds above, something had to go wrong. Something had to go terribly, horribly wrong. I had made it through a 70 minute photo shoot in mud and tall grass, a dinner made up entirely of finger-food hor’dourves like sweet and sour meatballs, marinara dipping sauce, and greasy stuffed mushrooms, and two hours of dancing/sloppily jumping up and down to “This Is How We Do It” and “Party in the USA” with a glass of red wine in my hand (and being surrounded by a dozen other drunks doing the same and sloshing their alcoholic beverages all over the place as well), without staining or blemishing my dress somehow.
Then, around 11:30 pm, I boogied on over to the bar and filled myself up a glass of sangria. Immediately after picking up my glass, my 5 year old niece grabbed my arm like a drunk at a baseball game grabs a Ball Park Frank, and poured my entire red drink down the front of my diamond white wedding gown. Not ideal.
“Johnny on the spot” Cassie Schultz pauses, looks me up and down, grabs me by the wrist, and calmly says, “White wine.” We beeline it inside, only to discover that our alcohol-dependent wedding guests had drained literally all the available booze in the tri-state area. We find, instead, a bottle of Shout Advanced, and spray the shit out of my stab-wound looking wedding dress, and then cover it in soaking wet, icy cold wash cloths. I change into a $14 dress from Target and hit the dance floor in time for “Jump Around.”
Then Kehly Hansen shatters a wine glass on the deck and I gash my foot open and bleed like a sacrificial lamb all over my kitchen. My flip flops were literally soaking with blood. Blood drained out of the wound on my foot like a gushing river. The combination of thinned-blood due to drinking and the fact that gravity was against me in this particular injury location made for what looked like an animal slaughtering. Blood pooled on the hardwood floor. My brother summoned my father, a family physician.
My dad starts tending to my wound. I sniff the air. “It smells like super glue in here,” I say. I then look down to see my father closing my gash with Krazy Glue. I shrug. One of my bridesmaids, Jamie, in a drunken but generous and thoughtful stupor, asks me if it would be helpful if she ran up and packed my overnight bag for me since Trent and I’s limo would be here soon. I say yes, that would be very nice of her. She stumbles upstairs to gather my belongings. I sit on a stool while my dad finishes dressing my bleeding foot with a large bandage atop my newly glued-shut severed appendage.
1:00 a.m. quickly approaches, and our limousine has pulled up in front of our house, waiting to chauffeur my handsome husband and I to our honeymoon suite for the evening. I realize that we have yet to sign our marriage license, and needed our witnesses to sign as well. I grab the license and dig around for a pen, rush around to find a bridesmaid and a groomsman, get everyone’s necessary signatures, snatch up the overnight bag Jamie had packed for me, and hurry out to the limo.
Twenty minutes later, we have arrived at Ameristar. We stroll through the casino lobby, telling all the strangers we pass that we just got hitched. Lots of drunk girls with glitter running down their faces coo their “Aaawwwwww”s and congratulate us as we make our way up to our room. We get to our whirlpool suite ready to enjoy some champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. We find a half-eaten piece of carrot cake in our mini fridge instead (not ours). Also, the sound does not work on our television. We stop caring at this point.
I mosey into the bathroom and open my overnight bag that Jamie had packed for me. Inside, I find a random leopard print sundress (?), my car keys (I rode in a limo to get there), a bottle of Visine (why?), my entire purse, my phone charger, an entire tube of toothpaste (but no toothbrush), and a large bottle of Dolce & Gabanna perfume that I literally never wear. Priceless. I then discover that my bandage has become super-glued to my foot and my cut, and the band-aid is now just dangling from my skin where it is fused to the glue. I call the front desk for a pair of scissors and a fresh band-aid. They inform me that for any medical attention, no matter how miniscule the situation may be, a licensed EMT must come down to the room. This seems a little unnecessary, but I agree. “Troy” the EMT at Ameristar Casino shows up and snips off my Elmer’s First Aid, and supplies me with a fresh bandage. We thank him and he leaves.
Trent and I go straight to sleep. (Yeah right).
The next morning we head back home to enjoy an enormous brunch with the whole family and a dozen other friends. I go find our marriage license to send in to the county recorder’s office. The top cover page says in large bold font, “USE ONLY BLACK INK ON MARRIAGE LICENSE.” I flip to the next page where we all signed. There, I discover green, blue, and black sloppily written (also see: drunk) signatures. Great.
I direct my attention from the marriage license “mishap” instead to our breakfast/brunch feast of epic proportions consisting of sausage crepes, danishes, several fruit trays, wedding cake (this destroyed my insides later), scrambled egg and ham bake (I made up this name), and several dozen buttermilk pancakes. We had planned an event dubbed “The Post Wedding Consumption Party,” a fiesta with the purpose of consuming the remaining food and alcohol (yeah right, like there was any booze left) from the wedding the night before. Trent decided to spice up the party by building a 100 foot slip-n-slide in the back yard though. Everybody bled.
The day started off a little slow. No one was really drinking very much, and the party seemed to wind down mid-afternoon, and we all found ourselves sitting around on lawn furniture on the deck, shooting the shit. Then Trent found a jug of sangria. Then he found another jug.
We continued consuming gallon upon gallon of sangria until nobody was sober; jugs were appearing out of thin air. Then we ran out, so Trent made at least four or five other pitchers of it out of cabernet sauvignon, ginger ale, and peach Schnapps. This drinking bender continued for the following eight days. My body hates me. My insides have decomposed. My liver is no more functional than a pan of meatloaf at this point. What’s left of my carcass is begging me to stop. On top of the alcohol abuse that has ensued following the wedding, I have been murdering myself with a diet made entirely up of Mexican food and chocolate. Digestive suicide, that’s what’s happening in my neck of the woods. I actually craved fruit today. That hasn’t happened in a while. I’m genuinely looking forward to feeling genuine hunger pangs soon. Not only are my insides f’ed, but for the three days following the wedding and the slip-n-bleed, my entire body felt like I had been hit by a Volvo. My core felt like I had engaged in six consecutive hours of pilates, and my triceps were melting off of my arms. I’ll keep you updated on my physical recovery, but things aren’t looking good.
Well, I’m off the market now, boys. That’s the moral of the story. Bye.
“I love my hair! I love my haircuts! I love my whole house! I can do anything good!”