Monday, August 25, 2014

Summer Travel Trilogy Part I: The Fellowship of the Ring

Here's a conversation that really happened when Jaime and I were visiting my family. "Ayve ye baught ye plaighn teighkets frahm Nahples to Barcelownah yit?"
Me, "No."
PMG, "Ye neighed tah geht em."
Me, "I know. Then we need to buy our tickets to Morocco. Oh, yeah, we're driving. We need to check the ferry prices. When do you want to go visit Sarah and Gino in France?"
Frieda (my brother's girlfriend), "You guys sound fancy."

She was right. I'm fancy. We're fancy. My life is fancy.

The first fancy thing I did because I could was to go to an Italian wedding. I had absolutely no right to be there because I knew neither the bride nor the groom. I highly recommend never going to another wedding again unless this is true for you.

One of the first things the bride said to me was, "I have a feeling it's going to be like My Big Fat Greek Wedding." I really liked her, though I was offended that she would get my hopes up like that...but she was right...she was right like 90°.

One of the duties involved in my very important wedding role as Stranger to Everyone was to get dressed and pick up the groom by ten o'clock. Get him to the church on time, so the poor sucker can't escape a miserable life of servitude. Game over! Am I, right?

We were extremely late. The American bride's family was like, "Oh my word! We need to go! We're so late!" Hahahahahaha. Americans.

Wedding. Beautiful. Loads of Italian people.

RECEPTION

You and I both know that the only reason to go to a wedding is the reception, but we're wrong because the only reason to even get out of bed is to go to an Italian wedding reception.

After following the bride and groom around the village taking pictures that I somehow managed to always be in the front and center of (who wears a bright orange dress to a classy wedding!?), we drove to the Bellagio. I don't really know what the Bellagio is, but it seemed like that's what it was. We're talking giant clams, things hanging from other things, wedding party table in the middle of a pool and not having to fill your own glass.

The appetizers, for some reason, came first. I had never in my life lost a battle to food before that day, but it kicked my bitch ass. I lost track after the fourth plate placed in front of me because I was so scared. Fortunately, the prosecco numbed my fear, and I was able to work through the pain and embarrassment of eating an insane amount of food at a table full of gastroenterologists. The fat went straight to my boobs, thank goodness, so I lugged them up the stairs and inside for dinner.

Lobster is a thing that you tell yourself you're going to order because you deserve it but chicken out at the last minute because of the price, so you don't even know if you really like it because you've never actually had it even though you claim it's one of your favorites.



  Shit!

The lobster and I pushed through the wall together, which was very fortunate because on the other side of the wall was a lot more food. Like at least five plates more. Like so much more that I couldn't even dance right, and I just love to dance so much but less than eating, so it was alright.

It was later when I was lying in a suspended bird's nest with a lot of people I'd just met that I realized I wasn't drunk.

I think it took about three and a half bottles of wine and that shot of limoncello I was using to play Never Have I Ever that finally made me think that not funny things were funny. All that glorious food had made me a walking sack of Wonder Bread (or the generic equivalent).

Nineteen hours after we had started celebrating the sanctity of marriage, we pulled into the groom's parents' house yearning for the sweet release of sleeping in a free bed. Instead, his father poured me a drink, his mother offered me some cannoli and his sister asked if I wanted to go find an open bar.



I'm so fancy!