At cliffhanger’s end yesterday, we were at the photo opportunity portion of the wedding. All of Fiddledaddy’s family were asked to pose for a picture with the bride and groom. Somebody quipped “I hope they brought the WIDE angle lense.” The comment was representative of the NUMBER of us, not the SIZE we are.
Mercifully, I handed Jensen over to his father. The boy has been known to wrestle me to the ground, and considering the length of the skirt I was wearing, and the fact that we were standing on a Catholic alter, it was a good call. I guess one who maybe has a degree in Psychology might say that I was lashing out at my parochial school upbringing by wearing such a short skirt to a Catholic service. Come to think of it, I have a degree in Psychology.
Take that Sister Loretta Thomas with your angry old ruler.
When the family was suitably smooshed together to fit into the photograph, I positioned myself in the back. I’m one of the shorter members of the family, you see. Years from now, no one will remember the skirt (complete with side slits for comfort). All they will see is me from the eyes up. And as far as the eyes go, they may or may not have been crossed.
When the photographer seemed suitably frazzled, he called it a wrap for the Fiddle side of the family. We all dashed out to our fleet of mini vans. The reception was to be held at the Yacht Club. Which was everything I hoped it would be. I said to Fiddledaddy as we entered, “I want ot join the Yacht Club.” Trish had procured us all seating by the food table. Because she’s smart. We kept Jensen trapped in his stroller for nearly the entire reception. Only because we kept throwing food his way. And enough of his female relatives stopped by to entertain him with compliments on his dashing handsomeness. I told all of my children to be sure and stuff themselves, as it was unlikely I would be doing any cooking later.
Mother of the Year is just within my grasp.
The food was delicious. But then, I was so hungry I could have been eating eye of cat and not cared. My BIL watched me inhaling some puff of something that held an hors d’oeuvre that was completely unrecognizable. “What are you eating?” “I have no idea,” I answered with my mouth stuffed full.
Then the dancing began. People. It was all I could do to keep from shaking my groove thang when the DJ played KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Get Down Tonight.” But I feared that if I were to “get down,” I may never have gotten back up. That whole skirt business was slowing me down. So, I remained near the food trough. Grazing.
At one point, Fiddledaddy asked me where Cailey was. I glanced underneath the table, “Well, her shoes are still here, so she can’t be far.” Sure enough, I looked out onto the dance floor, “She’s leading the train dance.”That’s my girl.
We stayed just long enough for the cake. Which should come as a surprise to no one. But then, we made the mistake of setting Jensen free. All of a sudden I noticed all the lit sterno cans keeping the food warm, and the sharp knives kept near the ham and turkey table. Time to call it a night. I grabbed three more chicken strips for the road (for the children, NOT ME) and we made our exit.
Before burning the place to the ground. And polishing off the last of the meatballs.
You just have to know when you’ve outworn your welcome, I always say.
Fiddledaddy and I reminisced on the way home about our wedding reception.
“What did people eat at our wedding?”
“And what kind of cake did we have?”
“Sheet cakes from Costco.”
Now that was a classy reception.