Confessions of a fortuitous fanning

Ok, so you know those weddings people reminisce about, where everything is so perfect and immaculate and amazing that they just want to cry?

Yes well, my wedding made people want to cry too (and perhaps maybe some did) but for very different reasons.


Take me, for example- I experienced some tears during a hysterical fit of laughter just before going down the aisle. Oh it was a hoot, so much so that it might be considered an absolute waste of humor not to tell you about it.

It all began about a week prior to the thing actually happening.  Perhaps I should preface this by admitting that I really didn’t care all that much that the wedding was flawless.  It’s not in my nature to demand perfection from the world, for I find the most beautiful (or amusing) things in this life are far from that. So, the wedding itself was rather on a loose leash….or maybe no leash at all, I’m not sure.

I don’t regret this.


So back to how it all begins- my sister breaks her leg in 2 places, 6 bloody days before the wedding whilst attempting to help build an arbor for the ceremony, which later becomes a story all it’s own.  She’s the maid of honor and still has a list of things to get done that week, which of course either consequently don’t happen or are passed down to me, the girl who will use a paper bag to replace the peanut butter lid and call it good.

So the sister shows up to the rehearsal dinner hobbling out of the car with a massive hot pink cast up to her thigh and waves with a funny cringey look on her face.

What the…wait. OH. That’s her smile now.

Apparently, the combination of  high levels of pain and strong drugs in my sister make her look like the Cheshire Cat.  I realize this just in time and avoid stupid questions like “whats going on with your face though..”


That night my sister and I stay at a lovely hotel nearby, along with Mr B who, of course, must be part of everything.  I lie down and the next thing I know it’s morning and time to get ready for the wedding, which, as it turns out, also happens to be the hottest day of the year on record.

So, while my beautiful bridesmaids start arriving, one of them informs me that traffic is horrific and that today is Comic-Con. Aaaannnnnd the wedding is in San Diego.

Now, for the record, until this moment, I have no clue what the hell Comic-Con is and don’t really care. Now I care.  I care very much and want to murder all the little Comic-Conians for taking up the  entire city of San Diego.


I find out later that all the little nerds and their friends cause so much traffic that it takes most of our friends roughly 6 hours to get from LA to San Diego. Some don’t make it all and get lured into the Comic- Con world, never to be seen again.

So, I’ve just put on my dress and accepted the fact that the only people who may be watching me get married are my bridesmaids and the Cheshire Cat, when suddenly Mr B sees something  through the window that catches his eye.

It’s another dog.  Now, at this moment, my sister and her swollen leg in the hot pink cast are the only things in-between that window and Mr B.

Before I can blink, he’s soared across the room in a grandiose attempt to leap over my sister sitting in her wheelchair.  In a disturbing way, it sort of reminds me of watching some distorted rendition of the cow jumping over the moon, only in this case, the cow slams into the moon and creates a great big bloody implosion.


In horror I watch as he runs smack dab into her freshly broken and swollen leg, sending her flying backwards in her chair,  a flash of hot pink mess and black and white pile ending spattered across the floor.

After I yank him off and making sure she’s not dead, I stop myself from asking if she’s alright because clearly, um, no not at all.

The tip of her foot is poking out from the cast has gone from a pinkish, rosy hue to a deep, plum purple.  And her face, oh her face….  The Cheshire cat is gone and has now transformed into something akin to, well, a raisin.

A raisin with make up running down it’s face.


Oh its bad, it’s so very bad. I’m pretty sure at this point my sister wants to murder Mr B, and I don’t blame her.

After taking some time to get her breathing again, we, a strange company of bridesmaids, photographer, large dog with jumbo bow-tie, drugged up- purple footed girl with pink cast and a cherry on top, march out the door to the cars.

We are asked many questions along the way, many of which involve assumptions that we are part of some strange TV comedy.  Sometimes I tell them yes, we are, just so I can see them wave at the photographer’s camera and imagine they’re famous for a moment.

By the time we get to the site, a lovely little grassy hill overlooking the ocean, sister has doubled her medication and it’s difficult to tell if she is coherent most of the time. Also, we are given word that everyone and their uncle are, of course, running very late because of the Comic-Conians, and my coordinator tells me we are just going to start late.

So we wait.

And wait

About an hour and a half later I am starting to suspect some sort of mischief is afoot, and I am not buying the ‘guests are running late’ line anymore because I can see them from where I am standing.

Finally some brave soul, who also happens to be my sister’s boyfriend, spills the beans.  The conversation goes something like this:

Me: “so whats going on down there.”

Abel : “well, you know, Trey isn’t here yet”

(Trey is our officiant, the person that is supposed to, you know,  marry us)

Me:  “Aha, I see. Any word on when he’s supposed to get here?”

Abel:  “Well, I think he is out of the handcuffs now so hopefully they won’t arrest him”



Abel: “Oh..yeah, um. He was pulled over going 80 in a construction zone while blasting ‘love is a battlefield’ by Pat Benatar and-“

At this point I just start laughing, hysterically. There is no stopping me.  He sort of stares at me wide eyed, and nervously asks if I’m ok.  He thinks I’ve gone mad, maybe I have. But I’m enjoying myself so much I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass. After about 10 minutes I finally get a hold of myself and tell him that this day is going to make a great story.

I realize at this point that I’d better have a second plan in place, just in case dear sweet Trey ends up in jail that night, and casually ask a few people if they wouldn’t mind taking his place.  Then, as if on cue, Trey comes bounding down the street towards us, shirt un-tucked, hair askew, tie flapping wildly behind him in the wind.

He has talked his way out of getting arrested and even the ticket itself, and is here at last to start the ceremony.

As the bride, I am, of course, in the back of the line and, consequently, get a front row seat (so to speak) to the events that are about to follow.  First, you must know that in order to get ‘down the aisle’ towards the edge of the shore where the ceremony is, we must all descend down a small, grassy hill.  For most, this is not a problem, but for one poor sweet soul I am sad to say that is not the case.

I’m sure you can guess who that sweet soul is.

In horror I watch as Abel attempts to push her down the hill in the wheelchair, but gets stuck in some unseen and devious hole in the ground. The chair tips forward, pitching my sister forward towards the ground below. She holds on for dear life, but as she does I watch as Mike’s ring goes plummeting out of her lap and down the hill.

This in turn sends sister-in-law, also wedding coordinator to this mad circus (bless her heart) flying down the hill after the thing, arms flailing behind her as she shouts, ‘the ring, the ring!’

This is when I lose it. All of it.

People tell me afterwards that they’d never seen a bride with that bright of a smile walking down the aisle.

Oh, I’m sure of that. And I’m sure they’ll never know how close they were to watching a bride go completely out of her mind crazy with hysterical laughter. You know, according to Mary Poppins you can die laughing.  I think I almost did that day.

We get through the rest of things fairly smoothly without too much of a hiccup, and then it’s time to take pictures, which leads to the finale of the day.

It is at this moment a friends asks me if I’ve stubbed my toe. Why no, I say, why?  I look down to see that there is blood across the front lining of my dress, of my dress, of my dressssss.

Turns out, poor Mr B had developed some sort of sore on his bum that day, and at some point had sat down on the hem of my dress, leaving a rather messy mess behind him.

But of course, of course there is blood on my bloody dress, why wouldn’t there be?

And thus ends the hilarity that was our wedding.  I really can’t say it upsets me, aside from what dear sister endured.  After all, it gave us something to laugh about and a story to tell later.

Who wants a boring, stoic story about how perfect everything went?  Perfection is dull if you ask me, and life and love are messy and abrupt and beautiful. You can’t plan things like that, they just are.

So here’s to broken legs and messed up people and real life and loving people more for it.  Cheers.