More Wedding Tales from Emma Barry, Cat Sebastian, and @ThatTallFriend!

When I wrote about my (long-ago) wedding on Twitter, a dozen of my friends chimed in with their own stories of ceremonies gone wonky and wonderful. Here are a few of those tales!

Emma Barry’s Badass Husband:

My wonky wedding story didn’t occur at my own wedding, but at that of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. For lots of complicated reasons, the rehearsal didn’t occur, so my husband didn’t get a chance to practice the reading he was supposed to deliver. So when the big day came, and the first reader got up to give his reading, my husband froze–because the first reader produced the text from out of his jacket pocket.

“I was supposed to bring it?” my husband whispered, aghast.

Minutes ticked by, minutes during which I began to shake with nervous suppressed laugher because what the hell was he going to do? Get up and admit that he didn’t have it? Ask the priest if he happened to have a spare Bible?

When the time came, my husband got up and walked to the front, stone-faced. I sat in the pew and tried not to guffaw. He picked up the mic…and started to make it up. That’s right: in the midst of a wedding ceremony, my husband ad libbed the Bible. And no one–including the happy couple or the priest–even noticed.

We call it the Gospel According to Mr. B, and it (and the balls of brass it took him to produce it) are just a few of the many reasons that, reader, I married him.

[NOTE from Olivia: Did you know that Emma has a free holiday novella available? No? Well, GET ON IT, PEOPLE.]


Cat Sebastian and Her Cool-under-Pressure Spouse Make It Work:

The day of my wedding—which consisted of me and my husband going to the judge’s chambers, followed by a low key party at our house—I had a panic attack. My husband had to put the klonopin in my mouth and make me swallow. “Just like giving the dogs their flea pills!” he said proudly. Like, some people write their vows, but that is what we have as an expression of our love: It was like making a dog take flea medicine.

At some point I got dressed, only to realize that my bra showed in the v-neckline of my dress (bought on sale at Ann Taylor Loft earlier that week, and which I have to imagine I tried on at some point, presumably braless). Being solution oriented, and also high as a kite, I put the dress on backwards and my bra didn’t show anymore. Ta da! And that’s what I’m wearing in my wedding pictures: a backwards dress and a glazed expression.

Because this all started with you writing (or not writing) a wedding scene, I have to add that if I read my wedding story in a book I’d assume the pill-taking backwards-dress-wearing spouse didn’t want to get married. It’s a metaphor for her ambivalence! But really it’s just that I don’t like weddings at all (hence the panic attack the day of mine).

[NOTE from Olivia: Do you follow @CatSWrites on Twitter? No? Well, GET ON IT, PEOPLE.]


@ThatTallFriend Experiences Dude Where’s My Car: The Hungover Bridesmaid Edition:

My cousin had a beautiful wedding. The after party, though? Let’s just say it got a little out of hand. Fast forwarding through a night which can only be described as a night of drunken debauchery, we find ourselves at the morning after. The bride’s wild ex-roommate is passed out in the motel lobby, still in her bridesmaid gown. My family had the car packed and we were ready to leave, but my Dad (a self-proclaimed busy body) couldn’t resist a good story.

Turns out the bridesmaid went bar hopping after the wedding after-party and she ended up losing her car (which happened to contain her room key and her change of clothes). She knows she left her car at the bar.

The twist? She doesn’t know which one.

Her bar hopping friends were already on their flight home and could not come to her rescue. So there we were, five of us packed into a small rental car, following directions from the motel handyman to the closest bar. No car to be found. We start googling local bars from our phones. How many bars can there be in a rural Georgia town, right?

More than ten. That’s how many.

After two hours of driving from bar to bar…to bar…to bar, we gave up and drove the severely hungover bridesmaid back to the motel. Just to cover all the bases, my Dad decides to drive around to the parking lot in back of the motel.

Lo and behold: hungover bridesmaid’s car. Parked right outside of the room formerly occupied by my brother. To which my brother said, “Oh, right. Did I not mention that I saw a red car parked outside earlier?”

We parted ways with hungover bridesmaid (who, to this day, is still unapologetically mocked by my cousins) and we refused to speak to my brother for the remainder of the trip.

Oh, I left out the most important detail! Once Hungover Bridesmaid was able to charge her phone, she noticed she had a voicemail from her friend Pete, who was the DD, informing her that her car was parked behind the motel. (Head/desk).

[NOTE from Olivia: Do you follow @ThatTallFriend on Twitter? No? Well, GET ON IT, PEOPLE.]


More stories to come from Amara Royce, Philippa Lodge, and others in the days ahead!

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