I wrote about my own (long-ago) wedding last week, and since then, I’ve been posting stories by friends about their own wonky nuptials. Here’s one last batch for your amusement!
I wrote about my own (long-ago) wedding last week, and since then, I’ve been posting stories by friends about their own wonky nuptials. Here’s a new batch for your amusement!
Laura Curtis’ Marital Manual (Which She Doesn’t Read):
My husband and I got married in Las Vegas because my husband was a road manager for rock bands and the guy he wanted for his best man was the drummer of the band he was currently touring with. And here’s the thing: every bad drummer joke you’ve heard? They’re all true. So we knew if we wanted Frank to make it to the wedding, we had to get married on tour.
I called and arranged the chapel. They did weddings every twenty minutes, so ours was at 1:20. They have an atrium, the chapel itself, and then you go out the back. The ceremony is seven minutes long. You wait in the atrium until the couple before you gets all their paperwork signed and goes out the back and then it’s your turn.
When I’d called to arrange the chapel, they’d asked if I wanted a secular or religious ceremony. I said secular, but the first thing the minister — an embittered French-Canadian — said when he began the service was “The Bible is a manual for marriage. Especially the New Testament.” My father, one of our only guests, said “She never reads the fucking manual,” which set the tone for the whole ceremony.
I wrote about my own (long-ago) wedding last Thursday. When I did, many of my author friends chimed in with their own stories of nuptials gone right or very, very wrong. Here are a few more wedding tales for your enjoyment!
Amara Royce’s Trusting Husband and Exhausted Bagpiper:
I was thirty minutes late to my wedding. My husband was the only one still sure I was coming.
This was before everyone had cell phones! So there was no way for me to contact anyone at the church to let them know that me and my parents and bridesmaids were delayed.
As part of our ceremony package, we’d opted to have a bagpiper playing outside the church as the guests arrived. By all accounts, she was great…and must not have had any breath left by the time I arrived!
I never got to hear her play a single note. The moment the limo arrived at the church, I hurried up the steps, was ushered into a side room where the bridal party’s flowers were, and promptly burst into hysterical tears.
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?
I’m in the midst of writing Driven to Distraction, the fifth book in my Lovestruck Librarians series. Near the beginning of the story, a prior heroine and hero get married in a ceremony attended by all their friends.
Fun, right? Except that, for the life of me, I couldn’t seem to get a handle on that chapter. For a full day, I attempted to imagine various aspects of the scene: what the bride would wear, what vows the groom would make, the flowers, the cake…
None of it inspired me. At all.
I really wanted any fans of this hero and heroine to feel satisfied by the wedding, but I couldn’t get the words on the page.
Then it finally occurred to me: Apparently, in fiction as in real life, I don’t really give a damn about weddings. Love, yes. Weddings, no.
As a child, I never made Barbie marry Ken. My Barbie, despite the permanent arch of her feet and the disturbing holes in the sides of her head—the better to accommodate high heels and earrings, respectively—led an independent life of adventure. Well, maybe not adventure. But she could claim sole ownership of a luxurious Dream House and a shiny Corvette.
My Barbie even boasted some skimpy lingerie. Poor Ken never saw any of it. As far as I was concerned, Barbie’s staid boyfriend did not meet her needs. Too young to attribute Barbie’s dissatisfaction to Ken’s eerily smooth nether regions, I simply decided he was boring. And so Barbie remained single, glamorous, and happy, even after I gave her a haircut suitable for asylum inmates.