The one in which I enact a bad movie

Saturday morning. 

Too early.

I am blurry-eyed and backpacked.

The Duke is far, far worse.

Late last night, we were informed by our carpooling partners that we would be leaving an hour earlier than expected. For me, who had decided to hermit with a movie for my last night of free time in the near future, this was a minor inconvenience. For him, who had been drinking since the afternoon with his brother, it was catastrophic.

Our ride shows up 15 minutes earlier than the new start time. I nearly impale my iris with eyeliner in my hurry to get out the door.

They already have coffees in hand, and are thus much more chipper and loquacious than us. He speaks of the consequences of pollution on the lantern fish, as the Duke's head rolls limply on my shoulder.

As we near the ferry terminal, it comes out that they have not purchased reservations, for he thinks they are a scam. We miss the ferry by four cars. By the time our car finally inches within proximity of a coffee shop, the line-up is so epic that even my throbbing head can't justify waiting in it. 

We get on the next ferry, and frantically rush up the stairs, to join the hoards of people already in line for the cafeteria. I pay ten dollars for bad coffee and a breakfast combo, and it is only after I sit down that I remember the general rule of never purchasing eggs from a cafeteria. This is especially true for scrambled eggs, which have a sheen to them never seen in my kitchen. I douse them in ketchup to quash the sheen.

The ferry docks, after the crackling overhead speakers inform us that, along with leaving late, we have to float about in the harbour for a while to wait for another boat to leave. We accelerate as soon as the wheels hit the pavement, whizzing past RVs in an attempt to arrive at our hotels with enough time to switch from shorts and flip flops to wedding gear. They have chosen a reputable hotel chain. We have chosen a more affordable, local motel with a generic web page.

Guess who made the better decision?

We jump out of the car with less than an hour until the walk down the aisle is set to begin. The single front desk worker is busy showing a room to another potential customer... so we wait. She cheerfully gives us the key to our room. We walk up the stairs, only to be greeted by a housekeeper, who informs us our room will be cleaned in around 20 minutes (side note- I called to confirm an early check in time, and that was based on the earlier ferry we were supposed to have caught). 

We walk down the stairs, and ask to be switched to another room, as the clock keeps ticking. She apologizes, and hands us another set of keys. We walk up the stairs. We unlock the door. And are promptly assaulted by a stifling haze of old smoke. I call the front desk. She denies that it is a smoking room, but cautiously adds "We can't really stop people from smoking in their rooms." It smells like a bingo hall, not the place where a furtive single cigarette has been puffed out a window. I inform her that my boyfriend is allergic to cigarette smoke, so could we please be switched to another room.

We walk down the stairs. She doesn't smile when giving us the key this time. We walk up the stairs. The key doesn't work. We walk down the stairs. We walk up the stairs. We finally open the door, and take a deep inhale-- no smoke. The second the lack of odor hits us, we start dropping our clothes, buttoning shirts, changing earrings, at record speed.

They are late, and we arrive at the church with literally two minutes to spare. It is packed, and we have to squirm over people's laps. It is also sweltering beyond belief and smells eerily like a sauna. 

The piano starts.

The groomsmen and the groom himself walk down the aisle to the Imperial March from Star Wars.

I whisper to the Duke, "This is officially the biggest geek wedding on the planet."

The bride's melody is a much less awkward traditional piece.

What was awkward, however, was when the entire church breaks into the Lord's Prayer in unison, and all we can do is stare awkwardly at our feet.

After the vows were said, and brides were kissed, we stood up to file to the courtyard. As he turns to exit, I noticed that the Duke's entire back was covered in an unsightly brown smear. It appears that the unique combination of back sweat and old church pews has resulted in several of the men appearing as though they have done a little mud writhing prior to their arrival.

It is just as we are planning how on earth to save his shirt in time for the reception that we step out into the courtyard, and see that the guests are lining up to shake the hands of the parents and wedding party. Last in line is the maid of honour, who the Duke had a brief, ill-fated, and very ill advised fling with prior to meeting me. I play dumb when he introduces me. She acts as though we have filed a restraining order against her for the remainder of the night, always remaining at least 10 feet from our vicinity.

We dash off to drink slurpees and remove stains. On our way to 7-11, we see a man at an intersection in a scooter with a milk crate basket wearing overalls with no shirt, and I realize that I have become a big city snob when I laugh at him. After trying on the unfortunate combination of dress pants and a red t-shirt with a car on it, the Duke somehow manages to un-sully his shirt by motel bathroom products and a complicated system of multiple hangers to dangle it out the window (where it had a beautiful view of the empty lot below).

The reception actually passes without the hitches we have come to expect. We eat good food, laugh at speeches, and meet new people.

However, it is a little awkward when, at the night, the dead sober Irish couple we had been speaking to move from offering us a ride back to our motel, to telling us how nice their hotel and and its amenities were, to speaking as though we were going back to their hotel with them. It was only when we return to our room (with a ride from the couple we arrived with) that we both pause, look at each other, and say "Were they trying to pick us up?"

It is then that it occurs to me that somewhere, this same day has been scripted for a bad sitcom.

***

A few programming notes...

#1- My life is in the midst of much insanity. Over the four days, I have two huge concerts, two out of town visitors, and we leave for a week in HomeTown. As such, my visiting will probably be a little diminished for the time being. Don't worry, you're all still accumulating in my feed reader like a giant guilt trip, so there will be plenty of love when free time has decided to visit me again.

#2- I just wanted to take a moment and remind everyone that I roll super-anon style... which comes with its own associated paranoia. So, just humour me, those of you fabulous people who have access to my true identity on the Facebooks, and keep this in mind. I just saw that my blog has been added to the Blog Network application-- this is lovely, but please don't nominate me (or anyone else, for that matter!) as the author. Also, keep all wall comments appropriately cryptic (e.g., No "I hated your blog post from last night"). Gracias!