Everyone welcome Selena, our guest photographer this week. Yours truly had a hormonal dumb-dumb moment and ran off without her camera. AFTER I'd spent a whole week talking about the most excellent blog fodder that I knew this weekend would deliver. Typical.
Anyway, we went to a wedding this weekend in Louisiana. Rural Louisiana. My husband’s home town, to be exact.
I love Louisianans. Hell, I married one. But you’ve got to admit, they can be a bit “outdoorsy.” My husband tells about how he and his siblings used to fight over who got to eat the squirrel brains after a good hunt. No lie, y’all.
So, when I tell you that a lot of what we saw and heard (and did) over the weekend would make Britney seem downright classy? Please believe.
Around 3:30 Saturday afternoon, the Mr. and I stopped by the brother and sister-in-law’s house so we could ride over together. We were already dressed for the wedding because it’s only a 2-hour or so drive. But I had decided that I would not put on my strappy heeled sandals until the very last minute, because hello? Swollen pregnant feet. So, I slipped on a pair of flip-flops for the drive. As I clomped up the steps to the house, I noticed my sister-in-law's reaction to my oh-so-pretty ensemble of velvet maternity pants, festive red blouse, and glorified shower shoes.
Her: (Eyeing the shoes…)
Me: You know, I thought I’d go for the pregnant redneck look.
Her: Ummm…
Me: Just kidding, I have real shoes in the car.
Her: Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but....
Tee-hee.
And we were off. At one point during the drive, someone wondered aloud if there would be food at this shindig. I said I was pretty sure there’d be some little smoked sausages floating in barbecue sauce. (OK, so my expectations were a little low, but hey, low expectations lessen the odds for disappointment later on.)
Around 5:45, we rolled into town, found the wedding site and headed on in. That is, after I kicked off the flip-flops and donned the strappy foot-torture devices.
Now, let’s see if I do this justice. And let me just say, it really was fun. Would’ve been even more fun had I not been so pregnant. Or so sober.
The wedding was held in a lake lodge. It was very rustic, and decorated with white twinkle lights, candles and, ahem, silk rose petals. The ceremony was held in the same room as the reception. We all just sat at our tables that were arranged on either side of an aisle in the middle. Not a bad idea for an informal wedding. My first impression? There was a hellava spread of food (of course that’s what I noticed—what did you expect?). There was fried catfish, chicken, tamales (yes, tamales...the town is known for them--don't ask me why...), and a wide assortment of finger foods, sweets, and of course, cake. I couldn’t get a good look at everything, but I was sure hoping the ceremony didn’t last too long.
Thankfully, it didn’t. Soon, the groom appeared, the mothers were seated, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen began the processional to a country-western song, of which I don’t remember the name. They all sound the same to me. The first bridesmaid that came down the aisle was about as pregnant as I was. Her hair and makeup were tastefully done, and she had a pretty peaches-and-cream complexion. Her dress was a cute little black dressy maternity number.
And on her feet?
Flip flops.
Yes, they were embellished with sparkly beads, but they were still foam-heeled, rubber-soled flip-flops.
I turned to my sister-in-law. Split-second eye contact was made before we both turned our heads and thought of lesson plans or dead kittens or whatever it took to keep from giggling. Pictures of grace, aren’t we?
Everyone made it down the aisle, and the minister, all 107 years of him, began the ceremony. I’m still not quite sure if these kids are really married, because I could not understand one word the poor old man said. I think his dentures might have been loose. He did manage to pronounce them husband and wife, I think. But the most important thing was that it was now Time to Eat.
There were two or three large coolers of beer—Coors Light and Michelob, I think—and on each table was a bottle of wine. Arbor Mist.
I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.
The food was fan. freakin. tastic. I started with some fried fish and coleslaw and jalapeños. My other sister-in-law was sitting across from me and shared some tamales, which were outstanding as well. And in case you’re wondering, I was drinking Orange Fanta.
“What else do they have over there?” asked I, the big, fat, can’t-get-enough-to-eat pregnant chick.
“Oh, there is cake, of course, some hors d'oeuvres, and some smoked sausages with barbecue sauce.”
“Smoked sausages? You’re kidding, right?”
“You want me to go get you some?”
“No thanks, I think I’ll go check it out myself.”
And sure enough, there they were, right next to the red velvet wedding cake. I wanted a photo of them, but I guess it’s probably bad manners to stand over a buffet and take photos of the barbecued wieners.
I doubt anyone would have noticed, though. They didn’t notice this:
(For everyone who is about to send hate mail to the irresponsible wino pregnant woman? #1: The lid is still screwed on. #2: Can't you see I'm about to bust a gut laughing?)
