Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Best. Wedding. Ever. Followed closely by Worst. Honeymoon. Ever. Fair enough I suppose. Everything went off without a hitch at the dog n’ pony show, from the lavender-strewn aisle to the free, accidental fireworks display at the reception. The timing ended up being perfect; they went off right after the Best Man’s toast, and someone else across the harbor at another wedding paid for them. Everyone looked suave and mostly behaved. The relations didn’t even fuss about the total lack of Jesus in the ceremony. An open bar wounds all heels.
People were also excited by the beautiful 75-degree sunny weather after a week of nagging rain. Little do they know that Todd Gross and I killed a hog that morning and festooned the Channel 7 studio with the offal. Sure, you might think that weasel Kevin Lemanowicz is far more evil, but Todd Gross is truly the Lord Voldemort of meteorologists. It’s called Planning and Connections, people. Don’t try an outdoor wedding without a sacrifice. Full disclosure: I got the black magic idea from an old installment of Martha’s Calendar.
Anyway, to the schadenfreude-mobile! Once I finally snapped last Thursday morning, and desperately 411’d United reservations to extricate us from what we came to call The Arizona Situation, I made the connection that everyone loves a horror story. It was just a few clams to change our tickets, not at all what I’d feared. And we got cushy seats on the flight, and an upgraded room at the hotel we stayed at in Phoenix before our flight (once we explained we were fleeing our marital bliss like a band of scorned Israelites). Â Flying on September 11 was a far more appealing prospect than remaining one more second in Arizona.
What, exactly were we fleeing? Long story short: Mr. H’s parents wanted us to use a time share week as a wedding present. So for the dates we wanted, we had our pick of Colonial Williamsburg, the Poconos, or a spa in Sedona, AZ. They’d been to Sedona before and swore up and down that it was “so sexy.” We feared the worst, but they were so positive. “Free is good,” we rationalized. “We like spa treatments, thanks to the Fab Five.”
Try spending a week with elderly German swingers in teeny Speedos. Sedona is one giant strip mall, lousy with kachina dolls and Indian jewelry and those horrid Guatemalan ponchos. We experienced rental car failure, abysmal coffee, painful massages, and dehydration/altitude sickness. I ruptured an ear drum, got my thigh sucked into a Jacuzzi vent, and lost my favorite sunglasses. Oh, and it turns out that Mr. H is terrified of heights. Good to know in advance that all the roads are basically hair pin curves along vast gorges with no guard rails. Space fucking madness.
Then there was the Spirituality and ubiquitous piped in new age music. My aura is as black as an Amex Centurion card. I could have told you that. Mr. H’s is a nice shade of blue though. At least we had the good sense to manifest our destiny right back to pleasant sea level Boston. Sure, we could have stuck it out and complained in Arizona for a few more days. But complaining from the comfort of one’s own couch is far sweeter. Mr. H’s barely year-old titanium powerbook literally exploded right after he’d downloaded all the pictures from the camera and wiped the card, so no photographic record of this “vacation” exists. Fitting.
The moral is: do not anger the powers of the universe by having the world’s most perfect wedding. Look what happened to Martha, after all. Wabi-sabi. Also: do not listen to Mr. H’s parents. I don’t even LIKE nature, what was I thinking?