A few weeks ago, my sister got married in Massachusetts. Dean, with no arm-twisting on my behalf, flew all the way from Honolulu to be my date, proving that I am -- not only trans-Pacifically, nor merely transcontinentally, but trans-hemispherically -- a hot piece of ass.

It has already been established that I don't do anything the easy way. So it stands to reason that the first time I've brought a boy home since I was seventeen, he had to fly in from halfway around the world, for an important and hectic family weekend during which he and I would have little time alone, and my parents would be too preoccupied to pay him as much attention as they would have liked.

I suppose I sound sarcastic, but I don’t intend to. It really does fit.

For weeks I had been gearing him up for meeting my folks. However, having had a love life consisting of scattered first dates, horrendously bad timing, decent one-night-stands, and well-meaning open hookups, I was a little out of practice introducing a gentleman caller. Add to that Dean's abject phobia of girls' parents, and you have two people heading into an emotionally charged family event with no idea what is going to happen.

Said I to Dean, before the trip, "I'm sorry I haven't really been able to prepare you for meeting my parents. They're nice people, I trust you'll be great, and it'll be fine."

Said he to me, "I know, I know."

Said I, "... I kind of thought that if I told you to 'Be nice' and 'Behave yourself,' it would not only be condescending, but inspire you to behave in the exact opposite manner."

And he, "Ah, you know me so well!"

Unremitting irreverence is one of the greatest things that make Dean who he is. I suppose that's why I chose the passive-aggressive, "Scared Straight" technique to make him act polite, frightening him into believing my dad is a spy* with a Navy-issued sword and sheath hanging on the wall behind his favorite chair**.

*Probably not true ... then again, I’m not allowed to know what he does, so if he was a spy, and I knew about it, that would mean he was lousy at his job and I probably wouldn't have been able to afford to attend college ... so, thanks, Dad! Sorry, former Soviet Union.

** Definitely true, and maybe part of the reason the boys I knew in high school were deathly afraid of my father. As he sat silently in his armchair, chewing his fingernail and reading nerdy books about Winston Churchill, they were certain he was plotting their skewerings and/or castrations. The sword has been hanging on the wall, dormant, since before I was born. As far as I know, the only time it's ever been used was to cut my parents' wedding cake in 1971. Then again, that’s only as far as I know (see latter asterix).

Anyway, we both got to Massachusetts, me bearing a suitcase full of bachelorette party props (penis-shaped swizzle sticks, dirty pinup cards, a box full of undies THAT I CAN'T BELIEVE I BOUGHT FOR MY SISTER) befitting a woman of my Maid of Dishonor title, and Dean carrying far more gentlemanly, parent-friendly Hawaiian gifts of Kona coffee, chocolate covered macadamia nuts, and pineapples.

It was fun. We went to the bachelorette party immediately after landing at the airport, where my sister was showered with gifts and drank so much she passed out in the back seat on the way home.

Dean, the designated driver, got a taste of the New England boonies of my formative years, driving us drunk chicks to my parents' house along winding secondary highways where the town borders interlace like the fingers of hands in prayer. Where I’m from, it is not unheard of to drive through the outlying nooks of five separate towns along only fifteen miles of road. It's not the easiest place to navigate if, like Dean, you're unaccustomed to maneuvering a car along a road that hasn't changed much since it originated as a narrow cow-path two hundred years ago. Not to mention, the poor dear was jet lagged and nervous.

When we arrived at my parents' house, my sister ran upstairs to flop down in bed, and I went to the bathroom, inadvertently leaving Dean to face my mom as she yelled from the top of the stairs that she had been seconds away from calling the cops and the hospital to find out whether or not we had all died in a fatal conflagration.

(Let me reiterate that I didn't force him to go.)

The rest of the weekend consisted of rehearsals, errands, manicures, and all the frantic etcetera that’s lumped in with wedding-ing. But, you know? There wasn't any of the stupid drama that always happens on Very Special Wedding Episodes of sitcoms X, Y, or Z. I had a lot of fun.

Dean says he did, too, so don’t believe his bullshit.

I kid. It means the world to me that he went, and he knows that.

* The bridesmaids dresses, in keeping with my sister's classy and simple aesthetic, were black-and-champagne, and very pretty. The cut had a halter neck, and I wore a mammoth bra specifically designed for dresses that shouldn't require a bra.

When you put the bra on a flat surface, each padded cup stands defiant and erect, like two bratty little baby heads. It has transparent, plastic straps that are supposedly user-friendly, but took me, my mom, and two other bridesmaids twenty minutes to untangle and assemble to appropriately fit under the dress. Meanwhile, as I was being shoved into the garment, my sister was slipping easily into her once-in-a-lifetime gown of lifelong commitment. My hair, done in 1920s finger waves, took three times longer than hers, too.

There is something wrong with that picture. Shouldn’t the bride be the woman requiring all the damned hand-maidens?

* My sister was so far from being Bridezilla that I think her wedding should’ve been thrown for free. She was just looking to create a good party where everyone had fun. She was definitely successful in that regard. Not to mention, she looked completely fucking gorgeous.

She, like my mom, is a tiny peanut of a woman, and was propped up by yards of tulle under a simple, strapless, floor-length gown like the proverbial figurine atop the wedding cake. (I take after my dad, [in fact, I’m castrating someone with my sword RIGHT NOW,] and am more “substantial.” With the giant bra, I looked like a brick house. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.) She opted for a tiara instead of a veil, and looked as much like a princess as she will ever allow herself to look. It was perfect.

* The ceremony lovely. My roles as maid of dishonor were to carry my sister’s bouquet, fluff her train, (in fact, the wedding party referred to me as "the fluffer,") and to sit next to her on the altar as the priest did his thang. During the homily, my sister burped softly. Not being one to pass up an opportunity to make her laugh inappropriately, I turned to her and whispered, "You're the belching bride!" She and I then spent a few minutes in silent, convulsive laughter as the priest waxed holy about marriage and holy sacraments and then split Jesus over a chalice, or whateverthefuck priests do during communion.

By the way, the wedding marks the first taste of communion wine I'd ever had. Just so you know, the blood of Christ is made out of pink Juicy Juice.

* I sang Ave Maria after communion. I had been worrying about it for months beforehand, concerned that my singing chops were not what they used to be, and that the overriding reaction would be "Why the hell did they let the heathen smoker sing?" I was convinced I'd forget the words and end up muttering Latin-sounding syllables totally at odds with Schubert's intended meter ... "Ave Maria ... um, Carpe Diem ... Nosferatu ..."

But, know what? I NAILED the Ave Maria. If it's true that she was a virgin before, she was fully deflowered by the time I was done with her. Maria was bent over and spanked, and we both enjoyed it. What a fucking relief.

* During the reception, there was much playing of Neil Diamond and Billy Joel, and other enjoyable white-folk music. I don’t really dance, so I spent most of my time talking to Dean and close family friends I thought had forgotten about me, since they hadn't seen me since before I moved to Chicago. I heard more than once, "You look happy. The west coast has been good to you." True, true.

* My sister closed the reception by leading her friends in a remarkably dirty chant replete with cusses of every possible color. (Tiny woman in a beautiful cupcake dress with a sparkling tiara and fucking sailor's mouth, I adore you and I’m so proud you're my sister.)

* The after-party was held at a hotel a few miles from the reception site. Around 2 AM, almost everyone got kicked out of their rooms, like the marching band version of The Who. I have no idea where anyone stayed for the night. Dean and I, still in our wedding finery (though by this point I was wearing the fedora Dean had brought to compliment his suit) wandered through the hotel halls, meekly knocking on the doors where, minutes before, my sister’s friends had siphoned tequila into our gullets. By the time we sought refuge, however, the rooms had all been emptied.

Every time we turned a hallway corner, a couple of state policemen headed us off and we pulled an about-face to walk briskly in the other direction, pretending not to notice them.

Eventually, we told them our predicament.

"Look," said Dean to the cops, "this is the sister of the bride. We don’t have a room here ..."

"And I’m not planning on crashing with my sister on her wedding night," I said. "We don’t really know what to do, and we don’t have anywhere to go."

The cops referred us to the hotel staff, who took pity on us and gave us a hotel room for a few hours. Thanks goodness. I don’t think either of us was looking forward to staying in the lobby, drunk, still dressed up, and watching the hotel staff set up the complimentary continental breakfast.

* After I got back to California, and Dean arrived in Hawaii, he told me he had sent a Thank You card to my folks.

Said I, "They'll appreciate that. What did you write?"

Said he, "Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure they know I was kidding."

I ... "Heheheh... um. What did you write?"

He ... "I don’t really remember."

Kelly ... "Huh?"

Dean ... "I was kinda drunk. But like I said, I’m sure they know I was kidding."

K ... "Wha ... Oh, you're full of shit."

D ... "Heheheheheh..."

I guess after my "scared straight" approach, I was asking for that. What he actually wrote was sweet as hell, and my mom, who is actually much tougher than my dad (the international military assassin), seemed genuinely please, and potentially wooed, by his note. As for my dad, he's probably long since won over, since he's a sucker for chocolate covered macadamia nuts.

That sounds filthy.

~ Last Five Entries ~

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Outer Richmond House - 07.04.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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