There we were, in Marina del Rey, on a boat, ready to start celebrating the marriage of my brother’s daughter in a beautiful evening ceremony.
The sun had set, the music was playing, the wine was flowing, and, much to Butterfly’s delight, the buffet line was open. She doesn’t partake of alcoholic beverages, so she didn’t appreciate, as the rest of us did, the fact that our table was right next to the bar.
I’d hold up my glass behind me and say, “Scotch on the rocks, please!”
It would magically be filled up without me ever having to rise from my chair, or having to bother Electric Horseman to rise from his. I owe my brother a lot. He kept telling me during the months leading up to this event that he had nothing to do with anything regarding planning, that all he did was sign the checks. I’m thinking, though, that he had a lot to do with where I sat. I can hear it now.
“Rip, what do you think about this seating chart?”
“I don’t care one whit about it – just put my little sister next to the bar!”
He had warned all of his friends that “the whole bag of monkeys” was coming to the wedding (meaning his family). Hmmm. I’m not sure if I like being referred to as a monkey, as much as I love and respect monkeys, chimps, apes … the whole lot of them. For some reason, those Southern California folk seem to think we Northern California folk have no “culture”. I would just like to remind him that he was raised on the same farm, in the same gunny sack, as me and Martha. (And I need to point out right here and now that my sister detests her blog name. I gave it to her because she is a domestic goddess – you know, always sewing, knitting, cooking, doing all those things that I could never figure out how to do. So I named her after Martha You-Know-Who.) If he thinks I’m such a dumb bunny, why is he always laughing at my jokes?
People would wander up to me and ask, “Are you the sister with the column?”
At first I was confused (because I am so slow, being from the boondocks in Northern California and all), and then I realized they were referring to this, my blog.
“Guilty as charged!” I’d respond, although I'd never considered this thing a column. Perhaps I should have chosen “Lois Lane” as my blog call-sign.
Thanks to my blog/column, and my brother bragging about his monkey/mother, Butterfly was well-known long before our arrival. Well, that and the ever-present bouncing butterfly in her hair probably gave her away.
“You must be Butterfly!” someone would exclaim, with hand outstretched, “I’ve read and heard so much about you!”
So there we were, doing our best to stand up straight, not fall over in a drunken stupor, not do anything to embarrass the polished part of our family and they had to throw a cupcake wedding cake into the mix:
They were right next to the buffet line. Big mistake. HUGE! When we got back to our seats with our food, there was Butterfly with cupcake in hand. She had even convinced my brother-in-law to take one, too. What can I say … he started life on the East Coast, but he’s from Northern California now.
“Butterfly! You can’t have a cupcake now!” we all admonished her.
“I certainly can!” she replied. “I’m not going back down there for it!” The buffet was on the bottom deck and we were seated on the second deck. She made it sound like she had a problem trotting up and down stairs. Oh, poor, poor, decrepit Butterfly. Let me get out my violin. It’s not like this boat was out on the high seas. We were tooling around in the harbor, for gosh sakes!
“What,” Electric Horseman asked her, “if it had been a traditional wedding cake? Would you have cut into it?”
She had no answer for that. She just grinned and launched into her dinner. You can dress her up, but you can’t take her out. We did notice, however, that they both scooted their cupcakes out to the middle of the table so it would be hard to tell who they belonged to. That was just in case the Cupcake Police came by, I suppose.
There were beautiful table decorations that I wasted a lot of time photographing.
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how do you think it breathes under water?
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It was nice to be able to go on the top deck for some fresh air.
The music carried up there so Electric Horseman and I managed some dancing in a quiet space all to ourselves.
On the main deck, things were getting rowdy … except for the slow songs.
The bride and groom appeared to be having a good time.
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Rip and the cupcake thief
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Oh, look, the same Butterfly who refuses to navigate the stairs for cupcakes sure can cut a rug with her son! She’s such a faker!
I’m sure when we were growing up, my brother and sister would never have believed that someday they would willingly dance together. In those days, we mostly just beat each other up.
Pour enough alcohol, and the toasting starts. By those who are toasted. (I jest.)
The father of the bride (#1 father) offered his sage advice and glowing reports about the other parents involved.
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I didn't know you remembered THAT!
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Then it was my brother’s turn (#2 father). Both fathers said very nice things about each other, about the mothers, about the difficulties of step-parenting … about the difficulties of being a step-child … there’s that nasty “step” word again.
This went on until at one point Butterfly leaned over to some man she had just met that evening and said, “Gee, it’s a mutual admiration society!” They both just about fell off their chairs laughing.
Again, I jest! She really said that (there is no censoring system on her), but the toasts were beautifully done and the bride and groom truly appreciated them.
At the end of a beautiful evening, a gondola arrived to whisk the bride and groom away to their hotel.
I obviously had had way too much to drink to worry about camera settings. Oh, well. I rather like the looks of these photos. I call them “romantic.” Try squinting. It helps.
To be continued …
