Tuesday, September 18, 2007

A Big Fat Greek Wedding

We attended our first Greek wedding this weekend, and it was everything I could’ve hoped for, and more (save for one thing, which I shall mention later.)

I wore a fabulous little cocktail dress that I had seen last fall and had nothing to wear it to, so couldn’t justify spending $160 on it, but then found it on clearance a few months later and got for a steal of $40. Anyway, when I tried it on I must have said, “Oh, there’s my short torso at it again, I’ll need to have [my mother-in-law] take the straps in,” and then forgot about it until I went to wear it this weekend. It was wearable, but until my BFF and I did some emergency safety-pinning, my husband kept telling me to put my boobs away and cover myself up with my pashmina.

The bride was a very dear friend of mine whom I’ve known since birth (our mom’s are best friends and we’re 10 days apart), who married a wonderful Greek man who compliments her very nicely (I couldn’t be happier for them.) She looked beyond stunning and didn’t stop smiling all evening, and everyone seemed to be having a great time. The food was amazing, the dancing was fun (I joined in the festive Greek dances) and the conversations were memorable, to put it lightly.

The bride is rather good at staying in touch with old friends (unlike me) which meant that I knew the majority of her side of the guests, mostly from the time I was in retainers, if not diapers. It was a flashback to say the least. There were talks of camp, the lunch table, and what a good baby I was. When I was spotted holding a friend’s newborn while she stole a quick dance with her husband, the mothers swarmed. My husband was harassed about when we were having kids, and upon replying that we planned on sooner rather than later, he was instructed to, “Go home and get the job done TONIGHT!” Oy. I’ve never seen him blush quite like that before.

The one drawback: no plate smashing. I have been led to believe (through seemingly inaccurate television shows and movies) that all Greek weddings end with festive plate-smashing, which I confided in the Bride a few months before the wedding that I was ever-so-excited for. I was brutally rebuffed, “I think we have to pay for broken plates, so no plate smashing.” Fine, I thought. I won’t START the plate smashing, but if some excited Greek relative starts the ritual, you’d better believe I’m joining in. But it never happened. I found out later that I wasn’t the only non-ethnic guest waiting to break some plates; at least three other guests asked when I thought the festivities would begin. Sigh. Oh well, the next time I drop a plate at home I’ll try to remember to scream, “Opa!” instead of swearing.

1 comment:

Kolby said...

Yeah, Opa(!) is much better than SONOFABITCHMOTHERFUCKIN'SHIT!