My Friend's Big Fat Drunk Russian Wedding

So my homegirl CeCe planned her wedding for this summer, and I secretly tried to think up at least three crafty reasons why I couldn’t attend - but she was way ahead of me. Knowing damn well how I feel about weddings, she assured me that (a) I didn’t have to be in it, (b) didn’t have to stay all night, and (c) there would be Russian cuisine and a full bar, so how could I say no to any of that? Plus, I kind of dig experiencing new cultural extravaganzas, and this would be my first official Russian Jewish wedding. 

 

So after months of waffling around, I decided at the very last minute to go ahead and make an appearance.

PRE-WEDDING

Main problem: Wardrobe. Most of my non-work gear consists of ripped jeans, t-shirts, bohemian style maxi dresses, and general Barfly attire. Since I hadn’t shopped for an outfit, I lifted some virginal white frock looking type dress from my closet, and paired it with nude Steve Madden wedge sandals. Threw in a matching clutch, and good enough. I also decided to bring out my inner sophisticate, and smoothed down my hair and attached one of those princess looking bun things on top of my dome, instead of rocking my usual wild-girl-on-the-loose curls. Put on a nice string of pearls with matching earrings, and gave myself a nod of approval as I headed to the car.

As I made my way to the door, my 23 year old son/roommate rushes in, looking concerned.

“MOM, okay tell me, what happened.” He sounded very distressed. “Did somebody DIE?”

I turn to glare at him. I’ve raised dude to always compliment a woman’s appearance, especially when it’s clear she’s made a little effort. Here I am trying to get fancy for a wedding, and he thinks I’m dressed to go see a corpse.

  

“No one DIED, son” I sigh heavily. “I’m headed to Cece’s wedding. I’m trying to look…calm. Conservative!”

“Oh, ok,” he goes. “You just look like one of those stiff southern ladies who spend all their time in church. That’s all,” he shrugs. “You look nice though. Regular,” he says while walking back to his room.

I drive to the wedding and think, I look regular, I look regular….what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

THE WEDDING

I got there extra early. Because, stereotypes. The photographer snapped a few candid shots while CeCe and I fawned over each other. It was only when CeCe forwarded me the pictures a month later, that I realized I did look like a stiff southern lady who spent all her time in church. (Hit me up privately for pics, they’re hella embarrassing) And furthermore, everyone was wearing BLACK. I didn’t know people wore black to weddings. Was it a cultural thing? I was later informed that (a) one shouldn’t wear white to a wedding even if it is in the middle of summer, because it’s seen as rude toward the bride, and (b) when an event takes place after 6pm (which this one did), it is general etiquette to wear black. So here I am, the only brown girl in the place, wearing the only white dress in the place. Yeah, I’m sure I didn’t stand out AT ALL.

I was seated next to a few friends of CeCe’s – a cool couple from Texas, and we shot the casual shit before the wedding began. The three of us hit it off really well, because we all liked to say fuck a lot. We vowed to sit together at the same reception table, because fuck all the careful planning and seating arrangements made months ahead of time -  we were gonna make it happen. Our group  would later be remembered as The Crazies at Table 9. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The ceremony was traditional. Very lovely, very quick. The Chuppah, the signing of the marriage contract, breaking of the glass, all completed within thirty minutes. Now that’s my kind of ceremony.

And then, the Mazel tov-ing began.

THE RECEPTION

Everyone was guided toward the lavishly stocked open bar, while the reception tables were being set up. A live band and DJ started playing and spinning. There was a great vibe, everyone made their rounds and introductions, we were all smiling and laughing and getting tipsy. The beautiful bride appeared and declared “No one eats until we’re all drunk!” So after about four rounds of Chardonnay, we are all escorted to our tables. 

Among my group was the cool Texas couple from earlier, a guy named Chad and his date, and few other randoms, and another couple made up of a very easy going Filipina chick (Divina), and her very boisterous Ukranian husband (Max.)

Max, it turns out, was a boss. He immediately waved over a server and questioned why there was only one (very tall) bottle of Grey Goose at the table. Russian tradition is that we ALL have a personal bottle to drink from, he says. I let out a somewhat sophisticated sounding laugh, and let Max know that hey, I could drink wine until the cows come home, but not shots. Shots of any kind usually end up with me becoming very goofy or very aggressive, and overall just very messy. Tonight was to be my refined, conservative, regular persona…

The beginning of dinner

“TONIGHT,” Max bellowed, “YOU DO SHOTS. WE ALL DO SHOTS,” he commanded, and jumped up to take a long slug from his bottle. And I said, oh okay, and everyone shouted MAZEL!, and the entire table threw back the first round right then. Because, peer pressure, in a thick Ukranian accent.

The spread

We were treated to a six course Russian spread. (and individual bottles of vodka) Beautiful cuisine. Absolutely awesome. Black bread, golubtsy, Pirozhki, shashlik. There was also beef tongue, which looked pretty peaceful, considering some poor cow lost its tongue and we were now laughing and drinking over it. During dinner, the bride and groom’s relatives and friends took the mic, telling funny stories and offering well wishes. After every speech, everyone took a shot. (Tradition, Max says). Even though I was cheating by only taking a few sips at a time versus downing an entire shot, I was beginning to feel the slide. You know, the slide that happens when your brain goes from “whoa, better slow down,” to “DUDE GIMME FIVE MORE SHOTS.”

Next thing I know, we're all on the dance floor. The bride and groom are engaged in the Horah, and then other people start Horah-ing for the hell of it. Some were unsuccessful, and when they fell out of the chair and hit the floor, they basically started doing rhythm-less forms of drunk break dancing. I salsa danced with a 90 year old man in a walker, while people egged us on. Very emotional men interrupted the music to cry out tributes and recite poetry from the Old Country. The band belted out Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You,” complete with Russian lyrics. Some dude was grooving on the dance floor in his tuxedo shirt, tie, socks, shoes, and underwear. NO PANTS. We never found out what happened to his pants. Texas couple secured a corner and dry humped each other for the rest of the night. Max partied so hard he accidentally stepped on his wife’s foot and broke her ankle. 

MESS.

(taken sometime before/after dance floor)

POST RECEPTION

After six hours of hardcore partying with The Russians, it was clear I couldn’t drive. I could barely make it back and forth to the ladies room. But knowing myself and tendencies, earlier in the evening I’d sent a text to an Ex, letting him know I was in his neck of the woods for a wedding, and would give him a call once done. And anyone who knows me, knows that’s code for head’s up, I’ll probably be sloshed in a few hours and will need you to pick me up so I can crash at your place tonight. 

  

So I ring up said Ex, and slur into my cell phone: “Hey, want to come up here for a drink or two? You’re totally invited…” He shows up in twenty minutes, sternly eyeing me and shaking his head. “What’s up with this dress?” he asks. “You look like a fancy napkin..” I tell him to shut up and pull him into the party mix, introduce him around. 

“Hey everybody, this is my Ex. He’s not getting any ass tonight, I just needed a ride….” Roars of laughter erupt, and soon enough Ex and Max begin shotting, for who knows how long. I was napping on a bar stool when Ex tapped me on the shoulder, and led me to the valet. I fell asleep in the car.

 EX’s HOUSE

“Good lord, I’m gonna be sick,” I say, two steps inside his doorway. “Have any Pelligino?” He says no, but goes to fetch me a Ginger Ale instead. I hate Ginger Ale. He knows I hate Ginger Ale. Ginger Ale makes me sick, even when un-intoxicated. “Just drink some,” he hands it to me, all pushy like. I sing, “oookaayy” and take a few sips, then promptly upchuck all over his hardwood floor. And this WAS ALWAYS OUR PROBLEM. Him always thinking he knew what was best for me, and always being totally WRONG. 

I head to the bathroom in silence. Peel out of my STUPID DRESS, brush teeth, and climb into his bed in my bra and panties. As I floated off to sleep, I heard Ex making sounds in the kitchen, readying to clean up the mess I left on his floor, one could only assume. I’m pretty sure he slept on the couch. 

When I woke up, there was a bottle of Perrier next to me on the nightstand. (Awww.) (But see – stubborn. Because, didn’t I ask for a Pelligrino?) We lightly fussed about the others annoying ways, while I got dressed so he could drive me back to my car. He dropped me off, eager to go for his morning run. I couldn’t wait to get home, destroy my dress, and snatch the bun off my head. 

Almost a week later I sent a simple text to Ex: Thanks for the Ginger Ale. xoxo

I even documented the whole thing when I posted this:

When recounting the wedding story to one of my friends, especially the fiasco resulting after too many vodka shots, he calmly summarized that THIS IS WHY WE SANCTION THE RUSSIANS. (Very clever, You.)

And since then, Ex has been blowing up my cell, inquiring when we can grab some dinner. Like, blowing me up non-stop. All this, even after I used him for a ride and a crash spot and vomited on his floor.  Since when did being a drunk mess start being a turn on? 

Ladies, are we on to something here?

Once More Unto The Breach: For Robin Williams (and Fellow Warriors Who Also Fight the Dark)

“Killing oneself is, in a way, a misnomer. We don't kill ourselves. 

We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive.” ~Sally Brampton

Robin William’s suicide shook me. Deep.

Initially, because it was another loss in the halcyon days of my childhood, as I was entranced by everything Mork (I felt like an alien too, brought down to Planet Earth to do..something). And my next obsession would be The World According to Garp – a movie which left such an inspirational mark on my soul, I’d later create my literary persona in honor of it.  In addition to Robin Williams’ endless displays of creative genius, he was also quite candid about battling the depressions that lurked beneath his exterior. He identified himself as being a part of the struggle, with those who also wrestle the dark.

Another reason why I’d grown to adore him.

Then, on that August day - something happened. Or nothing happened.  Or everything happened. But on that day, Robin Williams decided to remove himself from the living. The realization gutted me. Not only was he a role model as a creative, but also a survivor – seeming able to repeatedly emerge from the ravages of addiction and depression. For those who manage to do the same, though on a much smaller stage called everyday life - he provided hope.  His presence convinced us that we could also win the fight.

Robin’s death was a wake-up call. It snapped plenty of us back to attention. There is no rest for the weary. You will always wrestle the monster. That none of us are ever really safe. Depression, as with all mental conditions, does not simply dissolve quietly in the night. His suicide was a harsh reminder that no matter how much time you spend in the light, you will fight this condition to the death.

But how tempting it is to forget. Once you’ve clawed past the weeks, months, and years of being crushed by the darkness. After you’ve stabilized, perhaps having found the right meds, therapist, psychiatrist, regimen, program, self-preservation and coping mechanisms. Once you’ve experienced a remarkably good patch, and you’re out in the world functioning like a normal person. Once you’ve pieced your life back together from the last time you swore you wouldn't recover.

Who wouldn’t want to forget the despair. The unrelenting bleakness of it all.

You forget how easily life can turn on you. How your brain can suddenly lose its footing. For your thoughts to switch gears, and once again, begin plotting your demise. For those who don’t know, no explanation will suffice. For those who do, no explanation is needed.

And oh how the sweeping, judgmental remarks about Robin’s death drop-kicked my already broken heart. Only because I know enough not to question or shame a sufferer's actions, no matter how great their superficial life may appear. He was rich and famous, they scoffed. How could he not be happy? How could he make such a drastic decision? Didn’t he think about his family? He was so selfish.

  

"People are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.”(1) To believe that someone struggling with severe clinical depression would “suddenly” kill themselves is farcical. The internal wrestling is long and arduous. And if a genetic predisposition is at play, it's a haunting that looms at the moment of birth.

And who really knows how long Robin hung on? Quite a while, I’d imagine. Maybe he was tired of fighting. Maybe he didn’t want a Parkinson’s diagnosis to have the final say. Or (as my son so simply stated) maybe he’d seen enough. People diagnosed with depression are often deeply in tune with suffering, the brutality of the world on a sensitive soul, and the transitory nature of life.

                                                            **********************

I don’t have a romanticized notion of suicide, of which most depressives (and artists) are accused - but I get it.  It's extremely rare for our kind to have never pondered an exit plan. By the time I was twelve, I knew how I’d kill myself, if despair ever threatened to swallow me whole. I’d buy a gallon of ice-cream, crush a substantial amount of sleeping pills into the mix, and spoon it all down. I’d seen the technique in a movie, and thought to myself: that's a pretty serene way to go. 

I wouldn’t be officially diagnosed with clinical depression until twenty years later, but even as a girl I sensed life was different for me. I would become a member of the invisible community who live with and manage a mood disorder; always battling the impulses, compulsions, and images of our self-destruction.

And I stress the term clinical, because the word depression is thrown around much too freely. Depression isn’t moodiness, or even appropriate sadness.  One is supposed to feel a certain downheartedness about life, when encountering change, disappointment, tragedy, and loss; when we begin to feel the unavoidable pain and inequities of life. These emotions are a part of the human condition from which we process, integrate, and recover.

To be clinically depressed is an entirely different beast.

Once in the midst of a severe depressive episode, I became extremely fearful of driving. It was if I couldn’t trust myself to not veer into oncoming traffic, or drive at top speed into a concrete barrier. I didn’t want to die, I wanted relief. Relief from the desperate hopelessness that (I thought) was my existence. That’s what it’s like. Everything distorts. Being alive feels like a full on physical assault. It beats you to a pulp, brings you to your knees. The only thing you’re sure of is that you won’t outlive this thing. "That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end." (2) 

Maybe Robin Williams couldn’t see the end, and sought relief.  That's it. The act did not tarnish his legacy. And damn us as a society, for performing a post mortem on a gifted man’s soul, when only accolades and gratitude are in order. I feel the same about other artists to whom I’ve been inevitably drawn; Van Gogh, Plath, Woolf, Hendrix, Sexton, Winehouse, Hathaway, Hemingway, Hunter S. We are lucky to have experienced them. That they hung around long enough, despite their internal agonies, to offer such extraordinary gifts to humanity.

And I consider myself lucky, lucky enough thus far. Lucky enough to have insight into my condition. Lucky to not remain ashamed and silent. Lucky to experience longer stretches of stability, yet knowing the darkness will inevitably come again. Lucky enough to have proper therapeutic care and medication, that make it possible for me function and stay alive, so I can endure the world and experience it, and still want to write about it. That’s the best assurance people who fight the dark can give  – despite the innate urge to self-destruct, we do want to live.

I've always found comfort in the movie Good Will Hunting, particularly the scene where Robin Williams shares the Shakespearean quote Once more unto the breach, dear friends with Matt Damon. The quote is historically one of encouragement and perseverance; of finding the will to soldier on. The desire to be victorious, despite being weakened by the brutality of war.

It is my hope that even at our lowest, we hold tight to those words. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more unto this war, this horror we call depression. Hopefully we can convince ourselves once more; to hang on, persevere, to give life another try. No matter how beaten down or disillusioned or weary we might become.

And for those who cannot bear the breach once more, and chose to cease the journey, I simply say: Godspeed.

 

Godspeed, Robin Williams. Thank you.

Because there but for the grace of God, go I.
 

                                                                                                           

(1) Sally Brampton, Shoot The Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression

(2) Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation