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?