There were many people giving orders and not enough people listening when it came to the chuppah rehearsal:

SOPOB didn’t arrive early enough for the rehearsal and BOB almost came to blows with Y of N&Y over proper pole holding technique.

And then the chuppah sagged during the ceremony.

Now, HOSOB and BOB are thinking about a class action suit for shoulder-related injuries arising from SOPOB’s failure to hold up her pole properly.  They may have an expert witness.  A Soeur husband (who is also a college classmate) is an engineer and evaluated the chuppah issues from that perspective.  His verdict:  SOPOB did not hold up her pole properly, causing BOB and HOSOB to pull further back to mitigate the sagging, and ultimately crash into the shrubbery behind them.  Yet, actually, the only one who was doing a good job was SOB, the other chuppah holder.  She was essentially holding up the whole show, all 100 pounds of her.

So, while HOSOB and BOB may have a beef with SOPOB (all in gest, of course), they (and POB and I) really owe the prevention of entire chuppah implosion all to skinny but tough SOB.  In fact, I think I need to give SOB a medal.  Or a gift certificate for a massage.

Still, CSS (Chuppah Shoulder Syndrome) is likely to be the source of all maladies from now on in the Blogger family.

On the subject of implosions, below is a picture of the replacement for the cratered wedding cake.  As you can see, it cratered, too.  Apparently this was a particularly fascinating spectacle because I have many pictures both of the cratered cake(s) and of people taking pictures of the cratered cake(s).

Since I like chocolate, I didn’t really care.

POB and I are married.

Sidebar:  I don’t think POB needs a new acronym, and the possible ones don’t exactly convey my love, honor and respect. For example, wife of blogger would be WOB.  I don’t think anyone wants to a WOB.  It sounds like an insult.  Really.  Say it out loud.  Spouse of blogger runs smack into the acronym for my sister, SOB (sister of blogger).  And using the first two or three letters of “spouse” (SP or SPO) followed by the “OB” is not going to win enduring admiration from my beloved.   In fact one sounds like a condition resulting in the sagging of a particular body part.  NOT pretty.  So, POB she is and POB she shall remain.  Well until she demands a new acronym.

The day started with the family in jeans, schlepping our stuff to the event space at 8:30am.  They were still cleaning from the prior evening’s festivities.  Oy, I thought.  But at least they were cleaning the windows and mopping the floors.   We had to ask them to clean up the bridal room so we could dress before our make-up and hair persons arrived at 9am.  We both had dresses that we had to pull over our heads, which meant that we had to wear our undergarment body armor for longer than most brides.  Make-up and hair went fine.

Jeno, the event space wedding person, asked me to step out of the room for a conversation.  “The cake arrived and it fell into itself.  The place is sending a replacement cake.  Don’t tell [POB] because I don’t want to ruin her day.”

Gee, thanks, Jeno.  Last I looked I was in a bridal gown with half my face plastered with make-up.  But with his eyes, he was seeing Cynthia Nixon’s butch spouse.

N&YDFOBF (N&Y, dear friends of blogger family, or just N&Y) arrived early to be the mothers of the brides.  What a Godsend they are.  Of course, BOB and Y of N&Y almost came to blows over how the chuppah should be held, the processional, etc.  Y of N&Y is a force of nature, so ignore her advice at your peril. N of N&Y can elaborate if asked.

Sidebar:  By the end of the event, BOB was dancing with N&Y.  Now, I consider BOB and Y of N&Y more like frenemies.

Time for signing the Ketubah.  Y of N&Y showed off by signing her name in Hebrew.  She probably did all of her homework in Hebrew School, just like POB.  I think POB had pity on me and decided she would just write her name in English along with our other witness and me.  The rabbi, not to be upstaged, also signed her name in Hebrew saying, “wouldn’t you want to know your rabbi could write her name in Hebrew?”

Sidebar:  This is why I love our rabbi.  She embraces the Yiddish prohibition: whatever you do, don’t embarrass yourself in front of your neighbors.  As in, “it would be a shondah for the neighbors”.

Then we had the civil ceremony.  THE CIVIL CEREMONY.  OMG OMG OMG.  I was shaking.  We are legal!!!!!  N of N&Y and Mighty (a Soeur) signed as our witnesses.  Both lawyers.  Legal document.  Legitimacy.  Equal rights under law.  It was totally emotional.

Then came the service.  (The replacement wedding cake arrived.  More anon.)

I usually keep a veneer of anonymity, but what the hell.  Here are POB, SOS and me, walking down the aisle (SOS insisted that he would walk his moms down the aisle):

So, SOPOB, BOB, WOBOB, SOB and HOSOB held the chuppah.  At various points, I had to hit the Chuppah so that the holders would wake up and make sure that cloth part wasn’t hitting any of us in the heads.

Sidebar:  Depending on which chuppah holder is telling the story, the story teller was the hero(ine) and is suing for chuppah-related shoulder injuries.  Note to self: toooooo many lawyers/self-proclaimed can really mess up a chuppah.  There is a joke in here somewhere.

If you listen to our guests, people were really amazed that the chuppah holders could make the chuppah do the wave. In other words, the chuppah holders were having too much fun while injuring their shoulders.  Actually, my having to hit the chuppah to get them to lift it up was one of the lighter moments in a serious life cycle rite.

POB and I have been together for more than a decade and we have a mortgage and child together.  Somehow, it wouldn’t do just to have the traditional wedding.  We were inspired by our Goddaughters, GDJOB and GDKOB, who had alternative vows of what they could and could not promise each other.  They are young and, yet, old souls.

Sidebar:  They aren’t exactly our goddaughters.  They are family (the history is long) and we think of them as our (slightly) emancipated children and we are very protective of them.  So, in short-cutting the explanation of our relationship to these two extraordinary young women, we opted for some recognizable, yet inaccurate, nomenclature.

So, these are our vows:

SOS affirmed the truth of our vows, when, in response to POB’s being a benevolent dictator, he yelled out, “She’s right!!”

Afterward, there was just celebration.  I was giddy and high all day, without more than a sip or two of alcohol. But there was a moment of decidedly ungiddiness.

SOB gave the toast and SOS standing near here holding a glass that looked like it had champagne in it.  AND HE WAS DRINKING A LOT.  I kept motioning to him to come to me and I was giving him the Mommy Death Stare as I tried to talk to my work colleagues who had come in for the event.

It was Ginger Ale.

Phew.

Jeno called us in for a confab to tell us that the second cake cratered.  The family needed to document this glitch (as only Blogger’s family would):

Jeno was able to save the top layer of the caved-in cake and he had some lovely red velvet cake from the night before.  We told him to serve mushed cake (way better than day-old red dye no.2 chocolate cake).  So when the cake came out, we told everyone what happened and assured everyone that even if the cake wasn’t pretty on the plate, it wasn’t day-old red velvet cake and it wasn’t run over by a bus.

But I have jumped ahead.

Some things that stick out in my mind (more will come in other blogs):

our gay friends thought our straight college friends were just like them, only straight.  And then our straight college friends said the same thing about our gay friends, only that they were gay.  Seeing lesbians dance with straight husbands and straight women dance with lesbians made POB and me smile.  How wonderful it can be just to look for commonality.

N&Y have been admitted to the Soeurs’ sorority.  All they need now are Greek names and the secret handshake.

The Soeurs are just wonderful.  A force of life.  A source of strength.  An outrageous and outrageously funny group of exceptional women.

my colleagues schlepped from Florida and Ohio (and NJ) to be there.  I get teary-eyed when I think of that.

people throughout my work life seemed so happy to be there.  I was so honored.  And SNOBFOB, I really should have introduced you to families of blogger and POB.  I realized at the end that I wanted to introduce you to my Dad and my siblings.  And, it was too hard to get to FOBs while they were on the dance floor.  Off line, I will use the pictures from the wedding to identify everyone but only to those who are “OB”s.

the “OB” family — a large contingent — did not disappoint.  Even Cousin Gentle was on the dance floor.  CB (cousin birder) looked so dapper.  The First Cousins are a clan and it is not a family gathering without the full complement.  So, I thank you.

AG (Aunt Glue, aka Aunt Betty) was able to make it and dance at my wedding.  (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=4305) AG and SOB and I danced together — it was fabulous.  I felt Mom’s presence.  AG and DOB represent the older generation — our greatest generation.  And her presence at my wedding is a blessing.

Chuck came from the Canadian tundra (not really, just Toronto).  And her name isn’t really Chuck, and I don’t remember why we called her that.  Chuck and I go back to the days immediately post-college.  Together, we worked hard, drank too much and adapted to life post-college.  I haven’t seen her in years, but we reconnected through Facebook.  She is one of the most solid people I know.  And she came and folded right into the flow.

And, of course, there is Janet2OB and PhyllisOB.  There are two generations of connections.  Two generations of undying friendships, the first out of the ashes of the Second World War and the second in the sisterhood of Camp Wingate for Girls.  Ties that bind regardless of the years between visits.  The ties that bind.  They just do.  They are the people that you need at a simcha to make it a simcha.  Since there are no further words to describe the relationship, I won’t diminish it by trying.

So, in all, our wedding was was traditional, radical, sweet, deep, frivolous, warm, stressful, scripted, unscripted, orderly and yet a total anything-goes event.

And it wasn’t perfect.  Perfect isn’t funny.  Perfect has no charm.  Perfect is a little sterile.

It was fabulous.

Oh my Goodness!!!  We are getting married!!!!!  I am sooooo excited.  This is an awesome feeling.

SOS and I are watching Saturday morning TV, as usual.  Today, we are watching Animal Planet, Dogs 101, because SOS wants a dog and wants just the right breed for our lives as urbanites. I am too happy and giddy to dread the future negotiation about getting a dog.  But that conversation won’t happen today or tomorrow, so I won’t worry forward.

POB is at the gym.  I am going, too, when she gets back.  But first we need to pick out the boutonnières for the male members of the family.  Their color needs to match the orchids and the kipot (skull caps).  I don’t yet know what that color is, but POB does.

For the next two days, I only take orders.  I don’t take initiative.

We are going to spend the afternoon together — POB, SOS and I.  Then in the late afternoon through early evening, we are going to SOB’s and HOSOB’s house for a reception for out-of-town family.

Sidebar: I use the acronym HOSOB for SOB’s husband.  I had thought of brother-in-law of blogger but that acronym would be BLOB. That would be unfortunate and untrue.  Also that would make my sister-in-law, a SLOB.  And that would cause a breach in the family.

Today we had to go down to our wedding venue and take the chuppah (wedding canopy), which is a big table cloth instead of a prayer shawl, four chuppah poles (eight feet or so in length) to hold the chuppah, the ketubah (marriage contract) which we glued to a large board, place cards and wedding booklets, kiddush cups and glasses (for breaking).  A lot of stuff.

POB and I decided that it was a good muscle-strengthening exercise to schlep all of this to the corner of our block in order to hail a cab.

Now, we live on the upper west side of Manhattan, which I believe is recognized by both Israeli and Palestinian authorities as a permitted Jewish settlement.

Still, of all the neighbors in all the Jewish settlements in the world, carrying all our schleppage, we bumped into our non-Jewish neighbors (who are nicest people in our building) and, after our exchange of pleasantries, the husband said, “have fun at the beach!!”

Have fun at the beach?  What is he talking about?  Ohhhhhh…..

He saw the chuppah poles and the table cloth and thought we were building our cabana at the beach.  Or maybe we were re-enacting the Israelites’ living in the desert after liberation from Egypt.  Or maybe we were building those temporary structures for the harvest again.  Really?  We are West Side Jews and our concept of “settlement” is a full service, doorman building with a live-in super.  We are not building harvest tents. 

Then, I thought, we could build a cabana with what we have.  I use the “we” royally, because I would need to hire a contractor.  But I digress.

Back to our day.

In order to transport Chuppah poles, you need a big cab.  And still the cab driver has to open the safety glass between the front seats and the passenger section, so that the chuppah poles can extend into the driver’s area and rest on the top of the front seats.  Any short stops and the windshield is toast.

We arrived at the event space and nearly took out a light in the lobby with those chuppah poles.   I was relaxed because I try to see to it that we are over-insured — walking, driving, breathing, whatever.  The lobby attendant was not as relaxed.

We got to the event space and unloaded all of our stuff.

Next on the agenda were oxygenation facial treatments at Bliss.  Someone told POB that these treatments will give us glows that we simply MUST have for the wedding.  It reminded me of those Hi-Pro Glow dog food commercials but I kept quiet.

My “facial expert”, Tess, asked me why I opted for the oxygenation treatment.  “My partner and I are getting married on Sunday and she was told that we should have these treatments.”

“How wonderful that you are getting married!!  This is an ‘okay’ treatment.  You have dry skin.  I will give you a dermabrasion and masque.”

“I had that treatment about two weeks ago.  You vacuum my face with sandpaper, right?”

“Your skin needs it, especially here (she touched my laugh lines) and here (she touches around my eyes).  It is too dry.”

Ok, please don’t touch my wrinkles because then I will buy anything you peddle.  “Ok, Tess, let’s do it your way.”

So, the sandpaper vacuuming commenced.  It sounds just like having your teeth cleaned.  Then she gave me a seaweed masque that was pink (I saw it when she pulled it off).  MY FACE FELT GREAT.

“The seaweed masque is my wedding gift to you.”

“I am so glad I listened to you, Tess.  And thank you.”  (Don’t worry, the tip was BIG.)

Afterwards, we picked up SOS from school and settled in for some quiet time.  Then we went to synagogue for our auf ruf (community blessing ahead of nuptials).  SOB, HOSOB, DOB, SOPOB, FOPOB and our nephew (SOPOB’s son) came.  POB, SOS and I were blessed before the community.  Our family and some of our dearest friends from synagogue were there to cheer us on.  It was such a wonderful moment.

As with all moments, they must end.  Mine ended with FOPOB’s asking, “Is this thing over yet?”