September 2001"I'm just hoping for a good hair day, a bra with extra lift,
and no rain."
by Valerie Carino
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As little girls, some of us have our weddings plans down to sickening detail. I've heard everything from "I want those chocolate candy bars with our names printed on the labels" to "The minute the priest says, 'I now pronounce you husband and wife,' butterflies will be released above the gazebo." For me, my main fixation was the dress. I can remember standing in line at the grocery store, thumbing through the bridal magazines, longing someday for a Vera Wang.
We can't help it. The princess complex overtakes all of us.
But does mean that the storybook fantasy is bound to just women?
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I think not, and my husband-to-be is living proof.
For Damien, the fantasy has always started with the old stone church across the street from his childhood home in Croom, where his father presides as Lord Mayor and the locals head down to Dirty Nelley's for a chat, and a fresh pint of Guinness seven days a week. Damien's parents, Tom and Eileen, still live on Church Road and attend mass every Sunday. I haven't seen pictures, but Damien tells me the place beams from all the stained glass and the pews seat enough for 500.
That's it. That's all I know of the church.
...
And I'm totally cool with that.
Why not check it out before we go over there? Am I not worried about how the lilac-colored bridesmaids dresses will look against the carpet? Is there even carpet?
No. Not one bit.
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If Damien hadn't spent every Sunday there for 17 years, perhaps I'd be afraid. But this is his childhood church, and it wouldn't make sense to have the ceremony anywhere else.
I can imagine him in his early youth, his hair parted and shellacked to the side, receiving his confirmation and communion. I can him imagine him later as a teenage, unkempt from a night of "the drink," saying "Thanks be to God," when mass was over, dying of thirst for another pint.
I can see him up there at the end of the altar, however that looks, giving Irishmen a bad name for sobbing at the sight of his bride.
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That gives me great pleasure.
At least I'm not in the dark about the reception site.
Thanks to the Internet, I was able to download some pictures of the Lakeside Hotel, where we're expecting at least 200 people for cocktails, a sit-down dinner, some fruitcake that apparently no one eats, more cocktails and a late night disco.
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Irish weddings are serious business, or so I've heard, and can go for hours and hours - especially down in the country. Some families even rent buses to transport people from the church to the hotel so that no one has to drive.
We'll probably be doing the same.
As it turns out, Damien used to work in the Lakeside as a chef, and was able to work a deal for our wedding reception. For our five-course meal, which includes chicken vol au vent, vegetable soup, prime rib, chicken or turkey, roasted potatoes and vegetables, Bailey's ice cream and sherry trifle, plus little sandwiches and tea for the after party (called the "afters," meaning after the dinner), we'll be paying about $25 a head.
...
Not bad for a destination wedding, eh?
If it isn't obvious, drinking is an all day mission for the guests. But no way is this wedding going to be open bar. When I suggested it to Damien, he laughed. "Are you kidding me? Do you want to go bankrupt?"
Instead, we've opted for a bottle of red and white on every table and the first round of drinks. If you ask me, that's still a great deal.
...
What else are we expecting?
- My uncle Fred retiring early to his room, disgusted at all the drinking going on.
- My in-laws and the rest of the guests dancing their "arses off," until the sweat soaks through their clothes.
- My friend Niamh (pronounced Neeve), red wine in one hand and cigarette in another, offering her diva version of "Son of a Preacher Man."
- No one eating the wedding cake, which in proper Irish tradition, will be a fruitcake. (We'll probably serve an additional black forest cake, which I'll call the "bride's cake," even if there is no such thing.
- My groom breaking down during the middle of his speech at the reception. Go figure. His favorite movie is "Rudy."
Me, I'm just hoping for a good hair day, a bra with extra lift, and no rain. The last bit may be asking too much. Damien says it always rains in Ireland.
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