You Didn’t Even Make The B-Team!


It should have been like any other of the Fearsome Foursome’s weddings. One of Poptart’s three best friends from high school was getting married and Poptart was going to be a groomsman. Or so he thought. Poor, naive Poptart. Unlike myself who wants nothing to do with weddings, the Tart actually likes this sort of thing. It’s a time to celebrate, let loose, form some good male bonding and also attend every wife and girlfriend’s worst nightmare. The bachelor party.

Since Poptart had heard about Rob’s engagement he was looking forward to the whole thing. The Foursome had all stood as groomsmen at each other’s weddings. Mike #1’s wedding, Mike #2’s wedding, our wedding, and now, Rob’s wedding. He was one happy Tart. I had just gotten home from work when Poptart broke the news that the last of the fearsome foursome was about to bite the bullet.

“Rob’s getting married!” he told me. He was so excited.
“Oh my God! Are you serious? Who’s the girl?” I asked. We had lived hundreds of miles away from Rob and had no idea he was this serious with anyone.
“Her name is Karen,” he told me. “He met her at church.”
“That’s awesome! So are you in the wedding?” I asked.
“He hasn’t asked me yet but I’m sure he will,” Poptart said like he was a girl talking about the prom.
“Where’s the bachelor party?” I asked. Now Poptart’s friends were always very mellow. They didn’t do Vegas and the other spots that would make a wife immediately hire a private detective and start stashing money in off-shore bank accounts, so I was expecting skiing in some small town in Colorado.
“I..uh..don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that either,” the Tart said looking a little deflated.
“He probably just hasn’t figured things out yet,” I reassured him. There was no way in hell Rob was not going to ask him. It wasn’t a matter of if. It was a matter of when.

As time passed, and the wedding came closer, there was still no talk of a bachelor party. Poptart checked in with the Mikes, but neither of them had heard any news about the bachelor party either. What the hell was going on? Rob had always been the wild one out of the Foursome, but Rob had really become involved in the church over the past few years, and Poptart wanted to respect Rob’s decision to forego the traditional guy’s weekend. Well, I was no Rob, but I came with booze. So I made him a drink and we did our best to laugh at the fact that he sucked so bad that even one of his BFF’s just ditched him.

The invite eventually showed up. We were shocked we had even made it this far. “Look babe! We’re invited to the wedding!!” I yelled, running into the house with invite in hand. We had at least gotten an invite to the wedding, and we had even made the elite Rehearsal dinner cut. Hooray, hooray! We were not total losers. We were guests! A couple of weeks later, Poptart got a call from Rob. Rob broke the news that he was going to have his church friends stand up as his groomsmen during the wedding. Tart was crushed. “He said he wanted to save us the hassle of renting tuxes,” he grumbled. For me, this would’ve been a “Whoo-Hoo! moment, because I avoid Bridesmaid duty the same way that I avoid jury duty. But this is Poptart. He’s…different.

We flew into town a couple of hours before the rehearsal dinner, unpacked, and got all dolled up. Now the Tart is H to the O to the double T when he gets himself ready to go out. He was looking fine and smelling good. And there I was, all 5’10 of me in a short orange cocktail dress with sky-high stilettos and red hair a-blazing. We were a sight to be seen. And…we might have wanted to re-think our choice of attire. As we walked into the rehearsal dinner, everyone was dressed very conservatively. Here comes Poptart the pimp and his Ho in the orange dress. Our saving grace was Mike and Mike. Mike #1 was married but was flying solo. Mike #2 had brought his wife, a southern sweetie who totally gets me. At least now we had backup. The five of us had cocktails before the rehearsal dinner started. I emphasize the “Five” of us, because the rest of the room was calmly sipping on iced tea. That’s when the mingling stared.

“How do you know Rob?” a very Brooks Brothers type man asked Poptart.
“He and I grew up and went to school together. You?” my husband responded.
“We go to church together.” Brooks Brothers said. “Surprised we didn’t see you guys at the bachelor party.”

Ouch.

No. Really… Ouch.

The introductions keep coming. Poptart told them all school, and we heard, church, church, church, church, and church. We were really outnumbered here and our chances weren’t looking very good.

Finally they called us in for the rehearsal dinner and we looked for our names on the tables. We found our table and we were seated in the very back corner with all the other bad kids. At least we had the Mikes and the Southern Belle. As the dinner ended, one by one people got up to start making speeches.
“Rob and I met at church and I feel so blessed to have him and Karen in our little family now,” one man said.
“When Rob first started our church.”
“I am so happy to have met Rob at church…”
And then here comes Poptart.

A little background: Poptart and Rob first met in the 3rd grade, and they have been thick as thieves ever since. They have enough dirt on each other to guarantee that neither one of them can ever run for office. Poptart was still reeling from the whole bachelor party sting, and he has quite the reputation for his rehearsal dinner roasting. Needless to say, as Poptart stood up to raise his glass, the look on Rob’s face was one of sheer terror. But I was proud of the Tart. He kept it clean, and the worst thing he said was “hell”, as in “helluva guy.” As he sat down, I patted him on the shoulder and told him he took one for the team.

The next morning I woke up regretting the champagne the night before. I called to order room service but they informed me they didn’t have Euthanasia on the menu so I was going to have to ride this hangover out. As we pulled into the First Baptist church I almost shit myself. I had never seen a church that big.

“Do you think the First Baptist’s and the Second Baptist’s ever have turf wars?” I asked.
“And why are they called the First Baptists? I mean why would the Second Baptists let themselves be called the “Second” Baptists? Why don’t they call themselves “The Baptists that were here before the First Baptists”? And why haven’t I ever seen a Third Baptist church?”
“Please stop. You’re hurting my brain.” Poptart said.
“Oh man, I am hung over and I need a burger bad! Where is the reception?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Poptart replied. “Invite didn’t say. Maybe they tell us after the wedding. Food sounds so good right now. That and an ice cold beer.”

So we got inside the church and this thing was huge! The Tart and I found Mike #2 and the Southern Belle and together we made our way into the chapel. As we walked in there was an usher there to take my arm and lead us to our seats. We sat down and I leaned over to Poptart to whisper, “You’re not even an usher! You didn’t even make the B-Team, dude.”
“I’m going to kill you,” he whispers.

Just then a horrible thing happened…the hangover had crept up from the depths of my denial, and I’m feeling nauseous. I grabbed my purse like a barf-bag, and thankfully only dry-heaved. The woman sitting in front of us turned to look at me with utter disgust on her face. Think quick. Think quick. So I leaned towards her and whispered, “I’m so sorry, I’m pregnant.”
That’s when she smiled at me and said, “Oooh, I hope you feel better sweetie.” That will teach her to judge people correctly again won’t it! Poptart just looked straight ahead and pretended he didn’t know me.

The wedding was beautiful and then it was over. Amen. Time to eat! I’m SO having a giant cocktail and eating as much free foooo…what is this? The reception is in the church? You know what it means when the reception is in the church don’t you? No booze. No dancing. And no fornication. Oh my God, I think I’m in the movie Footloose. But they did have Italian sodas, lots and lots of cheese and crackers and a string quartet supplying the tunes. I was going to die a slow death here. I sat down and ate as much cheese and crackers as I possibly could, to try and soak up the alcohol from last night’s fiesta.

“You have seriously got to get me some real food. I’m not even kidding.” I told Poptart.
“We can’t leave now, that would be rude,” He scolded me.
“Maybe we could sneak out a side door?” I pleaded. Nope. We’re staying.
That’s when the Southern Belle came up to me and asked me if I wanted to join her back at the cheese and cracker table. “No, you go ahead, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” I told her. She looked at me and I swear I could read in her eyes, “I need a glass of wine or someone is going to get hurt.”

I had at this point given up. I knew there was no way I was getting any free booze or any sort of sustenance, so I plopped my ass down by the string quartet and sucked in my cheeks to give off the impression that I had not only surrendered, but that I had starved to death. Little did I know that I was not giving off the impression that I was dead, but I was giving of the impression that I was a fan because the leader of the string quartet asked me if I had any requests. I looked at him with a straight face and said, “Do you know how to play Brick House?” That was all it took. The Southern Belle doubled over laughing and I had just officially fallen in love with Mike #2’s wife.

After a couple of hours of Italian soda and sharp cheddar, I was pretty sure that my insides were imploding. Mental note: never leave home without flask and bucket of chicken. Poptart announced that he was taking me for some crawfish and a full bar. I was so happy I almost stuck my tongue down his throat in the First Baptist church. Can you imagine what the Second Baptists would have done with that kind of information? The Third Baptists would have turned it into a scandal…. I know, I’m hurting your brain.

Poptart got me food and I loved him for it. He was not a groomsman. He wasn’t even an usher. But I’ve heard it through the grapevine that the string quartet now plays a mean rendition of Brick House. And that’s all that really matters isn’t it?

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

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