There's no raisin to feel awkward when Putin on the Ritz

Sydney's beautiful wedding venue provided her with a spacious, sprawling, comfortable space for her bridesmaids to gather, giggle, and get ready. So naturally, they all crowded together into the one stalled bathroom.

What a pleasure...to watch women fussing over one another...straightening straps, smoothing hair, plucking lint from satin fabric. My heart filled to bursting as I saw the sisters...my daughters...caught up in this ageless ritual of women. Where once they were constantly AT one another's throats, I now saw Sydney, squinting, as she fought with the dainty necklace clasp adorning Savannah's neck. Where once pleasure was derived from knocking one another down, Savannah was now crouching, to help Sydney with her shoes. 

And I, an apparition, floating around, through, and above this timeless tableau. 

I did not speak this language or understand this culture. My currency is sarcasm and inappropriate innuendo. Sophistication, for me, is when a restaurant provides a pre-packaged wet-nap. Fine dining is when the flight attendant gives you the dry-as-dust, nut-free, pretzel mix AND a package of teeth-breaking, nut-free, brownie bites during the SAME flight. I don't know how to have intelligent exchanges. I nodded wisely and then quickly removed myself from a conversation about the uncertain political climate in Laos. "They're in talks with Putin, you know," I was told. "That b@st@rd," I commiserated before jumping up to open the door. "Oh, look! The cheese is here!"

The artisan charcuterie board that arrived could have been featured in a museum. "Is this brie?" I asked, carefully, trying not to give away my utter lack of class. "It's goat cheese. You will detect a subtle note of citrus," the server told me. Is he serious? I couldn't detect a hammer to the head. Even the crackers were above my pay-grade and comfort-level. Preparing to leave after adjusting a minute mis-alignment of a plump, juicy craisin (In my world, craisins are dry and shriveled...just raisin's cousins...putting on airs), the server mis-over-heard my muttered comment lamenting my cracker crisis and smiled. "Yes, many people have compared our facilities to the Ritz." I shook my head. We are so not the same.

So, I was mostly an observer of the festivities...winging in a wry comment, here and there. Lurking awkwardly in the background. Feeling like a fraud as I sampled sophisticated cheeses while longing for Poly-O. But I am also a chronicler...making mental notes and sifting feverishly through each special moment to file away forever as a part of our family history. Which is why, as everyone was crammed in the dressing room, vying for mirror space and admiring Sydney, I thought it would be a good idea to hoist my gargantuan-sized body up onto the closed toilet lid and straddle the stall to capture this moment for posterity. 

It was as classy a moment as you are imagining.

Especially the part where I cracked the lid.

Later that evening, in a quiet nook, watching as guests sipped their wine, chatted, and danced, I gently nudged the event planner who had helped us throughout the day. "It was just beautiful," I told her. "Did it bring back memories of your own wedding day?" she asked me. I smiled at her. "Oh my gosh, yes. Did I tell you that our reception was in a fire hall?" She laughed before quickly covering her mouth with her hands. "That does not surprise me," she answered before hustling over to straighten a crooked craisin. 

We are so not the same.