Meet Alana. Saturday was her divorce party.
It was also the day her ex-husband got remarried, and the day we discovered there was a mole at his wedding.
Pedicures and manicures are awesome…
They’re even more awesome when the wedding reporter joins you at the nail salon for the blow-by-blow.
Naturally the scene began with a panic-stricken groom pacing in the parking lot. Turns out the venue that was booked for the wedding wasn’t actually booked. So they decided to get married in the park behind it. Except that it wasn’t allowed, which is partly why the bride ended up in the backseat of the police car hysterically sobbing into her bouquet.
I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.
Turns out the conniption fit was a dramatic plea to have the officers drive her 86yo grandfather down the steep hill leading to the park so he wouldn’t fall before walking her down an imaginary aisle. Being very kind policemen they agreed. Everyone else was forced to negotiate their way down the hill into a muddy park where no chairs or photographers were allowed. This was probably just as well because the backdrop of their wedding ended up being a random pee-wee soccer match.
While the bride ran around barking orders to anyone who would listen all the guests killed the time by checking their phones. That’s when my previous blog post swept the wedding.
Let me note here: this was NOT my intention. I wrote that post to support one of my besties ONLY. It never occurred to me that anyone outside wordpress and my close friends who know I have a blog would see it. But they did. That’s when the gasping, giggling and Facebook shares began.
Then the grandfather slipped and fell in the pine needles.
The rest of the wedding went down exactly like you’d expect it to based on the beginning: National Lampoon’s Vacation meets Bridesmaids.
The bride and groom were an hour late to their own reception where warm beer was served and they ran out of paper plates. There was no first dance. They didn’t even stay long enough to cut their cake. They left skid marks in the parking lot trying to escape the shame of the day.
Which explains how a chunk of their wedding cake ended up at my house.
Told you. Could not make this up.
Then we had dinner at No. 246 which I LOVED because CHEESE.
1. piave vecchio, cow’s milk, veneto
2. pecorino stagionato, sheep’s milk, tuscany
3. fiore sardo, sheep’s milk, sardinia
4. st. pete’s select blue, cow’s milk, minnesota
And they have pizza. Hooray!
Then we met Amy at Paper Plane for more celebrating because that place is perfect. It’s like a speak-easy, but without the fear and depression. Yay!
This is where I exited the party train.
The rest of the crew continued to light up the town dancing at MJQ until 3:45am Sunday morning.
It probably looked something like this…
Here are the texts I received the following morning:
I feel like I got hit by a slow-moving commuter train – you were smart to leave when you did.
I feel hideous enough to buy all new make-up.
He is not my boyfriend.
Last night was so fun I need wings and beer to recover.
Are we all accounted for?
Y’all. I had such a fucking fantastic time yesterday. Thanks to all of your lovely and crazy asses.
I’d say our divorce party was a total success. Not because we crashed a wedding by accident, but because once again we proved we can rise above anything with the help of our friends.
A giant thank you to the following kick-ass fantastic people who sent Alana their well wishes, and offered to bail us out of jail, which thankfully was unnecessary:
Y’all are awesome humans.
Thank you for being you.