The week before their wedding, Mr. G. asked Mrs. G. if she would like to have a pasta feed/party the night before their wedding. Mrs. G. said, "No I definitely wouldn't," but she hadn't come to grips with the notion that when Mr. G. asked her opinion on something, it was often for rhetorical purposes only. So within four days, he had invited at least 40 people to come over to celebrate their impending nuptials, for which they had to awake and prepare for at 6:30 the next morning.
rhe·tor·i·cal adjective \ri-ˈtȯr-i-kəl, -ˈtär-\
: of, relating to, or concerned with the art of speaking or writing formally and effectively especially as a way to persuade or influence people
of a question : asked in order to make a statement rather than to get an answer
Mrs. G. is not fond of large, loud parties and she was particularly nervous to meet so many of Mr. G's friends she had never met before, particularly a group of his college friends who had flown in from different states. She was anxious about being so much younger (with the exception of John Lennon, she hated the Beatles -- get over it, world), so much less educated and so much less able to hold her liquor.
So she started drinking two hours before everyone started showing up. By the time people started arriving in droves (Droves!), Mrs. G. was so buzzed, she greeted everyone with great enthusiasm. She didn't even care that her father-in-law, stone sober, once again introduced her to several people as "Hester" or that a button had popped off her expensive blouse and she was occasionally exposing her boobs to the guests. Hey what's a few breasts among friends when you've had half-a-bottle of Pinot.
After the family and old people had visited, eaten and exited, the party really started. The corks popped and the wine started flowing. If Mrs. G. remembers correctly, she had abandoned her plastic cup and was just carrying a bottle around. There was dancing and snogging and smoke billowing up from the basement. It was the holy party trinity.
Unless you were getting married in less than twelve hours.
The party was still in full tilt when Mrs. G. knew she had to go to bed. She literally crawled up the stairs and had to lie on the floor and rest for a bit when she got to the top. She vaguely remembers three people walking over her to get to the bathroom.
When she finally crawled commando style into the bedroom, she shut the door so she could curl up on the bed and fall asleep. Before she could get on the bed, she started hurling on the (Rental!) carpet and she couldn't stop. She was choking and was sure she was going to pull a Jim or Janice minus the talent and Rock & Roll stardom. She imagined people at her funeral saying, "She was a great grocery price checker. What a, um, waste."
Mrs. G. didn't want to die so she start screaming bloody murder in between throwing up. The music and noise of the party was so loud no one could hear her. So, she called her friend Karen and told her to call back to the house and to tell Nick the wedding might be off, because she was dying upstairs. The phone rang and rang and rang, so Mrs. G. picked it up. No one was answering the phone downstairs, so Karen tried to talk Mrs. G. down. Very few people can talk Mrs. G. down in a crisis situation so she started screaming, "I'M DYING UP HERE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! I'M DYING UP HERE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" and banging her shoes on the bedroom floor in hopes that someone would hear her. "Calm down," Karen pleaded. "I'll call the house again and if nobody answers, I'm on my way over. Stay on your side so you don't choke on your vomit." Mrs. G. was six steps ahead of her. She was on all fours so she wouldn't choke on her vomit.
The phone rang again and whoever answered it brought Nick to the phone. "Where are you," he asked, three sheets to the wind himself. "I'M UPSTAIRS THROWING UP AND MAYBE DYING." "Upstairs in our house?" he clarified. "YES, YOU BASTARD, UPSTAIRS IN OUR HOUSE...DYING!" "I'm on my way!" he said.
Twenty minutes later, he busted in to the bedroom to find Mrs. G. had stopped vomiting and was now scrubbing the carpet so they could get their cleaning deposit back.
"Are you OK, babe?"
"Well I am alive if that's what you mean."
Mrs. G. forgave him as they were to be wed in less than nine hours and there was no getting any of the deposits back. The wedding cake already had their names on it.
He tucked her in and went back down to the party. Oh how he would suffer in the morning. Oh how everyone would suffer in the morning.
When the alarm went off, he asked if he could sleep another hour. "I hope that wasn't a rhetorical question," said Mrs. G. "Because we are hauling our asses out of this bed and getting hitched."
And they did.