A Chaotic Catholic Wedding Day in 1996

I woke up far from well-rested which is not exactly the ideal way to feel on the morning of your

wedding. The night before was our rehearsal dinner and a very late night. So it’s 6:00 AM in my pink

childhood bedroom in my parents’ house, and I’m thinking, “Damn, I have to do that all again today.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited and I love Erik and all that sappy nonsense, but a lady needs her sleep,

and these last few months have been thoroughly exhausting. You try planning a wedding, buying a house,

and taking the bar all within three months. I’m a fucking superhero. Of course, there is no way I could

have done it alone, and I was not exactly mentally present at all times. I do not remember picking that

shade of green for my bridesmaid's dresses, but what's done is done, and they're pretty… enough.

After those couple of months of insanity, I was just ready to give up on the day of my wedding.

At that point, nothing could bother me; all of the crisis and worry came before the wedding, but on that

day, September 28th, 1996, I was calm, or maybe exhausted, but either way I was floating like I was on a

constant IV drip of Xanax. I was lucky because I had a village around me-that's what it’s like growing up

in a close-knit second-generation Italian-American family. Anything that happened to go wrong got dealt

with before it got back to me, except for the fact that it was raining. Apparently, no one had the power to

do anything about the crap weather, but my mother did grab me and remind me multiple times in Italian

throughout the day that “la pioggia nel giorno del tuo matrimonio porta fortuna.” English translation:

“Rain on your wedding day is good luck.” Did I believe that? No. But it did make me feel a little better

about the circumstances.

I had a massive wedding party with nine (too many in hindsight) bridesmaids, and even more of

my friends came to my parents' house to get ready with me. My mother, always the hostess, set out an

early breakfast spread for me and the girls before we started preparing ourselves. The food helped settle

the little bit of remaining nerves in my stomach. (Nerves. Hangover. Same thing.) Although the wedding

was at 1:00 PM, so we did feel slightly rushed, we were all having a blast getting ready together. We were

dancing around in our slips and hair curlers passing eyelash curlers and lipglosses back and forth all while

belting my favorite song, September by Earth Wind and Fire, when my father came out of his room in his
tuxedo shirt and his boxers. The girls were in stitches with laughter, and even though I was mortified, I

couldn’t help but laugh. My father has always had the power to make anyone laugh, especially me; even

if I should probably be embarrassed, I am always first amused. He’s an amusing guy. One time he found a

handwritten note in our mailbox from a guy making an offer on our house and he wrote back and told this

stranger that he was more interested in selling him his wife than the house. Who does that? We thought it

was hilarious… Mom, however, was not as amused. Although I have to give credit where credit is due,

my mother must have some sort of a sense of humor to stay married to that guy since 1968. I’ve never

seen two people more different and yet so indescribably in love with each other.

My mother, along with two of my bridesmaids, helped me put on the dress. Getting me in that

thing was a team effort because it had upwards of forty tiny buttons and loops up the back. It drove me

nuts., but once it was on, I mean wow it was perfect. At that point, my wedding dress was fifty-five years

old because it was the dress my Grandma Potesta had worn on her wedding day back in 1940. They were

married right in the middle of World War II after Grandpa Potesta managed to escape Mussolini’s army

and join Grandma over here in the states. I remember seeing the dress in photos growing up, but the

minute my mom lifted it out of the trunk in the basement, and I saw the beautiful chiffon fabric laid over

the pure satin, I knew I had found my dress…but there was one problem. The dress was so old and had

been stored away for so long that it had begun to turn yellow. I was devastated, but my mother called

everyone in the whole state of West Virginia to see if it could be fixed. For months, we had no leads; no

one dared to touch it and risk ruining the beautiful vintage gown even more. I was heartbroken and

thought I was going to have to wear a different dress. I started looking at other dresses and found nothing.

I just couldn’t picture myself walking down the aisle in anything else. I should have known that even a

damaged, half-a-century-old wedding dress is no match for a determined Italian woman like my mom.

She had finally found someone who would give it a try. A woman in Pascagoula, Mississippi who was

not so sure that she even wanted to try and fix it. Then, as if it was written in the stars, my mother

fortuitously mentioned over the phone that we were from West Virginia, and this Mississippian dress

shop owner paused for a moment. When she spoke again, she told my mother that she happened to have
grown up in West Virginia just a few counties over. She said that for fellow West Virginians, she would

give it a shot. So, the next day we shipped the vintage gown to the south, and in a couple of weeks it

showed up on my parents' doorstep looking as if the last fifty-five years had never happened; it was as

white as the guest pillowcases in my mother’s linen closet.

So, I stood there, looking in the mirror of my childhood bedroom in my grandmother's dress and

shawl (your shoulders must be covered as a Catholic bride) with my mother, the savior herself, and my

maid of honor, Tristine. My mother kissed my temple and said, “Sei bella come lo era tua nonna.”

English translation: “You are as beautiful as your grandmother was.” Everything was perfect.

After my mother had taken her many, many pictures that now live in my old bedroom, my friends

and I were standing outside as we watched a shiny black limousine pull into the driveway. It was a

surprise gift from my mom and dad and it was the perfect touch. The nine other girls and I climbed in and

took off, headed for the church downtown. We had music, champagne, and man did we have fun. I was

enjoying myself too much to be nervous at this point- I’m sure the bubbly helped with that. Halfway

through the limo ride, we realize my padded bra had shifted from the turns down the mountain, so Lisa,

my sorority big sister, and I spent the rest of the trip trying to push it back into place to avoid the uni-boob

look as I walk down the aisle.

As I walked, or rather sprinted, into the church, the rain continued to come down on us. My

mother told me once again how lucky I was for this rain. At this point in the day, I was running on

adrenaline and limousine champagne, so the rain didn’t even bother me. I just knew I was going to walk

into my hometown church, Basilica of the Co-Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, a place I had studied, and

worshiped, and grown. I was going to walk in single and walk out married. I was seconds away from

having a partner for life.

The organist began to play as my bridal party slowly paraded down the aisle. I stand there with

my mother on my left and my father on my right because we untraditionally decided that they should give

me away together, but as I look at them, I began to cry. I quickly wiped my tears and said, “Ugh why the

hell am I crying?” My father giggles and squeezes my arm, and then the doors open and we begin to walk
down the aisle. Then it hit me, the cold feet. Frozen feet. Frozen to the aisle runner and cannot move,

cannot go through with it, feet. That is when I feel my mother’s elbow in my side. I look at her on my left

and through the widest grin she whispers, “Continuare.” English translation: “Keep walking.” So, I do. I

walk all the way down the aisle as people stand and stare and then I get to him. My fiance. Erik. Then I

look over at his brother, Matt, and I think, “Damn, did he not bother to shave?” I kiss my mother and

father on the cheek, and they hand me over. “Wow, it’s done,” I think. Boy was I wrong.

The ceremony continues and it is a full Catholic mass, the longest full Catholic mass I have ever

been subjected to in my then twenty-six years of practicing Catholicism. The precision and the readings

and the communion and then finally my Aunt Mary Margret, my father’s sister, and a nun, gets up to give

the reflection which replaced the homely. She spoke beautifully. She began with how we met. It is

actually kind of a funny story, how Erik and I first met. We were both attending West Virginia

University’s Law School but we didn’t meet in Morgantown. We were introduced by mutual friends

down in New Orleans one weekend. I think we were there for the Sugar Bowl. Yeah, it was the 1994

Allstate Sugar Bowl. We played Florida and if I remember correctly, we got our asses kicked. Anyway,

that is when I met Erik, he was obviously hooked right away but I was seeing somebody so I told him we

could be friends. We got back to West Virginia and he waited for me.

Of course, then Mary Margret moved on to the portion of the gospel that we asked that she

include: the Beatitudes Matthew 5:3-12. I picked this portion of the gospel because I mean everyone does

the First Corinthians. You know the one, “Love is patient, love is kind,” blah blah blah, so not original,

but Aunt Mary Margret fully encapsulated the beauty of the Beatitudes. She explained that she expected

us to live our life together by these words of the Lord, and I can say now that we sure as hell tried. So,

yes, it was a beautiful mass, but in the middle of it, I’m sitting on the altar with Erik, and Father Sadie is

speaking and I’m thinking, “Holy hell this is taking forever.” I mean Erik's family isn’t even Catholic,

they are Methodist. They’re in, they’re out, they’re done. I look over and I’m pretty sure his aunt Jane is

asleep. I mean who can blame her? I made a bunch of Methodists sit through the longest Catholic mass

that has ever been held.

 Finally, after what felt like an eternity we are standing there, in front of all of our friends and we

hear Father Sadie say, “You may now kiss the Bride”. Then, a peck. A very sweet and little Catholic

wedding kiss, just a peck. We were married. My now husband and I walked down the aisle followed by

our nine bridesmaids and nine groomsmen as our loved ones cheered and clapped.

I just wanted to get to the reception already so I could have a good time and have a few drinks but

it was time for the wedding photos. We took so many photos. Photos of me and Erik. Photos of us with

his family. Photos of us with my family. The bridesmaids. The groomsmen. The whole wedding party

together. Meanwhile, everyone else is over at the venue already drinking and dancing. I was so jealous

and so sick of having my picture taken, and to top it all off my photographer disappears in the middle of

the pictures and no one can find her. I mean what the hell. No professionalism. At this point, I just wanna

dance.

Our reception venue was owned by the church as well so it was just across the street. My mother

had put up a fight about this because she wanted the reception to be at her house. Like I said, always the

hostess, but I just couldn’t do that to her. Don’t get me wrong, my parent's house is huge and beautiful- it

would have made a lovely place for a wedding reception. However, I knew that if I agreed to this my

mother would not have managed to enjoy herself all night. She would have been preoccupied with

ensuring that everyone else was fed, and comfortable- she would have not put a second thought into

whether or not she was either of those things. That’s just how my mother is, so I knew it would be best to

have the reception at another venue.

At last, we managed to make it to our own wedding reception. That was such a cool moment. The

DJ knew when we were about to enter the doors so he announced us. You know the whole ‘please

welcome, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Erik Engle’ thing. Everyone is clapping and cheering and

blowing bubbles- instead of rice or birdseed to throw we gave everyone their own little container of

bubbles. We were dancing the champagne was flowing and the bubbles were popping, what more could

you want? Well..suddenly the champagne stops flowing. My parents had ordered upwards of fifteen cases

of champagne and the caterer lost all but one. One case of champagne for two-hundred people was not
going to cut it. Erik and I are trying to dance and greet people and pretend like nothing is wrong while my

mother is in the back bitching out the caterer, knowing her I’m sure she threw in some Italian curse

words. Then what do you know, after dealing with my very unpleasant, pissed off, and Italian mother,

POOF! Fourteen cases of champagne are pulled out of thin air. That woman is dynamite, she’s the one

who taught me that if you want something done right, you do it yourself and without scowling to avoid

wrinkles.

So now that we have plenty of bubbly and people are eating it’s time for speeches. How exciting

right? Wrong. The speeches at my wedding were, how do I put this? The speeches were a shit show. A

crap fest. A nightmare that haunts me to this very day, if you will. Tristine, my maid of honor and best

friend for life is a raging introvert so she begged me to not have to give a speech, so of course I didn’t

make her, but yeah I was disappointed. Anyway, that means that our only speech was supposed to come

from Erik’s best man and only brother, Matt, yes the one that didn’t even bother to shave for our

wedding. Notice I said ‘supposed to’. Matt began to speak and the tears came immediately. Not soft,

sweet tears, large, wet sobs. It was borderline scary and no one could understand him. We didn’t know

what to do so we just watched him flounder for a bit. Finally, my eldest brother gets up and grabs the mic.

“Oh thank god”, I think “Alexander is gonna save this.” Hard no. My dear sweet brother says one

sentence into the mic, “Hey Erik, sincerely, from me and my father, we thought this day would never

come; thanks for taking her off our hands.” Oh, I was mortified. If he was in reaching distance and there

weren’t so many witnesses I could have killed him right then and there. Happy wedding day to me.