Why one
Californian, delighted with his newfound right to marry,
won’t dare walk down the aisle again.
As thrilled as I
am about marriage equality in California, I’m not
getting married again. I had a lovely garden wedding two
years ago. It gave me memories that will last a
lifetime, but I would rather put a lit cigarette out
in my cornea than gather my entire Filipino family in one
place again. Everyone in my family is a tortured creative
genius of some kind, which I can attribute only to
hundreds of years of colonial Spanish inbreeding and
poor diet. My mother, the only person for whom we all
collectively behaved, passed away 16 years ago. Without her
around to keep everyone in check, my wedding day was a
fucking free-for-all.
My
husband’s family arrived hours before the ceremony
began and immediately assisted the caterers in
arranging chairs and tables. My family arrived half an
hour late and immediately started to complain.
“I’m cold. We’re hungry. Is this
free?” My father, a diabetic with a million
food restrictions, clicked his tongue at every verboten
canapé and proceeded to eat them all before they
were passed. My brother, a recovering alcoholic, got a
little too manic at the sight of all the Veuve
Clicquot. My younger sister suffers from chemical
depression, so while guests were gathering out back
for the big cocktail meet and greet, she sat in the
living room watching Tomb Raider. Mercy, my stepmom
from the Philippines, showed up with five people I’d
never met before and a baby. I spent eight months
meticulously planning the seating assignment for each
table, and in two seconds she turned it into a barrio
fiesta. She compensated by toting her wedding gift: a
blue velour blanket with a Siberian white tiger on the
front and an eagle in flight on the other side in an
enormous see-through plastic bag labeled "size queen".
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