All Aboard The Marry-Go-Round A First-Hand Account Of One Couple’S Chaotic Journey En Route To The Altar

We sat in the numb fuzz of shock, staring at the Christmas tree as if it were a clown on skates. Oh my god, had we really just decided to get married?

Amid the torn wrapping paper and our stunned silence, my roommate, a chronic wedding-phobe, walked in. We mumbled the news and Frannie flashed the ring.

Befuddlement clouded his face. He looked down at the unwrapped gifts from Lucia and Pietro and said, “Oh look, Fran, you got socks.”

I know there are books detailing how to smoothly plan a wedding. We got one, or three, and stashed them in our car next to the road maps. Then, as often happens in our car, they fell under the floor mats and eventually became road trip napkins.

We, instead, opted for a more random method of planning. I hope this is a cautionary tale.

For five months we developed Attention Deficit Disorder whenever the wedding came up. What time of year did we want to get married? Let’s go hiking. Where should we marry? How about a movie. Big wedding or small wedding? Chinese take-out or Italian?

In May, when we finally grew disgusted with ourselves and tired of the pressure, we took a long weekend at Cannon Beach to make a plan. We don’t make decisions easily, and wedding planning made us believers in taking direction on tough calls from Rock-Paper-Scissors.

We considered the whole range — marrying in Italy, the San Juan Islands, Philadelphia, Catholic, Buddhist, or Christian, Vegas elopement or Spokane wingding. As the seaside debate raged, we began to wonder if we needed matrimony or meds.

We picked Spokane in September — a scant three months away — and got focused. We’ve both honed crisis management skills by necessity. We tacked an enormous checklist on our dining room wall. Friends offered helpful magazines with articles on what must be done a year in advance. Our caterer, a petite former Montana rodeo queen, gave help Big Sky style by getting us drunk at planning sessions.

Frannie’s aunt noted that responses to news of pending matrimony indicated the health of the respondent’s own relationship. My tailor’s response: “In the South (pronounced saath), we don’t say ya gettin’ married, we say ya gettin’ murdered (muh-duhd).” Her Italian family wanted to know when babies would arrive. My stepbrother responded by getting engaged. The wedding-phobe also succumbed; they’re marrying in July.

The bachelor and bachelorette parties whizzed by. For mine, friends rented a dilapidated schoolbus and loaded on the fun. As expected with a cast of lawyers and journalists, the night plunged into chaos. We began pulling strangers onto the bus. A homeless couple boarded and asked if they could crash at my apartment. Half the crowd at a karaoke bar hopped on and kept singing.

We waited for the inevitable catastrophe to strike. It did, in late August. Frannie’s San Francisco boutique lost her wedding dress. For one tense afternoon, the poor hippies were threatened with a lawsuit and expose story. The gown resurfaced. We congratulated ourselves for dodging disaster.

But more awaited. Two days before the wedding, I threw away my fiance’s veil. My side of the story: the veil was strewn among torn wrapping paper that looked like trash. I was cleaning, I lamely told her on the way to the rehearsal dinner. The dinner pictures show Frannie was packing heat and intended to use it. The disaster provoked my brother-in-law’s memorable toast: “Thank God they found each other, because they can’t seem to find anything else.”

The day itself arrived with rain clouds and a return of the engagement day’s fuzzy numb shock. I remember walking into the Rose Garden at Manito Park and wondering what everyone was doing there. My hands shook too badly to sign the wedding certificate. I felt camaraderie when Matthew, the 3-year-old ring-bearer, chucked the pillow and ran crying from the altar. His explanation: “I like zoos, not weddings.” Sounded reasonable.

But the day slowed, then froze, as I grabbed Frannie’s hand from her father. I never got through the vows, breaking down at “til death do us part.” Frannie, a lawyer who handles divorces occasionally, remains suspicious.

We both love wedding receptions. Our guests said it showed. The food was late, but everyone seemed to find the bar all right. The band seemed old enough to be around when swing was hot the first time, so they knew how to belt out a tune. “I didn’t know the band from the Titanic survived,” said one friend.

College friends found the bizarre hat collection left over from the original inhabitants of the International Order of Odd Fellows Hall. Appropriate name. A former roommate wanted to take home a horned Viking helmet.

The night seemed to slip away in flashbulbs and hugs until, finally, we were the last ones in the hall. The balloon would soon deflate; we slept away our honeymoon in Banff and Jasper, on what we call our “tour of most beautiful naps.”

But as we clinked champagne glasses in the Lusso room, fiddling with our new rings and trying out new titles, we were of one mind: I can’t believe we actually pulled this off.