After copious picture-taking at the church, it was on to Jennifer's and Trevor's wedding reception at the Great Valley fire hall. They rented a limo for the occasion with a driver who could have been a wedding planner, and the entire wedding party piled in for a champagne toast. There was one bottle of Friexnet and two of Andre Spumante, the latter of which most of the wedding party preferred to the former (myself, and perhaps Trevor were the exceptions), and it occurred to me that it was the first time I've every drunken while riding. Now, I've transported open containers across state lines, but I've always been too much of a goody-two-shoes to violate open container laws so as to drink in a moving vehicle. I couldn't help but wonder what statutes must exist in order to allow the consumption of alcohol in limousines, since it's so clearly an important part of their business.

The bar inside the limo

So I arrived at the Great Valley fire hall two glasses of champagne drunk. This was just enough for this point in the evening because I knew I had my toast waiting for me. Yes, folks, now that we're all feminist and such maids of honor have to give toasts just like best men. I'm certainly not against this in theory... but when your cousin text messages you the Thursday before the wedding asking if you'd like to do a toast, it's a different matter entirely. It isn't a big problem because, as my mom pointed out, despite a natural dose of performance anxiety, teaching and grad school have made me good at public speaking. But that just makes it all the worse. Unlike Trevor's 21-year-old ingénue of a brother who can look sweet reading childhood memories off a sheet of computer paper, I'm 27-year-old cousin Sarah with a Master's Degree who has to live up to the expectation of "What wacky, clever, fun thing will she say next?" Sigh, but alas I managed to compose a toast that tied together childhood memories, Slavic grammar and drunken debauchery. Sabrina video-ed it on her camera and posted it on YouTube if anyone is interested.

Entering the reception escorted by the best man, my would-be coug-ee

Speaking of Sabrina, that was a welcome wrinkle on the weekend. I decided to take Sabrina as my "date" to the wedding for a number of reasons. Since I broke up with my steady ex in December, I've been on the look-out for a guy I could take as a date to the wedding. But none of the guys I've dated since February managed to reach that all-important step of meeting the parents... all-important because when you're in the bridal party, it means your date gets to spend a lot of time with your parents. He hangs out with your parents before the service, arrives at the church with your parents, sits at the church with your parents, goes to the reception with your parents, sits with and eats dinner with your parents... all while you attend to bridal party duties leaving him utterly alone with your parents. Now, my parents are pretty cool as parents go, but for this to be the first meeting? Furthermore, introducing some new guy around to all of my family is fine, but most of my family already knows Sabrina. She goes swimming with me and my mom, she watches Star Trek with me and my dad, she goes drinking with my cousins... who would Jennifer rather me bring to her wedding? Sabrina, whom she's known for four years, or some random dude? A logical decision right? Sure, and back when I asked Sabrina I realized that bringing a girl to the wedding as my "date" might foster some rumors of lesbian-hood. But what I did not foresee was that in the meantime Sabrina would decide to cut most of her hair off, making her look just that much extra-lesbian. When we arrived at the rehearsal dinner, where cheese-only pizza had been requested to fit Sabrina's dietary restrictions and where she showed up dressed in a demin-jacket covered in liberal buttons including a very red one of Vladimir Lenin, we encountered first Jennifer's uncle Howard from Maine. He turned immediately to Sabrina and asked, "Who are you?" Sabrina gave a coy-sweet smile and a shoulder shrug and answered, "I'm Sarah's date," to which Howard bellowed, "That's WONDERFUL!" We easily accepted the fact that most folks would presume Sabrina to be my vegetarian, communist, lesbian partner from the city, but we did not foresee the other rumors that would circulate at the wedding.

Jenn and Trevor entering the reception hall

Thanks to the machinations of the DJ, I quickly developed the reputation for being a vain, dictatorial, kick-ass city chick, which while not entirely untrue, is also a bit more extreme than reality attests. It started when he introduced me as the "the most beautiful maid of honor in the world, today." While the compliment was certainly appreciated (and I could have done without the addition of "today"), everyone asked me, "So, how'd you get the DJ to introduce you that way?" He came up with it by himself! All I said to him was "Better pronounce my last name right, otherwise it will be kind of sad" (since it is shared by two other members of the bridal party AND the bride). Then, I requested that he play two songs for my parents, specifically that they be played right in a row—first was "Shout," which is my dad's favorite song, followed immediately by "Hey Ya," my mom's favorite song. Well, the DJ introduces them as a request by a certain young lady who undoubtedly always gets what she wants... Alas, either way, Saundra had her hands in air for "Hey Ya" and Neilbert cut a rug to both with aplomb.

The collective population of the reception hall What a rumor mill!

Then came the unexpected rumor about Sabrina. When it came time for the first open dance, a slow one, I decided against dancing with Sabrina. I actually enjoy dancing with girls (I Mambo-ed No. 5 with Jenn later in the evening), but I figured, it's one thing to slow dance with your lesbian date in front of your family when you're actually lesbians, it's quite another when you're erroneously presumed to be lesbians. So, I asked my swinging-single Uncle Donbert to dance and suggested that Sabrina might ask Smooth. Well, with the appearance of Sabrina and Smooth on the dance floor, a whispering arose and half the fire hall presumed Sabrina and Smooth to be sleeping together. Yes, folks my erroneously-presumed lesbian lover was further erroneously presumed to be cheating on me with my cousin Smooth! Those small towners sure do like to gossip.

The rest of the evening unfolded perhaps expectedly. I continued to dance like a fool and take full advantage of the bottomless supply of white wine, which I drank in effort to avoid the potential for staining the ivory portion of my dress with red wine. I actually explained this tactic to the bartenders when for the nth time they asked upon my request for white wine whether I'd prefer Chardonnay or White Zinfandel.

Emmett at Babylon He had MUCH more game

Unfortunately, I'm not actually vain, dictatorial or kick-ass enough to explain to them that despite the name, White Zinfandel is not a white wine. The wine got me pretty dang drunk eventually (enough that I forgot my bouquet, my party favor and my Jennifer & Trevor souvenir wine goblet at the fire hall) but it was a slow enough build up that I still got a lot of dancing in. At an early stage of drunkenness I decided that I would attempt to hit on Trevor's brother and best man, Ian. I have to practice this cougar thing, after all, before I hit 30, and he was the best looking guy there that I wasn't related to. I chose my moment carefully... well, okay, impulsively. The DJ had just struck up the N-Trance club remix of Rod Stewart's "Do you think I'm sexy?"—the very club remix in fact that they play on the episode of Queer as Folk where Emmett finds newfound confidence after having the courage to meet his internet boyfriend in person. And so I groove over to where Ian is dancing feeling like Emmett strutting into Babylon, his sunglasses on and shoulders back, ready to take on the world and... two minutes later I find myself dancing with Trevor. How'd that happen? Thus my first attempt at coug-ing ends in defeat.