The Southern Buffet of the Arroyo Wedding

2PM and I’m hiding in the women’s locker room of the Country Club of the South. We’re supposed to be “prepping” for a 5PM wedding which I’m a bridesmaid for, but in actuality I’m already ready for this worthy task and am simply avoiding the man of the cloth who I accidentally just told I was a swinger.

In all fairness, there was no “cloth.” No, he was not nude, but certainly did not have any distinguishable attire or props that screamed “hello, I’m a man of the Lord and a spiritual leader,” aside from the Bible in his hand which I accidentally mistook for an iPad. So naturally when he asked me how I knew the bride and groom I let him know that we’re swingers in from Tampa.

Had I been reading the Holy Bible the night before and not the Book of Mormon, compliments of Atlanta Marriott Alpharetta, I may have recognized it.   But, priorities… I have got to get up to speed on polygamy and the planet Kolob if I want to have anything in common with Mitt Romney.

While I love today’s bride, Shannon Millay, I must say that I’d like to stick her in this bridesmaid dress… just once, to let her know what it feels like to be the girl who is not on P90x, and is unable to breathe due to the boning of its corset. Just last night Ryan received a personally engraved pocket knife from the groom, which we used to strategically stab breathing holes into its interior lining. While this helps, I’m still lightheaded and unable to talk for more than 30 second durations.

So, here we are, killing some time and taking some pictures before the big ceremony.  For one day and one day only this year I get to be a bridesmaid, and the bride and groom have paired me up to walk down the aisle with my husband. What the shit is this?

The Maid of Honor discusses her concerns of going commando and would like to know how I’m comfortable doing that. Well, that’s easy. Should an opportunity with my husband arise, I’ve eliminated a meaningless step. And, it’s a floor length gown… what’s the big deal here?

One bridesmaid, who happens to be a mother, tells me to just “wait and see.”  “When you have children, it’s much more about functionality and holding things in.”  Part of me really wants to ask her what she’s referring to: giving a part of her anatomy a certain lift, or her inability to stash things in her hoo-ha, because I too hate it when airplane bottles fall out at the cruise terminal.

I’m starving but I can’t eat just yet. What time is it? My only goal is making it through the ceremony without fainting, and then it’s on: an extensive and ungrateful stuffing of the pie hole.  I’m still a bit queasy from last night’s rehearsal dinner.  Roly (the groom) is one of my only brown friends so I should have expected adventurous eating. While everything was absolutely delicious, one dish still just doesn’t seem to be settling well.  Stomach doused in curry. A cow’s stomach I believe. Every time I think about it I want to go home and curl up into an extra small Caucasian ball in my bed.

It’s game time, awww look at my cute husband, we match.  Fast forward through a beautiful ceremony of uniting two as one, and here we are, at a full spread Southern Buffet. Country Club of the South confidently exhibits the definition of comfort food.  

Cornbread and She-crab Soup, Ashland Farm Greens with Pecan Dressing, Chilled Broccoli Salad, Roasted Corn, Pepper & Peanut Salad, Buttermilk Coleslaw, Crispy Fried Chicken, Corn Hushpuppies, Cajun Seared Grouper, Pulled Pork Sliders, Baked Macaroni and Cheese, and Southern Vegetable Succotash.

The wonderful thing about a buffet, regardless of where you are, is that there’s always something for everyone. The wonderful thing about an Arroyo wedding buffet is that every single “something” is fucking awesome. If you didn’t like even one item on that spread, you’re a racist and that’s a hate crime. End of story.

And the beverages? Everyone knows a wedding calls for utter sloppiness, and Country Club of the South bartenders are well aware of how to milk the crowd of their endless stacks of $1s. All liquor and a splash of mixer; regardless of what you order you’re on a fast track to sloppy and slutty. While I’m trying to digest several large servings of baked mac and cheese, I watch a man throw his short-dressed date over his shoulders, exposing her cooter. Looks like we have another brave commando (commanda?) in the house.

I’d like to point out that under no circumstance would I have ever successfully observed that, but I’m sober and taking in every single moment of the evening. No drinking for me tonight, it’s been 5 dry weeks for no reason other than the fact that I’m carrying a bun in the oven. No, no, I’m kidding. Just a little break and I don’t want things “falling out” on the dance floor anytime soon.   

Whenever I can’t find Ryan I scan the horizon for food or booze. I sent him to the dessert table several minutes ago and he has not yet returned. I quickly spot him in the distance sampling the desserts alongside two attractive gay men. Sometimes I think he just loves to eat it up (not the dessert); gays love him. Early on in our relationship I introduced him to one of my very best gay friends. While awaiting his approval, he gave Ryan a look up and down and said “Oh my goodness. Adorable. I’d F the republican right out of you.”   

Dessert table… A Cupcake Stand, Pecan Pie, Key Lime Pie, and Banana Crème Pie. I waddle over to Ryan and cannot find a fork anywhere, so I take one off someone else’s table on the way. Unsanitary? I think not. Desperate times call for desperate measures.  We indulge in the dessert spread despite having no room in our stomachs and I personally believe that my dress is one or two threads away from splitting directly down the front.

Ryan has already began speaking Scooby Doo (what I refer to his intoxicated language as) so it looks like I’m tonight’s driver. It’s a long 8 hour ride back to Tampa tomorrow and I hate to sound like an old lady but we need some rest. Arroyos… Best damn buffet. Stay classy.