Spoiler Alert: Hitler
Weddings are fun (duh).
But family weddings are funner (I looked it up, it’s a real word).
They are funner because everyone is relaxed around each other, not afraid to let their guard down, ask questions, or give advice not asked for.
Of course, having an open bar for five hours certainly does not hurt.
Well, as luck would have it, we had a family wedding this weekend.
Logistically, this was the perfect wedding—hotel on one side of the parking lot, the venue for the reception on the other side.
Ironically, the venue for the reception was actually called The Venue.
The first red flag (literally) I saw was after I checked in to the hotel and headed toward the elevator. When the doors opened, I saw a family member emerge wearing an out-of-place, bright red, velour track suit.
“When did Mikey join the mob?” I thought, then stepped into the elevator and headed to my room.
Little did I know what was to come.
Once the reception started, what came next was traditional—introduction of the bride and groom, first dances, speeches, food, and drink.
The first few hours passed without incident.
Let me preface what I’m about to say with this.
I love my kids, my nieces and nephews, their in-laws, and all their friends. Even those who are not related to me call me Uncle Al. All great people—they are fun and thoughtful, and I love hanging out with them.
But one thing I don’t get is that they like themes for parties. They once had a party where they dressed up like other members of the family.
Or a hillbilly party (you could just imagine the costumes).
Or every Halloween a costume party.
I don’t feel comfortable with any of these, only because I am not a costume person.
But they are.
At the wedding, getting a drink at the bar, I looked at the front entrance of the venue. The front doors opened, and in walked some of my nephews and their friends, each one wearing a different color of a so-out-of-place, velour track suit.
Red, Blue, Yellow, Black, Green.
All I thought in that moment was, ‘Wow, the Power Rangers really let themselves go.’
Unbeknownst to me, this group of track suit-wearing men (so far men, but I think a Pink Power Ranger will be added sometime in the foreseeable future) expands each year.
When one of them was asked about the requirements to join the group, the answer given?
“Simple,” he said, “just be awesome.”
I may not understand the motivation for their actions, but I do love their commitment to the bit.
For this next part, drinking was definitely involved (and maybe a gummy, not sure). I make no issue with the amount of alcohol consumed by anyone (my blog is called Conflict and Scotch, after all)—or gummies, for that matter.
It wasn’t the advice I was given, or the manner it was delivered, but it was the place.
I stepped out of the reception to get some air, and a couple of guests were by the door, one more sober than the other.
Let’s talk about the other.
Other (his new name for this post) is a funny guy, a real sweetheart when sober. But what is he like when he has a few drinks in him?
He is even more so.
It’s no secret that I’m not dating right now, so Other felt this would be the perfect opportunity to give me advice on that subject.
He said he loved me, and was saying this out of love. He said I had given up on dating, and I shouldn’t do that. I tried to step in, but he cut me off with a hand gesture, and continued:
“You have to keep on trying, and when you do find someone you connect with you have to…”
I’m going to stop right here. We are both men in our sixties, with a few drinks in us, so the explicit language he used to complete his thoughts had no effect on me.
I was fine with it, but there was a problem.
The problem?
As I said, I was fine with the language; not so sure if the eighty-five-year-old woman with a cane who stood not five feet behind me had the same reaction to his advice.
She turned to look at us, a quizzical look on her face. When she did turn, Other raised his hand, pointed an accusatory finger at her, and shouted, “You know I’m right. You know I’m right. You know it!”
She paused for a moment then walked away (at least she didn’t hit us with her cane).
I laughed at the situation, got Other safely to bed, and thought that would be it for the night.
Spoiler Alert: It was not.
Back at the reception, in the bar, I talked to a small group, which included a woman who is very close to our family. She is one of the people who call me Uncle Al even though we are not related.
“Uncle Al,” she said, “I want to talk to you.”
She said she wanted to better understand history, so she looked up George Washington, Hamilton, and Adams. Then she said:
“Not sure why, but then I also looked up Hitler.”
She went on to explain that she didn’t get very far.
“Just up to nineteen-fourteen, World War One.”
I was about to tell her some interesting facts about Hitler and World War One when her hand, holding her drink, shot up near my face, and she yelled:
“Spoiler Alert!”
Spoiler Alert? For World War One?
Never heard someone yell “Spoiler Alert” for an event that happened more than one hundred years ago.
Spoiler Alert: Abraham Lincoln was shot.
Spoiler Alert: Columbus discovered America.
Spoiler Alert: Eve gave Adam an apple.
Spoiler Alert is usually reserved for movies or television shows that someone may not have seen yet (Spoiler Alert: Rosebud was the sled in Citizen Kane) and not major historical events.
Of course, but I’m glad she wants to learn history on her own without someone (like me) ruining her discoveries.
That’s why weddings are fun.
Power Rangers.
Drunken dating advice.
A brief (very brief) walk back through history with the family.
So how was this wedding?
Spoiler Alert…
...it was funner.
