After almost a year of planning, the day has finally arrived. It’s Sunday, September 14th and Abby and I are waiting downstairs at SmackMellon Galleries for our wedding to begin.
My bestman, Robert, gives me a gutcheck by punching me in the shoulder. “How ya feeling?” he asks.
“Nervous as all hell,” I say.
However, unlike any other occasion where he would usually try to talk me off the ledge, Robert just smiles and tells me to “Enjoy it”.
The two great fears that are currently attacking me at this point is that, one, I’m gonna forget all my vows and, two, I’m gonna mortally wound Abby during our first dance. Both could feasibly happen.
Side note: The problem with writing about one’s wedding is that no matter how hard you try, it always comes off sounding cliché. Hell, even writing that previous sentence acknowledging the fact that writing about one’s wedding as cliché is cliché. Like a bad romantic comedy, you know the formula. Groom (or Bride, depending on perspective) starts off nervous, something happens to justify that fear, wedding begins and insert funny observation about the ceremony here, and then the bride appears and insert beautiful sentiment here which washes away all fears and doubts that were held previously. End by saying, “I love you, (Insert spouse’s name).”
As I pace back and forth trying to simultaneously recite my vows to myself as well as go over my dance moves in my head, it seems that everyone and their mother (and I do mean that quite literally, this is a wedding afterall) keep interrupting me to congratulate me on my big day. I blankly stare at hundreds of smiles and robotically respond with a smile of my own, all the while trying to go over the words that will unite me and my beloved together forever. However, I’m blank. Too many incoming congratulations have temporarily stalled my hard drive.
“Are you sure you don’t want to write them down on notecards” Abby asked me just a few hours before. “I have mine down on notecards. No one is going to judge you if you need notecards, Boo. It’s okay to use a notecard.”
“Fuck that,” I defiantly say. “Notecards are for pussies.” I tend to make bold statements like that. “For pussies” as it turns out is one of my favorite expressions i.e. “Quitting is for pussies. Rest is for pussies.” And once while debating politics, I actually retorted with “The Electoral College is for pussies.” “For pussies”, though a bit misogynistic, is a standard saying of mine.
And as it turns out, I’m a huge pussy cause I need me a muhfuckin’ notecard. I scramble to try to remember my vows, but I’m coming up with unconnected sentences and fragmented thoughts. I need something – a napkin, a pen, anything to write out my vows and be able to physically reconnect everything back into a cohesive thought. However, right as I realized I’m fucked . . .
“You ready, son?” my Dad asks as he steps up beside me.
“Um . . . I could use a few more minutes . . .” And right then, my mom pops up, grabs me and hugs me tight sending my psyche back to my childhood days of boo-boos, ouchies, and monsters in the closet. She's there as always to calm the storm.
“I so proud of you,” my mom tells me in her patented pidgin English. “Abby is very good girl.”
“Thanks, mom”
“Don’t fuck it up.”
My mother, though very sweet, has zero tact.
Suddenly, we’re off to the races and I’m beginning my walk towards the Chuppah (A traditional Jewish wedding canopy . . . yeah, I know how to wikipedia too, bitches).
Insert funny observation . . . GO!
Chuppah is pronounced “Huppah” though its spelling reminds me of the word “Chewbacca”. This, of course, excites the 9-year old nerd in me since, in a way, he’s now getting a Star Wars wedding.
Speaking of my youth . . . (Way to segue, me.)
When I was seventh grade, my English teacher made us write daily journal entries for class. They all involved some kind of daily prompt to help us begin. On one particular occasion, the prompt was “Write a letter to your future spouse.” Hearing this, my classmates begin furiously penning notes to their destined mate. Most of my male friends strangely all married Cindy Crawford. That slut.
I went a different route. Clearly, a much more mature and believable route.
“Dear Tiffani-Amber Thiessen Nguyen,
I love that you give the world’s best back rubs.
You are rad.
Love,
Your Hubby”
As you can see, even at such an early age, I was fuckin’ Shakespeare.
Now as dumb as this assignment was, it did subconsciously plant a thought into my head, “My future wife has got to be a professional masseuse.” Okay, not an actual professional per say, but at least be able to rock a back massage like she was part Geisha. And somehow this strange thought played out in almost every relationship I had in my life. This was the proverbial Glass Slipper. Any girl I dated, they could be hot as hell, charming as an 80’s Meg Ryan character, fuck like a porn star, but if they couldn’t occasionally work out some neck stress when the occasion was needed, it was back to the dating pool for them.
However . . .
Abby gives the world’s shittiest back rubs.
It’s not that they are horrible exactly, it’s the fact that she has wee little hands that get fatigued very easily. I will massage every inch of her body to the point of pure physical exhaustion, in return, I get about twenty seconds of Abby awkwardly pinching at my traps before hearing her say “My hands are tired . . .”
It’s not even. It’s not fair. And if this were any other girl . . .
But this isn’t any other girl, this is my lady. And for some odd reason, I melt every time she pouts her bottom lip.
As my parents walk me to the Rabbi, I look around this large gorgeously decorated room and see so many smiling faces. At Robert’s wedding just last year, he gave a toast which said that there’s only two times in your life when all your loved ones and your friends collect together to celebrate you. The first time is the day you get married. The other time is at your funeral. So enjoy your wedding because out of the two, it’s the only one that you get to participate in.
Now to be fair to our buddies that couldn’t make it, not everyone Abby and I care about are here. My grandmother passed away in 1999. All my friends from undergrad and HS couldn’t make it due to the current economic decline. And we only had a limited amount of invites for even our NYC friends due to the fact that Abby’s family is enormous.
But regardless of all that, it was still spectacular. As all eyes are on me, I look out and literally see an ocean of love surrounding us. Yep, it’s totally cliché, but that was what it was. A room full of people that we loved that loved us right back. It's an amazing feeling to stand in the middle of such affection.
As my mom and dad give me a kiss and a hug right before making it to their seats, I turn to watch my bestman Robert enter the room along with my brothers, Abby’s brothers, and our other cohorts-in-crime; Lloyd, Kelley, Jessica, and Rachel. And then it was time, the music shifts and my beloved begins entering the room with her mom and dad in hand. And, yes, Abby was absolutely and totally beautiful. She made my stomach flutter in excitement. It was actually happening - I was getting married today.
The night before, Abby and I paid respects to my Grandmother in a traditional Vietnamese ancestral prayer ritual. In Vietnam, this is how one gets married. You first pay respect to the groom’s ancestors at his family's home and then you march to the bride’s family with a procession of guests to pay respects to her ancestors. After that, you eat. This is how people get married in Vietnam. Unlike an American marriage (or at least unlike the Republican definition of marriage), Vietnamese weddings are completely secular. No monks, no religious ceremony, no God. And please note, Vietnamese still call it marriage, not a "civil union" or whatever second-rate dumbass term the frightened right has made up. Marriage is simply about two lives coming together and in the views of the Vietnamese, that is a choice made by two people and two families, not the Church (Or individual States for that matter). It is what it is and the world has to acknowledge it. To me that shows the argument claiming marriage as purely a “religious institution” to be complete bullshit, and assholes who want to prevent people from getting married are just . . . well, assholes.
As Abby and I stand in front of this makeshift alter, my mother speaks to my bà già in a familiar voice I haven’t heard in almost nine years. She says in Vietnamese “Hi, Mama. We miss you so much and wish you could be here today to see Qui and Abby. He’s grown up to be such an amazing man and he has found such an amazing partner. Be with them, Mama. Help them grow to be a loving family, understanding spouses, and wise parents. But most importantly, let them help each other achieve all the dreams they have ever dreamt. Qui loves you so much. As a boy, he held your hand when you walked. Now he holds Abby’s hand. Keep their grips strong so they can never lose one another. We love you, Mama. We miss you. We honor you this night with our hearts.”
As my mother speaks these words, I cry. I miss my grandmother. Abby kisses my shoulder and moves close to me. We bow to my bà già and, according to Vietnamese culture, we are now ready to be married.
As Abby finally makes it to me at the Chuppah, Abby’s mom gives us both a kiss and her father gives me a shake and jokingly says “Good Luck”.
Abby takes my hand and the Rabbi goes into her ceremony...
“Hello, we are gathered here today to celebrate and witness the marriage of Key and Gabby . . .”
Key and Gabby? What the hey?
Abby and I look at one another. I embarrassingly shake my head as the crowd quietly chuckles.
It doesn't matter though. The truth is I don’t really hear much of what the Rabbi says anyways. As she speaks, all I can think about is how incredibly lucky I am in this moment.
And as I stand there soaking in the greatest day of my life, the Rabbi turns to me and tells me it's time for me to say my vows. And suddenly, as if my brain finally started working again with some help from my heart, the words are all there . . .
“Abby Marcus, I’m so excited to be able to stand here in front of all our friends, our families, and all the people in our lives that have made our lives whole to witness me tell you what you mean to me and what I promise to always be to you. You are my bestfriend. You are my greatest supporter, my perfect Pictionary partner, and the one person I’m willing to share my greatest triumphs and greatest flaws with. You are much more than just the girl of my dreams, you are the girl that has made all my dreams come true. As I am a playwright, you have championed me. As I am an artist, you have inspired me. And as I am a man, you have completed me. For all this, I want you to always be the first person to hear any of my stories, I want you to be the last person I speak to each and every night, and I want you to be the only girl that I will share life’s greatest adventures as we grow up, grow old, and one day raise a family as eclectic and loving as the families that have raised us. I promise that I will always love you, I will always stand by your side, and I will always let you touch my nose last. But most importantly, I promise that no matter what will come to us in our lives, there will be nothing that I will value as much as I value you. This is my solemn vow – I will always love you forever and unconditionally. On this day, I choose you.”
And as I stare into the eyes of my love, she pulls out a notecard (which she ironically doesn't even look at) and begins reciting her vows to me...
“Qui, my best friend, my partner in crime, my biggest champion and my loving co-conspirator – today I join my life to yours. I promise to grow with you and laugh with you, stand by you in the face of obstacles, and encourage you in the pursuit of goals. I will be your friend, your sounding board, and your biggest fan, and I promise to always make the “psh” sound when you push my thumb as a detonator. All that I am I give to you, all that I have I share with you, and whatever the future holds, I will love you.”
Moments later, we exchange rings, I kiss my bride, break some glass, and the house erupts in cheers. We are married.
As far as the party is concerned, the first dance goes off without a hitch as Abby and I do a choreographed Two-Step to Johnny Cash and June Carter’s “Darlin’ Companion”. The song was chosen because of two reasons. One: while growing up in my mom's greasy spoon diner in Arkansas, this was one of the few artists I could stand that regularly played in her pure country jukebox. And two: How could you not love the story of Johnny and June? The man couldn't live without her. Literally. That's a love that we both respect.
As the night continues, our friends and families have a blast, the toasts come off as both funny and moving, and to top it off, Carlo, Temar, and Andrea of our company, Vampire Cowboys, sing us a beautiful rendition of Bruce Springsteen's “If I Should Fall Behind”. It really was the best day ever. And as nervous as I was before it, I would do it all again. I married my lady on this day. And it was absolutely perfect.
Yeah, I’ll be the first to admit that it’s all very clichéd. But, as it turns out, I’m alright with that. As I've discovered, it’s actually pretty good to be in a bad romantic comedy especially since, in the end, I got the girl. That's not too bad at all.
Insert ending here . . .
I love you, Abby Marcus. Always. 
Whaddup, Vamp Fans! The next episodes of THE SATURDAY NIGHT SALOON hits this Saturday! After an amazing first party last month, the writers and their teams are back at it to entertain all you sexy mofos with their special brand of badass. As always, it's always free, the all-you-can-drink beer (or until we run out) is always a mere five dollars, and the shows are always awesome. And to accomodate the huge crowds, we'll have more seats and cooler temps (you can thank October for that) to keep ya comfy. But as always, come early if you want a good spot to see the show.
