Flashback: 7/3/1993

The bride wore a white Jessica McClintock gown (retail $250 in '93 dollars...or about the cost of filling one's gas-guzzling monster-tanked Windstar minivan two-point-five times in 2008) and a stunning, matching $175 Jessica McClintock veil. Irises and larkspur were featured in the bouquet.
The groom wore his Service Dress Blues with a single narrow band of gold across the cuff and was awarded one for his ring finger, too. Fortunately, the glint of the single little "I was in the military during Desert Storm being yelled at by Gunnery Sgt Rosenfeld" ribbon distracted most of those present from the slightly-greenish tinge courtesy of his hangover from shenanigans with the menfolk from the previous evening, including some type of rolling down a hill into flowers. (The most impressive part of this feat of skill involved LOCATING a slope on that prime Illinois farmland).
The bridesmaids, God Bless them AND America, wore floral Lanz tea-length dresses with crenoline, excepting the 8-months pregnant one who was spared the extra material, that allegedly could "be worn again." In the 15-years since the blessed nuptials, I've viewed no evidence that any of the FIVE bridesmaids elected to do so under voluntary circumstances.
The groomsmen and ushers wore morning suits.
The mother-of-the-bride, heaven help all in attendance, wore a fetching pink suit and a pink hat and the mother-of-the-groom stayed under-the-radar -- brilliant woman that she is. (Of course, she may very well have been simply awe-struck at the massive flowery-ness of the bridesmaids' gowns in person!)
There were no flower girls or ring-bearers because, well, we just didn't know anyone the right age and besides, William (my brother) wasn't even a teenager yet so he practically counted. (Plus, sticking him in the altar server cassock was FREE).
The celebrants celebrated -- the Methodist minister with a lot more enthusiasm if memory serves than the Catholic priest. I remember the phrase "salt of the earth" but little else since I was mostly calculating how quickly Aunt Patty Cake's tearshedding might result in her serious dehydration and, if so, what ripple-effect that might have on the rest of the day's minute-by-minute plan.
The singing was grand; the pianist, a Marine, was adored. There was a spelling error ("hymal" vice "hymnal") in the program but my-oh-my was the hand-drawn border spectacular.
All six living grandparents were at the church that day, adding to the number of people for my mother to orchestrate for photos, fret over their comfort, etc. Not that she lost her sense of purpose that the caterers would need specific and continuous instructions on serving the food later on.
Two college friends thought my stomach would be settled by a 7/11 wrapped-in-cellophane roast beef sandwich (of questionable contents) with an orange juice. Because Bridezilla reigned that day, clarification of stomach-settling foods (in list format) was provided by the green-to-match bride.
And it was hot as blazes on the Illinois prairie that day -- although, I'd hasten to mention, not nearly so humid as a few states to the south, like maybe Arkansas.
We had Excellent wedding cake (with fresh flowers adorning it) at which point my work was done.
The first dance was to the instrumental theme from The Man from Snowy River. My aunt and mom welled up because they heard that come from my piano too many times to count in ghastly variations. The welling up was because we relied on the professionally-produced version.
Danced with my dad to "Silver Thunderbird" for the simple fact that anything less peppy or random would compel fountain-like eye behavior and I was, yes, wearing make-up that day. Besides twirling in one's wedding gown is compulsory activity.
Various relatives -- and my dear Patty Shellie's mom and her friend -- ensured that the dance floor was a source of gaity. Then Ben's cousin Joe took over and made sure that it could be a beacon of just plain ridiculous "dancing".
There was probably some underage drinking going on, unsanctioned of course. Probably because I averted my Residence Hall Coordinator eyes. Probably because William still had a "headache" the next morning.
There was tacky get-away car decorating. There were tears when the bride and groom left the reception (and not just because there was a size 56-K fuschia brassiere affixed to our sedan and we didn't realize the durability of the do-it-yourself-with-shoe-polish-white-wall tires yet). The honeymoon was dinner at Jim's Steakhouse and an overnight at a local hotel.

But for a decade and a half since, there have been, conveniently enough, plenty of fireworks to remind us of both the joy of our event and, during the about one-half of anniversaries spent apart, to bear witness to the reason for the distance between husband and wife. Think of the pyrotechnics as a sort of virtual bridesmaid, honoring our wonderful nation and reminding us that those Lanz dresses needed to be destroyed immediately after their first use.

Here's To 15-Years of Wedded...Wedded.

Sand Crab and I long ago agreed that "bliss" would be not only an overstatement but pure poppycock. Not saying there's not occasional blissful moments, but that those moments are generally overshadowed by Deployments, Drama, and Dingleberries (mostly in the form of our own offspring).

Tradition holds that the 15th anniversary is appropriately celebrated with crystal. So clearly, when Sand Crab asked me all of 2 days ago what I wanted for our anniversary, my stating that I'd ordered myself a book ($16) was drastically undervaluing the occasion. Of course, he's obviously not well-situated to acquire fine stemware given his current status, so let me offer these alternative gift-giving suggestions for this momentous occasion:

1. What about a crystal (CZ) eternity band...it's got crystals and when I lose it, we're only out, what, 18-clams?

2. Trendy Green Zone t-shirt..."My sailor worked in the Palace for a year and all he got me was this t-shirt".

3. Defer the whole thing and come up with a fantabulous "push present" (look it up on People.com). Say, a 2008 Honda Odyssey, perhaps?

Meanwhile, here's a toast to the Crabby Couple, neither of whom is currently authorized to enjoy an alcoholic beverage:


"Happy Anniversary!"