Cue the sheep!

Would you believe I am blogging while babysitting? My good friend Eria is upstairs pretending to sleep, having enjoyed the first chapter of a Christmas story about seven-headed mice, and exhausted my explanation for why magnets don’t stick together. (See next week’s Infrequently Asked Questions: Jill, Why Don’t Magnets Stick Together?)

But for now, back to Irene & chad.

The rehearsal dinner was held at the First Church, at the far end of Salem’s shopping district, which was totally deserted on account of it not being October anymore. This is a town that makes all of it’s money during the ramp-up to and dénoument of Halloween. Despite it’s horrific history, “Witch City” is more quaint than creepy– a picture-book perfect New England town. Bridesmaid Marieke remarked that the trip to the church was like walking through a movie set.

The church had been given the ol’ mock-gothic treatment, with Tiffany stained glass windows and a floor inspired by the Dutch.

In the chilly vestibule at the end of the red carpet, which parted the heavy pews as it stretched from the imposing Altar, we received our instructions from the Reverend Barz-Snell, an amiable guy in a contemporary beige suit, who seemed almost out of place in the setting he’d been assigned to.

It was there that the true purpose of the wedding rehearsal became clear: yes, so we could learn our places and figure out how to walk slowly without looking like we were skating, but more so, that we could get out every conceivable joke and giggle before the place filled up with reverent guests expecting a solemn ceremony, not a night at the Improv.

We shivered in our dinner clothes, calling for the organist to “Cue The Sheep!” as the bride’s father waited to flick the switch that would signal the organist to begin playing “Sheep May Safely Graze,” the prelude to our walking-not-skating music. I’m sure if we had thought of it, we would have made baa-ing sounds too, but instead, we contented ourselves with walking at totally the wrong time, making faces at each other, and miming out what would happen if the best man were to bring out the rings in a jack-in-the-box instead of “in your pocket, no bags, no boxes, just the rings,” as instructed.

It was only at dinner that I learned that the bride’s father– a man who off-road unicycles in his spare time– quietly insisted to the bride-to-be, all the way down the aisle, that there was a very real and tragic possibility that she would accidentally be married tonight– and then what?

We somehow made it all the way to dinner without loudly alerting the groom’s family to our widespread, collective weirdness. Dinner was at the Grapevine Restaurant, an Italian place with generous servings, spicy sauce and excellent service. The highlight of the meal might have been the vegan stuffed mushrooms, but they were overshadowed by the presentation of gifts to the bridesmaids, which came in distinctive frog-and-kitty boxes– a typical iMo move. I would expect no less from the woman who once presented me with hairpins and string, knowing it would complete my Christmas like none before.

Inside the boxes were silver bracelets, only mine wouldn’t fit in its tiny compartment, so I got this fantastic note instead– far, far better than if the whole box thing had worked out exactly as it was supposed to.