(Warning: This is obscenely long and photo heavy. But worth it if you like wedding pictures and silly stories.)

On Saturday Kim became a Mrs. and her friends and family descended upon Cleveland, Ohio to witness it. I'd been looking forward to this event since her engagement (a scant sixteen months ago), not only because I was so happy for her and S, but also because I knew that it was sure to be an outstanding weekend. And as soon as I found out that one of our college roommates, Bridget, would be attending I could barely contain my excitement.

Neither Kim nor I had seen Bridget since graduation. She had opted not to walk, so that morning she and her mom packed all her possessions into their car and drove out of town. When I hugged her good-bye I never imagined that it would be over five years until we'd see each other again.

The thing I remember clearest about Bridget is her laugh. It was a loud, gigantic laugh that could instantly make me breathless with giggles. In college, we had a storied history of making each other laugh so hard that we either had to fall down or wet our pants. When the four of us girls (Kim, Pony, Bridget and me) from the Palace of Trouble (our apartment junior year), would trek off to King Library we had to sit far apart in separate study cubbies. The only place we could share a table was in the basement, where talking was allowed. Otherwise we'd be crying with laughter, our faces wet and our cheeks red from a lack of oxygen. There were inside jokes about Swedish fish and we got dirty looks from librarians and fellow students. Our PoliSci 141 professor once reprimanded Bridget and me in front of the entire class for giggling during his lecture. (Of course you know that just made us laugh harder and write each other notes more furiously.) But we couldn't help it - we just made each other weak.

This weekend I was pleased to find out that we still could.

I got into Cleveland on Friday afternoon and checked into the Holiday Inn (here after known as the HoInn) requesting the room adjacent to ML and Jen, two Atlanta girls who had arrived earlier in the day with ML's boy/friend, Jorge. I knocked on the connecting door and surprised them. We vegged out for a little bit, eating goodies from the gift bags Kim & S had made and watched horrible daytime television.

Eventually it was time to go to the rehearsal, ML and I had "speaking roles" (we were readers), so we piled into the sporty silver Alero they had rented and sped (with Jorge behind the wheel the key word here is "sped") off to the church. I got a message from Bridget saying that her plane would land around 9 Eastern and that she'd really like to go out once we got back to the hotel after dinner. (As if that was ever in question.)

The rehearsal went smoothly and Kim and S were both a lot calmer than I would have been and they both looked happy and excited. (At one point, Kim’s mom commented aloud that the priest needed a haircut and sure enough, the next day, his hair was cut.)

Dinner was incredible - a five-course meal at Hyde Park in downtown Cleveland held in a private room that was a steel-lined vault. Downside, there was zero cell phone reception. Upside, we got to make jokes like "Whatever is said in the vault stays in the vault." The servers kept our wine glasses full and Kim was the first (rightly so) to order a glass of champagne and we were all delighted when the server brought out her own mini-bottle.

It comes with its own bottle!

To that Jen & I say "Cheers!"

There was a sweet video that Kim's brother had made and nice words said by her future father-in-law. There was laughter and a sense of love and community that formed among all these people who had come together to celebrate one of the biggest day in their friends' lives.

We stumbled out of the restaurant hours later, full from filets and chocolate torts, and waited for the valet. “I guess in Cleveland ‘valet’ means ‘pull the car forward,’” ML said, as our rental was sitting about five feet in front of where we’d pulled over and gotten out.

There was a white stretch limo waiting by the curb and I made Jen run over to it and pretend it was our car. The chauffeur saw us being silly and offered his services for a photo op.

"I'll just let myself in...."

We invented many silly photo ops that weekend, including the Charlie’s Angel photo where we had to pose in front of any random thing. I think the professional photographer even got one of us doing the CA pose with Kim. Good times.

Jen and ML fight crime and look sassy at the same time.

The drive home was fast and furious and we sped by Jacob’s Field and Lake Erie rockin’ out to the mix CD that Kim had put in the attendants’ gift bags. (More on the CD later.) And when I say “rocking” I really mean crying because most of the songs were lovey and/or nostalgic so we mostly sang along and reminisced. “Gee, do you think she was in loooooove when she made this?” Jen asked. “I think the David Gray is your answer,” I told her. Except we did get our car groove on, in that Ally McBeal way, to the Barry White’s “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything.”

We arrived back at the HoInn and moseyed into Cooper’s, the hotel bar. It was an interesting mix of various wedding guests (there were many nuptials last weekend) and well, townies. But we didn’t care. I stood around and nervously waited for Bridget to come downstairs. I saw her come around the corner and she looked amazing, just the same. We hugged and that was it, we were laughing from then on. We squeezed into a booth and Jorge brought us drinks and we didn’t stop talking. At some point I made Jorge go play songs on the jukebox but sadly, it didn’t work. But not so sadly the bartender gave him a free round as compensation. Yay!

Around two we all made our way upstairs and once we got to the room I told Bridget that I had a surprise for her. She bounced onto her bed and waited like a kid on Christmas. When I reached into my suitcase and pulled out one of my college scrapbooks she gave a little scream before exclaiming, “I was so hoping you’d bring this!”

We sat on her bed and flipped through the pictures that documented our junior and senior years of college and of course we laughed and laughed. Somewhere around five a.m. we finally fell asleep and I think that was mostly because both of our throats really hurt.

Early the next morning we made our way to the only breakfast option, Bob Evans, where we ran into Kim’s Atlanta family, her uncle, aunt and cousins. Her uncle’s hilarious and spent the entire weekend commenting on the fact that Jorge was the only guy with four women. He kept asking what kind of mouthwash Jorge uses. These comments inspired our own little game, wherein we said that Jorge was The Bachelor and that at the end of the weekend there would be a rose ceremony. Clearly I knew I was in no danger of not getting a rose. I’m too funny. I’m like funny, fat Bob from The Bachelorette.

We rushed back to the hotel, after a pit stop at CVS for disposable cameras, and started getting ready. In college Bridget was notorious for taking a lifetime to get ready. She’d lock herself in the steamy bathroom (luckily the rest of us preferred to get ready in our bedrooms) and spend forever doing whatever in there, only to emerge hours later looking gorgeous, of course, but not that different from when she went in. So with only a little over an hour left before we had to leave for the church, I was a little worried. I asked her if she thought we both had enough time and she assured me that we did and that she was super fast now. I was doubtful.

But she was right. The girl who could once take thirty minutes just to blend silver and gold eye shadows and apply just the exact amount of eyeliner no longer even wears eye make-up. Amazed at her speediness (and after giving a little smile and wondering about Kim who had once said, totally exasperated with herself, “It takes me ten minutes to get ready for anything. I bet it will only take me ten minutes on my wedding day!”) we grabbed our room keycards and ran down to the lobby to meet up with the others.

The church is amazingly gorgeous, with a high wood-beamed ceiling and an exceedingly long aisle that comes a close second to the aisle in the Holy Name of Jesus Catholic Church in New Orleans. Luckily I didn’t have to walk down this one. Kim’s brother TJ, who also went to Miami, ushered me to my seat and he placed ML and me close to the front so that we wouldn’t have as far to walk when it came time to approach the pulpit for our readings.

The ceremony was beautiful and of course I cried when her dad walked her down the aisle, but most importantly I didn’t fall or trip when I went up to do my reading. Although I felt like I was wearing the world’s loudest shoes in the quietest place. I was nervous but hopefully my voice didn’t show it. I couldn’t look over at Kim & S though because I knew if I did I’d either start laughing or crying.

ML read the Corinthians passage about love and the night before, during the rehearsal, we had cracked ourselves up saying things like “Listen, PAUL,” while wagging our finger. “I’ll tell you something about love! Love is having your heart ripped out of your chest while it’s still beating. If I want to be a cymbal clashing, then I’ll only be ONE CYMBAL CLASHING. I’ll clash myself and that is NOT a sin.”

“Yeah, maybe not a good idea to have the bitter single girl read the passage about love,” she said.

The rest of the weekend one of our many catch phrases was “Listen, PAUL” and “As if that’s your REAL name….”

So when ML walked up to do her reading I had to stifle my giggles imagining her doing her “Listen Paul” rant. But she got through it as written.

Then suddenly Kim & S were wed, husband and wife, and they ran out of the church under a shower of rose petals.

In between the ceremony and reception we went to Kim’s childhood home where her parents had a few people over for drinks and hors d’oeurves. Of course the cooler was stocked with Smirnoff Ice, Kim’s signature drink, but I still couldn’t make myself have one, even if it would’ve been in her honor.

We arrived at the country club shortly after six and were immediately greeted by servers who took our drink orders. (That’s the way to have a wedding, my friends.) Kim & S and their parents were greeting everyone so we got in line to congratulate them and express our best wishes. Kim & S were all glowing and happy and it was an infectious feeling.

We went outside and drank champagne and ate philo dough with spinach and looked out onto the golf course. Pictures were taken, stories were told, more drinks were ordered. I think some cigarettes were smoked but I wouldn’t testify to that.

Soon they opened the doors to the dining room and it was spectacular. Unlike the South where buffets are standard reception procedure, Northerners and Midwesterners love their sit-down dinners, and when you attend a wedding like this one (admittedly rare) you realize why. Bridget and I sat at our assigned table, the ATL contingency was across the dance floor, and I was delighted to see that it was all Miami all the time. (Even so Bridget and I spent the majority of the meal huddled together talking and telling stories. Eventually we realized how rude that was and joined the table’s conversation.)

Bridget & Kim

Kim & S cut the cake first thing so that it could be served after dinner. There was no icing on the face, just as I knew there wouldn’t be. My friends don’t shove cake into their new spouse’s face. It’s just Not Done.

After the cake plates and coffee were cleared away Kim & S danced to “At Last,” a classic choice that no matter how many times you hear it fills you with gooey romantic feelings, even if the only people there for you to dance with are your girlfriends or someone’s great-uncle.

So we danced and ran around and at some point someone suggested that our next round of drinks be margaritas. That’s when I should’ve realized that this was going to be a drunkfest of mythic proportions. Especially because we even got Kim to drink some.

S planned their entire honeymoon and had kept it a secret from everyone, which meant that he had to endure harassing questions from all of Kim’s friends. “Just tell us!” Jen and I cried as we cornered him by the bar. “We won’t tell her!” He laughed and said, “Well, IF I was going to tell anyone, I still wouldn’t tell YOU two.” (For the record, they went to Hawaii for two weeks. And I might have told her but it totally wouldn’t have been on purpose.)

Eventually the bride and groom started saying their good-byes and the bartenders closed up shop (much to her dad’s relief I’m sure). Still, a few of the boys tried to get in last minute drinks and when Kim’s brother pulled rank they were awarded with some cans of beer. Once the beer in cans starts coming out, that’s my cue to exit.

The remaining guests walked outside and stood around the doors armed with bubbles that we of course started blowing all over each other, as we waited for the guests of honor to emerge. Kim and S ran out, bubbles flying around them, and hopped into their black stretch limo. Kim looked like a picture - her white dress engulfed her as she waved the pink plastic wand that her new brothers-in-law had given her as a gag gift.

Not ready for the night to be over most of the wedding party, a few guests (including my little group of course) went to some Irish bar located in a shopping center near the HoInn. At this point we all switched to beer and ordered food. Poor Jorge – he just did not know what he was getting into when he agreed to be our escort.

As soon as we made the decision to leave, Jen came back to the table with a full pint of beer. When we told her that it was time to vamanos (which means “Let’s get the hell out of here,” as ML learned the hard way at one of Jorge’s Peruvian family weddings), Jen got pouty, so Bridget just grabbed her glass and walked out of the bar with it. This was especially funny because a. in college we were all quite the little kleptos (in a minor, funny, though very notorious, way like this) and b. the pencil holder on Kim’s work desk is a Pete’s Wicked Ale pint glass that she obtained in just this manner some time during our sophomore year.

We obtained an extra passenger on the way back to the hotel because a Miami boy, Dave, piled into the car with us, which meant that Bridget had to sit on my lap. Luckily it was a short drive and no one, you know, died.

ML and Jorge said goodnight but Jen, Bridget, Dave and I camped out at Cooper’s again, though this time we didn’t even bother with the jukebox. Dave bought us a round of Bass ales and shots. Jen could barely get hers down but of course Bridget and I swallowed ours like champs and Dave exclaimed, “Those are my Miami girls!”

There was more college reminiscing, including merciless teasing of Dave because he lived in the honor dorm our senior year and because as a Phi Delt (which at Miami is equivalent to saying that he was a Golden Boy), he wouldn’t exactly have hung out with Bridget and me. We did okay, don’t get me wrong, but neither of us ever set foot in the Phi Delt house, or even a foot on their lawn. So we took secret, private pleasure in the fact that he wanted to come back to the HoInn bar to hang out with us. Eventually we got kicked out and though Dave wanted to continue partying we sent him on his way. (Which in retrospect we shouldn’t have, but I emailed him on Monday and he’s still alive.)

Once we got back to the room someone had the genius brainchild to prank call Bridget’s boyfriend, Matt. In those days long ago before caller i.d. prank calling was a time-honored tradition around our apartment. Matt was in NYC at a bachelor party so we were pretty sure he wouldn’t be answering his cell phone.

Bridget told me to pretend like I was stripper he’d met and given his number to. About 15 seconds into the phone call I lost it and started laughing which of course caused Bridget and Jen to laugh and I just held the phone and we laughed for about three minutes. I couldn’t breathe. Jen was curled up in a ball on the floor and Bridget had her face buried in the pillow and was pounding the bed. I really thought I was going to have an aneurysm. So I hung up, called BACK, and was like “Sorry about that….” I think we called about two more times.

After sheer exhaustion brought on by laughter, Jen stumbled back into her connecting room and Bridget and I climbed into our beds, except Bridget? Got stuck in her dress. I don’t know how, but she managed it, which meant I had to help her get out.

Sunday morning came too quickly but Bridget and I stayed in bed for as long as possible before we had to get ready to catch our 1 p.m. shuttle to the airport. I let her take my scrapbook back to Chicago with her to show Matt with a promise that she'd get it back to me safely. "Maybe I'll just pick up when I visit," I told her. After all, I am under strict Bridal orders to plan a reunion. You don't say no to someone commanding you with a pink wand.

I already feel like Tolstoy this piece is so long and I just don't know how to wrap it up so I'll just say, Good wedding, good times, good friends.

The End.

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