We Vacationed in Cambodia and All We Came Back With Was A Wedding Centerpiece and a Recipe for Viet Cong Flan

Perhaps I have worked a few too many weddings in my time. Seen a few too many spray-tanned CA girls dragging their new esposas by the ear. Watched a few too many garters being awkwardly removed by teeth and hurled toward waving bachelors. Seen a few too many overdressed middle-aged people attempting to dance coolly to Kid Rock's “All Summer Long.” And watched an extended series of $50,000 parties that no one would remember in any detail the next day.

However…

My last gig just about broke me. It was held at an egregious vineyard staffed by oenocentric martinets, just outside of San Luis Obispo in the Edna Valley. That’s right, the EDNA VALLEY VINEYARD. Whose event coordinator, Tina, is probably one of the most hideously psychotic people one could ever work for. In fact, the entire staff is, verily, a psychiatric treasure trove just waiting to be tapped.

As I wended my way through the stream of Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs, I could feel a certain tension start to build. I immediately sensed a snotty truffle-pig vibe, which, despite the cost of weddings here on the Central Coast, is more the exception than the rule. Unless of course you are visiting here from, say, the former Soviet Union, in which case the whole culture probably appears as one big batch of Coppertoned, blonde-highlighted bourgeois lunacy. (“Back in Russia, girl caught wearing Coppertone go to gulag for 10 years, split rocks with teeth!”)

As I walked through the kitchen door in my penguin suit, I was greeted by an alternately sullen and nervous collection of coworkers, all of whom looked like they’d rather be ironing in a Libyan sweatshop. My manager, who seemed ready to calve triplets, started plying me full of very, very, VERY specific instructions about things like what color pitcher to pour the iced tea into. Her eyes darted back and forth nervously across the kitchen like an animal spotting her own reflection in the crosshairs. When she informed me that my job was to keep the beverage pitchers full at all times, I could tell that this was a critical mission indeed and applied each and every one of my brain cells to the task.

But my first round involved setting up chairs in the postnuptial tent, where guests would be drinking, dining, and generally trying to impress a tableful of strangers with their rides, outfits, jobs, and knowledge of embarrassing incidents in the bride or groom’s adolescence. I glanced down at the centerpieces—usually a tasteful bouquet or petal-in-vase—and discovered that these kids had dreamed up something a little different. Special, if you will. Each table held a framed photo, taken at a remote point on the globe.

The first one I spotted was “Cambodia. Summer Vacation, 2007.” The next, “Oxford, Study Abroad, 2004.” And then, “Fiji and Auckland, Honeymoon, 2009.” The next, “Mediterranean Coast, Vacation, Summer 2005.” And then, “South Africa, January Semester, 2003.” On and on it went, this globetrot through Mr. & Mrs. Evolved’s trendy village, with each stop more precious and endearing than before. Clearly these 25-year-old jetsetters had climbed more 17ers in the Himalayas, tied more flys in saltwater flats in Quintana Roo, received more arcane transmissions and secret initiations from the highest-ranking Bon priests in Tibet, and built more road, bridges and tunnels for underprivileged vehicles in Maori settlements than FDR could shake a WPA Project at.

But little did I know that, lurking in the background behind the 5 photographers, 2 videographers, 2 DJs, 4 psychotic winery managers, and legions of other minions lurked another very special innovation. It was—can you stand it?--cieramarriestrevor.com. That’s right, Ciera marries Trevor dot com. A specially assembled site telling the Story of this adorable couple and the highly fascinating way they began dating as Cal Poly students and then got engaged on someone’s mom’s couch in Pismo Beach. A few clicks reveal complete footage of their Engagement Shoot, where we witness such delights as the bride-to-be’s hand-with-honking-rock resting against the groom-to-be’s jean-clad buttocks. Romantic Beach Sunset Strolls. Casual Fun Spontaneous Moments in the Great Out-of-Doors. And a close-up of their 2 feet in the sand, 2 Very Special Individuals no doubt bracing themselves against the high tide of narcissism, while revulsing Indian viewers everywhere.

I have to say that, after all of this hoopla, I felt compelled to get to know cieramarriestrevor.com and co. a little better. So after the wedding party had been seated at the nice long table for 50 of their nearest and dearest, I ventured over, ostensibly to begin filling water goblets.  Now, apparently there is a CA custom that involves potential brides not eating for at least 650 days before the wedding. This produces a long, lean look that not even Pilates can replicate. In this case, perhaps the calculations for required slenderness were based on the number of graven images to be struck: If video adds 10 pounds, then…5 photographers and 2 videographers could potentially add… OMG!! I need to lose, like, 70 pounds tonight! (I think a few smart brides should start filing suit against wedding photographers, claiming their trade as the reason for their anorexia. I believe this is a rich vein that a few good limo-chasers would be wise to tap.) 

Like many new brides, the royal celebration’s raison d’etre looked agitated, overwhelmed, adrenaline-fueled, thrilled, terrified, controlling, mildly ballistic, and, mostly…hungry. She looked quite distinctly hungry. By the time I returned to her chowing down on the main course, she had but one question for me, asked while chomping,

“What part of the cow is the tri-tip made from?”

Everything in me told me that I could not respond to this precious query in the way I wanted to:

“Mostly from its asshole, brains, and testicles.”

I simply smiled, knowingly, and replied, “You’ll have to ask our chef.”

As I moved toward her newly betrothed, I sensed the same slightly dazed look that all the grooms this season have worn, which though subtle and complex as a fine Edna Valley wine, combining many simultaneous notions:

1. Damn! I’m glad I’m not paying for all this. 2. I’ll bet the sex is gonna be great later. 3. Glad I didn’t have to do all the running around and plan this thing. 4. I’m still hung over from the rehearsal dinner. 5. Her cousin sure looks hot in that dress. 6. I didn’t screw up the vows too badly. 7. Whoa, steak! Awesome. 8. Wouldn’t it be funny if I smashed the cake in her face? 9. Dude, I get to go surf in Hawaii next week. Totally stoked!

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, my psychotic friend Tina was sharpening her teeth in preparation for taking a piece out of me. In the midst of all the commotion it seems that a few drops of iced tea had fallen on the floor and on their way down collided with a few unfortunate knives and spoons, “LOOK AT WHAT A FUCKING MESS YOU ARE MAKING! YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE OUT AND WASH EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF THAT SILVERWEAR YOU JUST RUINED. MOVE THE FUCKING ICED TEA SO YOU DON’T SPILL ANY MORE. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, ANYWAY, YOU STUPID IDIOT?”

I spun around and stared at her, realizing that I’d just been spoken to like a 12-year-old and trying to decide what the jail time might be for punching her straight in the jaw and/or potentially splitting her head open. In true Scorpio fashion, I opted for a longer range plan that would include well-timed acts of retribution that would affect her life, children, transportation, home, business, and leisure pursuits in small-but-powerful ways.

To be continued...