FAMILY DRAMA. AT A WEDDING. AT A WINERY. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG...

My brother in laws wedding was gorgeous. Beautiful bride, heartfelt and humorous vows, grapevines and misty mountains as the backdrop. Even the light rain couldn’t dampen the joy. The one exception? The scowling, bitter, sister of the groom sitting front row and center. Joy of joys.

This whole situation should not have come as a surprise. My wedding memories are scarred with malcontent and seething words of loyalty spoken through gritted teeth to my newly crowned husband. And no, dear reader, it was not I, the newly betrothed in frothy white touille giving the lecture, it was my husbands family. The “ones he should be loyal to above all else”. Even on his wedding day, to this heartless, vapid girl. The next wedding was a somewhat milder repeat of mine, the sister in laws having at it in silent fury while the entirety of the family stood stonily against the incoming groom this time. I heard the first was no picnic either. A wedding in this family seems to breed some sort of Frankenstein-esque disaster in the making.

Bother in Law and I had even warned the bride to be, joking vaguely, that her fiancés sister had a tendency to stir the pot, cauldron, vat. But it usually amounted to a terse and accusatory email a week later. Don’t fret my dear bride—there certainly will not be a full blown altercation to mar your beautiful day. Oh how very, very wrong I was.

Sidenote:

I am a wedding coordinator. I once overheard a guest at another wedding ask my husband why I liked “doing” weddings. His reply: “Because ours sucked so she wants to make sure it does’t happen to anyone else.” That man never hit any other nail so succinctly on the head. A wedding day should be filled with love and affirmation. Those near and dear showering the couple with well wishes and good (and downright ridiculous) advice. Not threatening to walk out on the bar tab and leave mid dinner. I want others to have what I did not. A truly, madly, deeply, gorgeous and happy day. Sue me.

Back to the story:

So as the wedding coordinator and resident spouse of the brother not involved, the peace talks landed on my shoulders. To top it off there was the complete chaos of reworking the ceremony, dinner and reception with the venue, caterer, DJ and florist, day of, due to rain. In September. In California. Literally never happens.

And this is how the tale begins: (Be forewarned—this is very much Bothers Grim and not at all Cinderella)

The evening before ended on the very high note of said bitter SIL screaming expletives at my beloved BIL, both middle fingers stabbing in his face menacingly. I will not get into the logistics or details here. The offense pre-empting this flagrant show of 13 year old boys locker room bullying is not even worth mentioning. It’s history, and silliness, and slights, and made up crap that has festered over many years and happened to bubble over at the worst possible moment. It was the dainty straw on the camels back. Or in this case a firm boundary where no boundaries had ever been set. I am, quite honestly, dumbfounded it didn’t come to blows. It was not pretty. Much more at place in the Real Housewives Franchise (Not Beverly Hills mind you—this was pure OC throwback) than cocktails by the pool after the rehearsal dinner. To say that Andy Cohen would be drooling for the inside scoop on this one is akin to saying Erika Jayne loves her Glam Squad.

What kept me from reaching for a drink then and there? DD: Designated Driver. I was in charge of herding my merry cats into the car and getting them safely back to the cottage. My new curse— and in this case, salvation. (Serious Question: Do the sobers ALWAYS have to drive? Asking for a friend)

And then? Trying to smooth the unsmoothable.

Texts with my sister in law—yes it was that bad. Yes, you did say and do those things. Late night whispers with my brother in law. Yes, it was that bad. Yes, you handled things with integrity and grace.

And after that? The wee hours of a sleepless night and early morning were spent speculating if it would even have to be “handled” because the way it was left led everyone to believe it was a non-starter. She would not show.

Mid morning we got the news: her family was coming.

Let the games begin.

First up: Family pictures. Electricity of discontent and malice hung in the air. This coupled with long cold silences thick with resentment and eye aversions to rival a mortal confronted with Medusa.

And there’s little old me, complimenting dresses and ties and giving commentary on the weather. It was most definitely not my finest performance. Forced and desperate at best. In all my weddings I have never been so squarely planted in a family conflict expected to be the Swiss Party.

It was maddening.

Unwinable.

I was flying blind.

And let me just state the obvious here: there is no higher emotional upset than family strife. Raw nerves firing. Pain. Electric pain. I don’t know how to explain it—but I am sure you all know what I mean. It is birth pain. Burn pain. Needle in the Eye pain. Tooth drilling pain. The worst pain.

And all of this….

At a winery.

Wine glass most definitely not in hand.

As most anyone would guess the craving was insane. Literally clawing at my brain. Wine, LITERALLY all around me. I was Itchy, nervous and wanting to crawl out of my skin. What I really wanted/desired/HAD TO HAVE TO SURVIVE was a glass of wine. A very, VERY. LARGE glass of wine. And keep them coming. Please and Thank You.

But no.

Through listening to a long diatribe of complaints and hurts, misgivings and miscommunications, to the tangled mess of the slipshod, rain induced, head table maneuverings falling just short of including the intended parties—all adding insult to injury. That, of course, led to storming out of the banquet in true scene stealing fashion. In front of all the seated guests, rapt with attention as the drama unfolded.

Me at a loss looking for chairs, place settings, relocating my own daughter to that table over there —wedding table Siberia—until something so utterly sweet and gentle and undeniable as the Bride stepping in, gallantly saving the day. Gently and firmly taking the aggrieved sister by the hand and leading her to the vacated seats. She’s a keeper. (And the only one in the room who could’ve calmed that particular storm. How can you say no to a glittering princess offering kindness? You simply can’t.)

Next was the Sauvignon, Rose and Cabernet offered and offered and offered at the change of every course and every five minutes in between. I hadn’t learned yet to turn my glass upside down. That’s a thing right? The wafting tannins (my previous savior of all things stress related) was making my mouth water, like actually swallowing saliva mouth watering. My resolve was melting.

Breath

Two thoughts crossed my mind:

I’m not going to let some ridiculous family B***S#$@ rob me of something I have worked so hard for.

Would I be able to handle this better, with a glass of wine in my hand? Could I handle the inevitable fallout with a hangover?

Answer to the second question? There is absolutely no way I could’ve been effective in what I needed to do if I was in any way shape or form even the slightest bit tipsy. A few glasses of wine would’ve put me squarely in middle of the problem, emotions high, reason nil. Not on the outside looking in—groping at (the illusion?) being the voice of reason.

So I drank more water. And ate trumpet mushrooms and blistered carrots and made pleasant conversation with family that I was certain couldn’t stand me. I was uncomfortable: emotionally, mentally, physically. Faking smiles and nodding in agreement when needed and then faking more smiles and groping for conversation topics that wouldn’t further divide, disclude, or end up in a twitter battle. (Do those topics exist anymore? Don’t tell me what color the sky is! I’ll tell you what color it is!)

All I wanted to do was go back to my families cottage and drink wine until I couldn’t see, speak or care.

But I was sober now.

No wine for me.

Yippee

But you know what? A funny thing happened. Even when all I wanted with every fiber of my being was a glass of wine— I was grateful. Grateful for the clarity that comes with being a teetotaler. Grateful for the presence of mind. Grateful for being able to reason on what was really important. What was just more of the same —as it always has been and (as its looking) always will be. (Newsflash: Circumstances change. There are certain people who don’t. I hate to be the one to break it to you but there are a small group of individuals who are incapable of personal growth, self realization and civil communication. It is sad, but very true in my experience. The sooner you come to terms with it the better.) Grateful that I knew I could do this without numbing my body and brain with booze. Grateful I wouldn’t wake in the middle of the night with hangxiety about what I said or did or how I contributed to the resentment taken to extreme sport level. Grateful I wouldn’t wake with the physical affects that come from the poison I used to willingly ingest.

I had learned a new path. It wasn’t exactly comfortable—there were steep climbs, scree, drop-offs, slippery rock faces, but I could walk it. Slowly and unsteadily. But it was navigable. And there was only one reason why: I was sober.

There is a peace to being able to take in a situation, know that you are seeing it for what it is, and calmly take care of it to the best of your ability. I am not Winston Churchill or Dale Carnegie by any means. I don’t claim to have the corner market on conflict resolution and there’s no way I can influence people—believe me I’ve been at it for over 25 years with this crew—not gonna happen. Wouldn’t be prudent (Dana Carvey and/or George Bush depending which camp you’re in). But I do like to think I was able to do what needed to be done so at least there was some semblance of civility at the head table for the nuptial dinner. And I know for a fact that would not have happened if I had been drinking.

After making it through dinner sans anything red, white or bubbly, I was able to exhale a little. The danger of family coming to blows had dissipated (the offended party had bailed) and the thought of my own bodily harm via Pinot Noir was ebbing. I wasn’t exactly ready to relax or hit the dance floor and drop it like it was hot and I was still Johnny on the spot with the fakest of fake smiles, the eyes no doubt losing their luster—thankfully my aching cheeks were still giving it the old college try—BUT I was at peace with myself. I had done it. Without alcohol. Something that had never happened before. In the absolute worst case scenario of a wedding ever imagined. A family wedding no less. At a winery.

I survived.

Sobriety at a Winery. Check