Wedding Bells and Wardrobe Woes

We woke up bright and early the next morning, WEDDING DAY! Normally I despise getting up early, but as I was traveling with a group of early risers, and breakfast was only served until the late, late hour of 9 a.m. I really didn’t have a choice.

Never having stayed at a bed and breakfast before (they aren’t really my style, I’m much more of a boutique hotel kind of gal), I wasn’t sure what to expect. But it was actually very pleasant. Our gang snagged a table for four out on the patio overlooking the courtyard and enjoyed our homecooked Southern breakfast with hot tea. The weather promised to be gorgeous, perfect for the outdoor wedding that was scheduled for one o’clock.

We had big plans to eat at Paula Deen’s restaurant (The Lady & Sons) that evening, and because it is wildly popular, it is also very difficult to get a table, since they don’t accept reservations. You have to go to the restaurant at 9:30 a.m. and tell them if you prefer lunch or dinner, and they tell you what time to come back. The groom and his sister skipped off to take care of that detail, and Alicia and I headed to our respective rooms to shower. I pulled my brand-new dress out of the suitcase, forgetting until that very moment that it had some make-up stains on it when I purchased it. No big deal, right? I grabbed a damp towel and proceeded to blot the stains. Apparently my dress was made out of some kind of other-wordly fabric, because the water STAINED it. Right down the front. And while I held it close to my face to peer at it (why, I don’t know), I managed to smear a big blob of Chicken Poop on it. (The chapstick, not the livestock feces.) Okay, okay, what to do? I had four hours, and no washing machine. Rinsing it with water made it even worse. I didn’t feel the need to burden my sister with this little disaster, even though she is the most Suzy Homemaker person I know, and would have had an instant fix. But it was her wedding day; she didn’t need anything else to worry about, much less her little sister’s idiocy.

I took the dress to the front desk and asked if there was a laundromat nearby. I’m in an historic district, of course that was a dumb question. After explaining my situation to the lady at the front desk, she immediately got someone to cover for her and told me to come with her. She led me across the street to her townhouse. Luckily, she didn’t turn out to be a crazed serial killer, but a woman with an adorable home (Please excuse the mess! Two bowls in the sink constitutes a mess? Don’t come to my house!) and a bottle of Woolite. She rinsed it in the sink for me, and told me that was all she could do. Now I have two and a half hours till “I Do” and a soaking wet frock. She then went to her closet and started digging for clothes that I could borrow, or at the very least, a cardigan. Being that she was about a size two, the prospects didn’t look bright, but I was flattered that she thought her wardrobe would work for me. After repeatedly assuring her that I would figure something out (lying out of my ass), she called her friend, the head of housekeeping at the B&B. She made it very clear that this was an undercover operation, and I was to tell no one. She told me that her friend would meet me out on the street in front of my room. Very Mission:Impossible. The housekeeping gal, obviously a saint in disguise, whisked my dress away and worked some Savannah voo-doo magic on it, because it came back in nearly perfect condition, certainly better than when I bought it. I was quite pleased with myself that I was able to tell my sis that I fixed the problem all by myself (with some help from strangers).

The wedding was small, intimate and beautiful, exactly what Alicia wanted. I was so happy that she got her wish. The weather was perfect, the courtyard quaint, and she didn’t trip down the incredibly steep staircase that looked like it would have been more at home at the Swiss Family Robinson’s treehouse. After the wedding, we had a lunch brought in from a local joint that delivers by bicycle. Yes, bicycle. And the B&B gave the bride and groom a cake and some champagne. Perfect combo, wouldn’t you say? I would! After that, my niece Mollye and I headed out on the town to give the bride and groom some time to get adjusted to being married. We explored down by the river (no vans), found a cool brewery, and had a few adult beverages. And THEN…we went to Paula Deen’s place.

I can’t begin to imagine how much money ol’ Paula is making. She’s got a bustling shop next door to the restaurant full of cool stuff all emblazoned with her name. I do believe Paula has a bit of a naughty streak; she had shirts that said SLUTS (Southern Ladies Under Tremendous Stress, I believe) and then she had these….Hilarious, no? The food was to die for, and I could literally feel my arteries clogging up with every bite. But oh, was it good. Southern fried chicken, low country boil, mashed taters, green beans, black-eyed peas, hoecakes dripping with butter; my mouth is watering for some South right about now. We hit up a ghost tour after that, which was really cool. I won’t bore you with the details, since I didn’t have any fantastic ghost sightings, other than the orb that was on Mollye’s face. Spooky, right? She certainly thought so, especially since she had to go back to her hotel all alone. I’m pleased to report that no Paranormal Activity scenes occurred at her room that night. Savannah is rich with haunted history (well, history, period) and if you go, you should definitely take a ghost tour. Even if you don’t see any spirits, it’s interesting, I promise!

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