It does. And we’ve become far too accustomed.
In my third life (this is my fourth, I do believe) I owned and operated a small custom catering business in Western Colorado; polar opposite to my ocean-dwelling here and now. Before it was trendy, I grew as much as I could organically on a tiny farm; the garage was my commercial kitchen, the 1930s farmhouse my cozy, warp-floored home. Chickens, llamas and a raccoon wandered the property from time to time and there was most certainly a benign ghost ensconced in the attic.
Weddings dominated seasonal weekends and there are many tales to tell; I’ve considered writing a book called “That Sounds Like Fun” — the typical response when someone learned I owned a catering business. Like many occupations, high-end foodservice is a stressful mixed bag; I admittedly coveted the challenges of mountain weddings, strong personalities, the complicated psychology of family gatherings and giving people what they wanted.
Is it more complicated now? Or does it just seem that way? There is less fun going on, isn’t there? And, I think, more ulterior motives, hidden agendas and bullshit. Those things have been going on for centuries and yet, at the risk of generalizing human behavior, I am finding that today’s society is more and more ‘me’ oriented; people seem to take care of themselves, defending their own positions and actions, rather than doing what is best for the whole or others, regardless of the consequences. I desperately hope this is not a permanent trend.
The crux of these reflections is that, this week, I was inexplicably reminded of a young lady whose wedding I catered; she did not care about the effects of her actions and I find myself compelled to tell you the story; I hope you’ll indulge me.
Fourteen months before their chosen date I met with an incredibly detail oriented couple. They were articulate and firmly conveyed that they wanted a memorable event. I enjoyed the planning and they were a happy pair, thrilled to be getting married, checking with each other on decisions, holding hands, smiling. I’ve met hundreds of engaged people and while they all should be like that, some definitely aren’t.
The wedding was a fall event at the Ouray, Colorado, Community Center and the bride’s special request was “champagne grapes everywhere” for her decor. As fate would have it champagne grapes were early that year, and I groveled my way to two very expensive cases from California. Clients hired me because I made what they wanted happen. When we were all set up, that rather austere facility looked fabulous, all greens and shimmering linens, candles, grapes and wine bottles. There were a hundred and fifty guests at that destination wedding; no expense was spared.
Cake cutting, speeches and dancing ensued. They had hired a local quartet that was stylish yet old school with bass fiddle, banjo, and bolo ties. By the time I presented the invoice there was an end to my tunnel.
We hauled innumerable loads of heavy equipment, dishes and glassware down stairs to the vehicles and were nearly finished when a local politely informed us that they had an elevator. After that laughable discovery we accepted the family’s offer of champagne and relished a toast behind the scenes. I smiled, dad’s check in hand, and leaned against the worn countertop; we had prevailed.
At that very moment there was a rumble from the dining room and as I peeked through the open doorway quite a scene unfolded. The bride, in her fantastic cream gown with graceful train and seed pearls, was speaking, very loudly, to the band. Her parents, his parents, all of us became transfixed by the transformation. Our beautiful, intelligent, rational, loving bride began screaming at the top of her lungs, hands planted firmly on shapely hips, inches from the face of the lead singer; “This is my fu*#ing day. You are NOT going to stop playing. This is my fu#/ing day. I don’t care where you need to be. This is my fu*#ing day. My fu*#ing day!!” Stomp stomp stomp went the fashionably high right heel. The stomp stomp stomp and her voice echoed in the silent hall.
The audience was beyond uncomfortable; the f-word was far less common back then. Our polite, horrified, band leader made the logical decision to keep playing past his contract time, even though he was expected elsewhere in the small town. We observers universally inhaled, oblivious to holding our breath. Our bride recovered as if nothing had happened, as if she had not shown us the side of herself that was, at best, unexpected. The murmurs, as in any stunned crowd, started, then grew, as folks scurried and departed.
I didn’t need to know what that woman was capable of when she wasn’t getting what she wanted; no one did. We tipped our glasses and slid quietly out the door. I never forgot the Champagne Grapes Bride, for many reasons; I had heard unseemly speeches and seen worse antics, but this experience...resonated. Two decades later, I imagine she is grateful that her fu*#ing day was prior to video-recording smartphones. She got what she wanted, memorable.
I understand that we’re not always going to get what we want. Me? I’d like to just slide through happy.
Does bad behavior matter? I think so.
Let’s not allow it to pervade our humanity.
~J
It matters absolutely. Manners maketh the man/woman.
Oof, this one lands. So much here—humor, grit, restraint—and that gently thunderous “we tipped our glasses and slid quietly out the door.” I feel that line in my bones. It’s wild how often people reveal themselves at the exact moment they believe they're entitled to do the opposite. I’m grateful for the reminder that bad behavior does matter, and also for the grace in how you tell it. Here’s to sliding into happy as often as we can.
This song was playing as I read your piece. Love the coincidence!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ui8kUKuLBaU