Gay Marriage.

Weird is shitting in someone's mouth for kicks... Or piercing your willy as an exscuse to whip it out in public...

Or being present for your father's second marriage.

It wasn't that the actual wedding was preformed by a gay rabbi who adorned a kosher tattoo on his left butt cheek, or that it took place in a gay couple's mansion, or even that my now 35-year-old-deaf-jewish-lesbian-step-sister was hitting on me... It was seeing my fucking DAD get married.

Stop. Rewind.

He's supposed to see ME get married. He's supposed to sing some disgustingly sentimental anthem like Butterfly Kisses to his daughter (gross). I'm not supposed to be singing The Eagles in front of a host of Drag Queens. He's not supposed to get misty when he sees my soon to be step-mom regally walking down the towering staircase, her head held high like some sort of pasty greek goddess adorned in purple.

My Dad cried.

My Dad cried?

My Dad cried a lot.

That was the worst bit. Seeing him blether like a wee child, clinging to his bride with all the strength he could muster.The women in the audience looked at their husbands and awed. The men in the audience silently cursed under their breathe, thinking about the lectures that would follow the event. "Why can't you be more like Stan, Hank? That was so precious!"

I thought:

"Jesus, is he drunk? He can't be. It's one in the afternoon and he hasn't touched a bottle all day."
"Shit. Is he going to have a heart attack? He's clutching his chest like it hurts... I think?""Why is he crying? Why is he crying like that? Why is he crying so much? Is he regretting this?"

He turned to the audience to apologise for his weeping:

"I'm sorry folks. I just love her so much. I really do love her."

"He really does love her? Is that reassurance? Why would he have to say that? He's marrying the broad for christ sakes. MARRYING HER. There's your reassurance!"

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

And then it was over.

Crowds of people rushed by me, offering me gentle compliments for my singing.

"You should be on American Idol! Do you record?"

But all I saw was my aunt and uncle ushering my father upstairs.

Jesus Christ. It finally happened. He's having a heart attack.

I tried to follow, but Andrew grabbed my arm, holding me back. He kissed my forehead and I started to cry. He told me he was proud of me.
I was stuck in the midst of the crowd, comforting my angry sister who was quietly bitching about, "How much of an ass Dad made himself out to be."
Andrew was handing me a drink, Vodka and RedBull, my new alcoholic crutch. I downed the fizzy delight and he handed me another.

Time passed, my father finally emerged from the story above. Flushed and Shy he made his way back into the crowd, mingling with his friends and guests.
Food was served. Three hundred chocolate covered strawberries sat on the grand piano in the corner. Breaded olives, wrapped asparagus, stuffed mushrooms circled the rooms gracefully. The men ran back and forth to the bar, ushering drinks to their wives. Everything seemed fine.

I didn't really see my father until we crawled back into the limo later that night. He seemed happy. He had rosey cheeks and a high spirit, but I couldn't tell if that was from the wine, or if it was from his elation.

I have no idea if my father loves his blushing bride and I'm sure I never will. But I do know that I will never attend another of his weddings.