Yellaphant: Sorry about the Bust: the Slovakian ties the knot

When B and I first started dating, he told me that he had "three sisters and a half brother from Slovakia." To say that I was shocked is kind of putting it lightly. Not too many chaps would so quickly offer the information that their dad had gone to Slovakia on business, knocked up a broad and brought back a baby Slovakian to the girl they are trying to woo. Or at least, that's the first thing that ran through my mind anyway. What ACTUALLY happened was a lot weirder.

When B was 10, his parents decided to bring over a foreign exchange student for a six-week program. This student was a cute little European mushroom head named Matej. After his six weeks were up and Mat was scheduled to head back to Slovakia, he sat B's parents down and asked if he could stay and finish out the year. And after the year he asked if he could finish high school. Then after high school he went to college here. Then lived with B's family for another few years, until he finally left. And by "left," I mean he moved into a house around the corner.

Meet Mat.

And within that 16 years' time, Mat met a local girl named Kelly; a beautiful all-American girl. And this past weekend, Mat and Kelly got married. Which is why, on Tuesday, I finally feel like a human again. Because to celebrate the nuptials of the happy couple, Mat's family came to town from Europe. And when the Slovaks are in town, the Borovicka flows like wine and I end up passed out on the kitchen floor in my underwear every night. Every. Flipping. Night.

Which is perfectly fine when, like B and I, you can walk home from wherever it is you're consuming shot after shot after shot after shot of Slovakian liquor. Which is also why, by the time Sunday rolled around, I physically felt like I had run a marathon the night before. And being as how I don't particularly remember every detail from the previous few nights, I'm gonna go ahead and say it's possible that I did.

I think mostly though it was just my body threatening to curl up into fetal position and just die if I put one more drop of alcohol in my body because Jeebus Chrysler when it comes to successive nights of open bars, some people just have no limits. And by some people, I mean me. But isn't that the whole point of a wedding? To get so black out drunk you don't remember making your father-in-law spin you around the dance floor like a six-year-old? No? Bueller? Blokay then moving on.

I actually had some reservations writing about this wedding weekend here, mostly because the last thing I need right now is for my family to read about my drinking habits on the interwebs and then come home from work tonight to find those that are near and dear to me gathered in my living room to read me letters about how my self-destructive decisions hurt them while some camera man films from the corner and then broadcasts it on A&E after they cart me off to rehab. You know?

For reals though, I convince myself I'm going to end up on "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" at least once every other month and if I have to add "Intervention" to my list of Reality Shows I Do Not Want To Be Tricked Into, it'll just be a bit much for me to handle. And yet here I am. For YOU. I do it all FOR YOU.

Anyway. Wedding. All I can say is beautiful. The weather, the flowers, the bride, BEAUTIFUL. It was the perfect day for a perfect summer wedding and Kelly and Mat should be so proud for pulling it off because they literally did. For my wedding, I purposely planned it at a hotel simply so I wouldn't have to deal with all that stuff that you need to deal with when you have a wedding somewhere like your backyard, which is where this weekend's wedding took place. And oh what a backyard it was. This backyard was downright Gatsby.

(For the record, none of these photos are from my camera. At some point during the move, I lost my camera charger. The following pieces of blackmail are brought to you thanks to B's little sister.)

All I can say is "Gatsby."

Beauty and the Slovak we all know and love

Aaaand then we come to the toasts of Borovicka and the pitchers of mojitos and lawd above the boats filled with booze and that dance floor felt the ungraceful pounding of my feet all night. Until that brief respite when I dragged the mother of the bride through her house to get me a pair of flip flops and then proceeded to accidentally hip check the family bust of Poseidon which now lays in pieces on their kitchen table. I've never been so horrified of my drunken actions in my entire life. Not all those times when I peed in public. Or the time I made the cops drive me to a party. Or the time I ran into a glass door at the bar. None of those times were as horrifying as breaking Poseidon's face in front of the Lady of the Manor because at that moment I almost shit my pants. And all I could say, as my spine went cold and I stared at the bust -- noseless, cracked forehead -- lying on the carpet was, "Oh. My. Gah. I'm so sorry about your bust." Which may have sounded a bit more like "Homigarrrdabust." but I think the message was displayed.

Lucky for me, there's nine children who grew up in that house, so one more bust with a broken nose is no big deal for momma. B's convinced I'm the biggest asshole to walk the planet, but I think he's still just mad that I made him walk home from the wedding, which (it turns out) feels A LOT further at 2 a.m. after just having danced our faces off for the past six hours than it usually would. Surprise! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go chug some water and work on my salt intake.