OPINION: A wedding to remember, part 2
Sep. 30—Getting Poindexters together is sort of like herding cats. And if you're not careful, you'll get scratched or bitten.
My son is technically a Cisternino — the last male in the line of his grandparents, who came over on the boat from Italy. But in terms of luck, he's a Poindexter. Still, for the most part, luck was with him and Dani when they exchanged vows Sept. 17.
The only problem was that most of the participants weren't exactly sure what they were supposed to be doing. Unless you want to count the cat-herding. It was the first time every single person in my immediate family — from my parents on down to me and my siblings and all the grandkids — had been together since summer 2018, when we all met up at Silver Dollar City. But that was before Dani became part of the Poindexter clan.
No matter where I go or what I do, I forget something. This time, it was a clutch, since my small blue Ravenclaw backpack did not match my teal dress, nor was it appropriate for the occasion. I also had no pantyhose, and I had decided bare legs — even tan ones — might not be a good idea. We'd spent the night in Tulsa, so we dropped by Woodland Hills Mall and began perusing a few shops. Sadly, I spotted a pair of blingy shoes in a store window — regular readers know my sister Lisa and I have a problem with blingy shoes — so I went in to get them, and a teal-colored sweater caught my eye. I scooped up both, and we left the mall en route for Tulsa. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten both the hose and the clutch.
We began filtering into Oklahoma City Friday, unless you count Chris' sister Cathy, who came in Thursday and found plenty to occupy her. She attended a baseball game in Bricktown (her late husband had been a professional ballplayer in his younger days) and dropped by the bombing memorial. Meanwhile, we'd dropped by "the base" — Tinker, not a group of Trump fans — to pick up a few more items. I again forgot the hose and the clutch, but we remembered the cheap, tax-free booze at the Class 6 shop.
Friday evening, we were set to have dinner with my brother Kevin, his wife Nikki, and the three kids — if you could call 26-year-old Jackson a kid. In fact, the 17-year-old twins don't look much like kids, either — as a few men at the reception noticed.
Through the weekend, Chris and I were staying at The National, a Hilton property downtown, and everyone should spend at least one night at this fabulous art deco building that used to be First National Bank. The vast lobby has a central bar and a lounge that goes on forever, incorporating a dining area called Tellers. And the original teller booths are still intact. The restaurant where we dined Friday night is called Stock and Bond — they really stay with the theme there — and they even gave us a private room because there were 10 of us.
As the parents of the groom, Chris and I were going to participate in this weekend affair, no matter who else showed up. In fact, we were going to make the rehearsal dinner ourselves, complete with Chris' famous pulled pork, my famous coleslaw, and baked beans and potato salad from my mother's recipes. But work got in the way, as it always does, so we just paid for a caterer to bring in similar fare. Better, perhaps, since the one food my son won't eat is potato salad.
After the rehearsal dinner, some of my family returned to The National and went downstairs to check out The Vault, also known variously as The Library of Distilled Spirits and "that place in the basement." It's a unique atmosphere and a tough ticket, because groups just like ours are always trying to pack in. It's divided into two areas, with two separate bars, but the back room is a lot more chill, with couches and easy chairs situated about the room. I told the hostess there were about 12 of us, and we were coming in. She hesitated; she clearly wanted to tell me there wasn't enough room, but I pointed out a couple of unoccupied couches and chairs, and said we'd seat ourselves. She said there were no cocktail waitresses so we'd have to get our drinks at the bar. I said fine, and we barged on in and spent too much money.
The next morning, Sunday, 20 of us had brunch at Kitchen 324. I was shocked they managed our group as well as they did, but that's another place in OKC I highly recommend.
Except then, the confusion began. My niece Madeleine and I knew we were supposed to be back in Guthrie by 12:30 p.m. to get our hair done, but when the frazzled "coordinator," or whatever she was, called me, she informed me I was supposed to be there already. So my husband and I hightailed it back to the Guthrie Depot, where the hair stylist was indeed at work — but she didn't get around to Madeleine and me for another hour or so. That meant I had to loiter in the area with everyone else. My niece was doing her Spanish homework, and I was trying to do advance work for the paper, knowing I'd be on vacation in a little less than a week. (And there were a lot of chicks getting their hair done. The wedding party for Cole and Dani was as large as our own.)
This is when I discovered the bra problem I mentioned last week. My sister Shannon fixed things up, though, and then she had to contend with Madeleine, who was fretting about her dress being a little too loose. She looked fine, of course — not to mention that most people would give anything to have clothing "too loose."
Eventually, we all made our way downstair for the wedding to begin. It was supposed to kick off at 3 p.m., and I actually think it was a little late. But... I've run out of space. To be continued...
