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With the daunting task of putting together a memorable New Year's Eve wedding in three months, I called on my bestie from the nestie. We became fast friends under duress having survived first grade and Sister Baptista together.  Call it survival instinct, we both have it and we both recognize the trait in others.  I didn't call Ghostbusters when I needed a wedding assist--I called my "When Hell Found Me" friend from first grade.

There is something you should know as a preface to this story.  My friend, Kayla, and I seem to gravitate toward weird trouble. It finds us. None the less, despite our prowess in attracting unusual circumstances, we usually find a way out unscathed, much to our family's amazement, shock and awe. 

While watching the local evening news with my daughter one night, a featured story came up about two women who had gone garage 'sailing' in a community called Fountain Hills. I mean they literally went sailing.  At some point in their treasure hunt adventure, they were chased back to their car by a herd of wild javelina. We all remember it didn't end well for Old Yeller. In their frenzied attempt to elude the wild boars, they drove off a small cliff, going airborne before landing on a large saguaro cactus in the middle of someone's desert landscaping on the road below.  Both women came out of the ordeal with not so much as a scratch. Video of the totaled car, cactus, and the street they descended was epic. Javelinas-1 Shoppers-0.  As we processed the news, my daughter (a.k.a. Nashville Trashville) exclaimed matter of factly, and devoid any thread of emotion "That sounds like something that would happen to you and Kayla."  I couldn't argue with the obvious.

There is also another minor detail you should know about my friend and me.  We are both legally Mary's, though she has always gone with the cooler moniker of Kayla, short for her middle name, Micaela.  A name not relevant or hip back in '56 when she was named Mary Micaela.  This little tidbit will come into play as our 'all things wedding' shopping adventure ensued one Saturday in October of 2011.  The wedding was sixty days out.  There wasn't a single javelina in sight.
 

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My daughter had a definite vision for her wedding. Her fiance was easy--he wanted whatever she wanted. With the short notice and added challenge of a New Year's Eve date, local wedding venues and hotel ballrooms were booked months prior.  It was decided their wedding and reception would take place on her fiance's parents' five acre sheep farm.  

Farmer's Almanac weather charts were frequent Google searches among both families to determine if Mother Nature was going to rain on our parade, or serve up freezing temperatures.  It was a crap shoot. Outdoor heaters were purchased, rented or borrowed from friends and neighbors.  All systems were I do, I can do this, OMG how are we going to do this?  I'm freaking out! 

Brunhilda, my snarky inner voice, remarked the wedding would be memorable one of two ways.  She was leaning toward epic shit show considering the challenge, the timeline, and the time of year for an outdoor wedding and reception--even Arizona is known for cold snaps.  Bruni also reminded me that we fooooooking freeze when outdoor temps drop below 65 degrees.  I shut down her negativity when she suggested my MOB dress include a slimming style parka with fur-lined boots and heated sleeves.  I'd look like a short chunky polar bear in the photos, but we'd at least be warm.  One thing I know about Bruni, she is not a confidence builder.
 

The first order of business--Mason jars. Picture the final scene in the remake of the movie Footloose with Julianne Hough...candles in Mason jars throughout the barn.  We only lacked the barn.  My daughter's farm wedding vision was lots of candles in Mason jars; a wooden wedding arch made up of antique ladders; and antiques from tables to cars.  She was giving Pinterest a workout.  She was giving her mother the equivalent of P90X on roids. Brunhilda felt Insanity was a more fitting workout reference to this wedding planning exercise.

I picked Kayla up early one Saturday morning. Our goal that day was to arrive home before 2 a.m. the following morning with enough Mason jars to fill a semi-truck.  We struck gold ten minutes later when I flipped an illegal U-turn upon spotting a garage sale.  For $7.00 cash, we yielded a trunk full of Mason jars. Really old, unique, Mason jars.  I also snagged a projector and a screen in case we had time to put together a wedding video for the reception featuring birth to present photos of the bride and groom.  Brunhilda thought the idea of a music video was pushing our luck, and our capability sixty days out. 

Next we set out for every Goodwill and Savers store within a forty mile radius of home, picking up a few more jars, and zero antique wooden ladders. So we turned our focus to the antique shops along Phoenix's famed 7th Avenue.  One thing about antique stores, they seem to understand and capitalize on the Pinterest rush featuring farm weddings and Mason jars, because they were priced nothing like my grandmother's Oldsmobile, her canning jars, or the $7 collection I scored in my trunk for mere pennies.  Brunhilda suggested I should consider Gerber baby food jars as a backup plan after seeing the jacked up prices in the antique shops.  

Kayla and I found an antique ladder at the first shop we hit.  It was priced at a mere $350. With just two months until the 'I do's', I'm not ashamed to tell you I seriously considered buying it.  A call to my husband--a much better shopper than myself, immediately shot the potential purchase down as if it were a rogue Russian fighter jet. He did so with a flair of sarcasm, I might add.  Considering we would need at least three more antique ladders to build the arch, I could see his point. I just wanted one fooooooking check mark off the wedding list--is that asking too much? Brunhilda snapped "If he lost his shit over the price of a crickety ladder, just wait until he gets the bill for catering." Bruni had a point. No need getting him worked up so early in the game.  

As I repeated word for word my husband's "Hell No don't buy that!" to my friend, we both noticed a metal rabbit sitting innocently against a patio post.  It was marked $35, and though it had nothing to do with the wedding theme, I pretty much felt a need to buy it.  It was so damn unique and cute, even a little bizarre. With that, I cooed "I'm buying this."  Brunhilda responded with a fairly accurate impression of what my husband's reaction would be--"You bought this piece of rusty crap, why?"  As we proceeded to check out, all three of us laughed at Bruhilda's imitation of my mister.

'It' happened when we were at the register surrounded by the most amazing scent coming from some kind of candle or sachet.  Antique shops often deploy scent ectasy to stifle the odor dead people's stuff carries.  While the transaction of the bunny was going down, Kayla noted we banked at the same institution and pulled her debit/credit out for confirmation.  Her Mary carried a different last name, obviously, but otherwise identical in appearance...

When the cashier plugged in my purchase of two Mason jars and one rusty rabbit, I forked over my debit card, as my friend again reinforced how damn cute my new rabbit was. SWIPE $45.32 debit/charge cute.  I blame the erroneous purchase on the cinnamon vanilla aroma wafting through our nostrils.  

A few minutes later, my new rusty bunny was carefully placed among the glass jars in the trunk, before we proceeded to the next antique store where I found the perfect antique table for their wedding cake...SWIPE $54.00 debit/charge perfect.

We hit a few more Goodwill stores on the hunt for Mason jars before calling it a night many hours, and many laughs later.

The following evening, a Sunday, I received a call from Kayla, asking me to check my car for her misplaced credit/debit card. My heart sank as I thought of the loss. I rummaged through my car and poked every crevice between the seats, glovebox, side pockets with a flashlight, then unloaded the trunk and searched every Mason jar for the errant card to no avail.  I called her back and reported no luck.  I sensed her happy optimism that it couldn't be far, because she never purchased anything on Saturday, so she probably had left it in her pants pocket or something.  Brunhilda hoped it wasn't stolen and being used to finance illegal activities.  Before ending our phone conversation, I suggested she say a prayer to St. Anthony, the finder of lost things.  He always comes through for me.  


TO BE CONTINUED...