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Community Corner

One Sure Way to Add a Little Fire to Your Wedding Night

Nothing was borrowed and no one was blue at this swank nuptial.

A former colleague got married recently. It was a second marriage for the bride and groom, a low-key affair at a private residence in Lake Forest. No alcohol. Potluck. (Hey, it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not going to be snarky … really … just this once.)

My wife, Goggy, and I made sure the Stay-At-Home-Mom and then husband-to-be were aware they were more than welcome to skip the Dana Point wedding and run away with a down payment on a condo. Blessings from Mom and Dad. Great way to start a life together.

Big weddings are very cool, but boatloads of money disappear in a couple of hours. (You could see our savings leaving port from our perch on the cliff. Goggy saw the look on my face and yelled, “Don’t jump!”)

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And if you pay for your own, it’s probably going to be the most expensive day in your life … unless you lay down cash for a gold-plated Bentley, or a house. One day of revelry—or the ever popular and pricey days of revelry—and all you’ve got to show for it is a picture album nobody but you wants to look at, a video nobody but you wants to watch, some cake that is destined to become a freezer fossil and a many-thousand-dollar wedding dress in a hermetically sealed box that will likely remain entombed for all eternity in a closet.

If I were ever to be married again, I know I’d take the restrained route.
(OK, who’s kidding whom here? There’s only one Goggy. Still, they tell me anything is possible, and I thought I saw a pig flying once in the ‘60s … but that’s another story, and kids, just say “no.”)

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But if wedding bells were to ring in my ears, I’d definitely opt for the subdued approach. Maybe a quick ceremony on that little lawn at Mile Square Golf Course in Fountain Valley and then 18 holes. I’ll pick up the green fees for the best man and maid of honor … but they’ll have to buy their own beer.

Which brings me to the other—light-years-away—end of the spectrum. Is there such a thing as high-key?

Consider this little soiree Goggy and I recently attended in Puerto Vallarta. One of our daughter the Sous Chef’s closest friends, who lived with us for a few months as a teenager, and her fiancé, a Newport Beach entrepreneur, invited us to their humble nuptials. In a mansion called Villa Verano  on a cliff overlooking the Pacific … with a total of 22 bedrooms in the main villa and beach suites … pool and bar… private beach six floors below … dance floor overlooking the beach … DJs and roving mariachi bands … and a foyer full of pictures of movie stars lounging in the villas’ huge living room.
There were no rich daddies involved in the bill-footing … at least not in the paternal sense. The bride and groom paid for this extravaganza with their own hard-earned dough.

The celebration lasted four days and included all you could eat and drink at every turn. Expensive bottles of tequila sat atop seemingly every level surface in the villa or on the grounds. For the better part of a week, parties went on virtually nonstop. Even the guests were ready to say, “I do.”

A disco in town was rented out for a night. The entire entourage of more than 80 walked a half-mile down the beach for dinner at the surf’s edge at one of the city’s best restaurants.

At the villa during the day, if your margarita glass fell an inch below the rim, someone filled it. If you went in the pool, staff members came by your lounge chair and turned over your sandals so they wouldn’t burn your tootsies when you returned.

Goggy and I got to bed at 3 the first night, 4 the second night and about dawn the night of the wedding. Of course, she’s up at dawn most days … and soon on her way to work. And I’ve seen my share of sunrises—Lefty and I love early tee times.

 (In Goggy’s and my dictionary, the definition of “all-nighter”: The Bee-choodle didn’t go into a barking frenzy and we slept through the night.)

We love the bride like a daughter and have come to feel the same about the groom, and the fact they invited a couple of old fogies was a special gesture. Let’s just say, given the youth, style and, uh, general financial well-being of most of the guests, Goggy and I were like Hannibal Lecter at a vegan buffet. (Would he eat a vegan? They’re pretty much all tofu.)

One guy flew in on his own private jet. Another fellow was telling me he played tennis every morning and golf every afternoon … at Big Canyon Country Club in Newport Beach. He never mentioned how one can afford to belong to one of Southern California’s most exclusive country clubs and apparently have no time to work.

He later asked a taxi driver how long a trip to the airport would take. When the driver said “20 minutes,” he said he’d give him $100 if he could make it in 15. It took 20, but he still gave the smiling driver the Benjamin. His girlfriend wasn’t impressed and screamed, “Will you stop giving everybody $100?”

(I bet Goggy $100 that this sort of behavior would never cause us marital discord.)

The girls in the 13-member wedding party—including the Sous Chef—looked like a Laker Girls lineup. Of course, you’d expect to find a lot of good-looking women—someone ought to examine the phenomenon of why rich guys always seem to get the cute girls—but I didn’t expect so many gorgeous men. I’m mean I’m straighter than a ruler, but this was ridiculous.

Still—even with a Leonardo DiCaprio lurking around every pillar—the American Idle’s charms were not to be denied. One young woman, who might have already tested the tequila when Goggy and I arrived the first day, took my arm during our Sous Chef-led tour of the villa and started calling me “Daddy.”

Late that night, she decided to take a swim … but must have forgotten her suit. Unfortunately, someone turned off the pool lights a few minutes later. When we saw her the next day, she walked up, steadied herself on Goggy’s arm and said, “Did you see me in the pool last night, Daddy?” (Picture Goggy rolling her eyes and shaking her head.)

Me: “Yeah, but they turned out the lights.” 

Young Woman: “I know … what party poopers.”

Then came the big night … and Goggy and I wondered if we could get out of bed. But I had a toast to give, there was plenty of alcohol to be consumed, lavish seafood buffets to be gobbled and more surprises, including a guy hand-rolling cigars, fire dancers, midnight taco bar, a pyrotechnic tribute to the newlyweds and a tequila bar… with an even pricier array of the agave plant’s best. 

(I equaled my usual monthly expenditure for intoxicating beverages in three or four shots … well, three boxes of wine and a half-gallon of Rite Aid vodka aren’t that expensive, so maybe it was one or two shots.)

I have no idea what the final tab was. I wouldn’t ask because my heart may not be strong enough to withstand the answer. But I’m really glad the bride and groom didn’t consult me when deciding whether to spend the money.

After all, it’s not often that "Daddy" gets gourmet meals, handmade cigars, the world’s best tequila, his flip-flops flipped and a glimpse of a naked young woman all in the same few days.

OK, never.

About this column: John Weyler has lived in Orange County for almost 50 years. His weekly regional columns will offer his unique, and often irreverent, take on life in the O.C. 

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