
Summerville Journal Scene ®
We are at T-minus-30 and counting. Thirty days until the wedding of our century – “our” meaning the Watts folks.
The plans are in final stages. I have yet to order the groom’s cake that will be served at the rehearsal dinner.
After being prompted several times, our own Surfer Dude has agreed to look at cakes via the Internet. I offered up a few excellent chocolate models that were appropriately decorated with:
a. more chocolate
b. chocolate covered strawberries
c. assorted manly fruit
After letting him look over the options, he finally got back with me this afternoon about what he wants.
Now, we – the four parents of the bride and groom to be – told him and his intended from the beginning that this was their wedding. Not ours.
(Ours came with its own battles to do things the way we wanted. Like our Dude and his fiancé, we weren’t exactly kids. The Hubster and I, in our late 20s at the time, had to do some serous convincing when it came to our wedding, We wanted to walk down the aisle together. We wanted to give our mothers roses during the ceremony. We wanted to get married at 10 a.m. The way we saw it, there was no reason to waste a perfectly good day waiting around to get married. We lost that one by an hour. The women of the family finally agreed to let us get married at 11 a.m. We won the other two skirmishes.
Looking back on it, our wedding was pretty tame. Almost boring, actually.
As I have mentioned in this space before, we are looking at barbecue for the rehearsal dinner and a kilted, bag piping ceremony Not exactly a paint-by-numbers wedding. More like color-outside-the-lines celebrations.
In keeping with the edgy approach to nuptials, our oldest manchild has probably been more involved than some grooms. So I made the call to get him to participate in the choosing of his cake. I have now rethought that call. It might not have been the best way to go because, after all, some things are best left to women. (I use as an example the time Momma let Daddy choose the fabric to reupholster a wingback chair in the living room. He chose possibly the worst fabric I have ever seen in a real house. It was a bright gold velvet, and to tell you the truth, they just didn’t have a bright gold velvet kind of décor anywhere else in the house.)
But back to the cake. Our guy, the fruit of our loins, the Surfer Dude, our first born who will be perilously close to having been around for three decades when he gets married, has chosen for his Groom’s Cake (And I am not making this up “Transformers, the Revenge of the Fallen.”
“Nope. We aren’t doing that. I draw the line,” I said immediately.
“It’s really what I want. And Maya said I could,” he said in a very manly, logical tone of voice. “And Mom, it comes with REAL transformers!”
Well, how can I say “no” to my oldest with reasoning like that and when the woman of the hour said “yes.”
I relented. “Okay, I suppose if you really want a Transformers cake, you can have one.”
He was overjoyed.
So now I will go and visit the place where cakes are made for weddings, rehearsals and other special occasions and explain to them that the groom, our not-so-young son, is getting married and has requested for the party on the eve of his nuptials, a Transformers cake.
He’s always known what he wants. And that’s tough to argue with.
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