I got married in October of 1992.
Unfortunately I always managed to get the date mixed up and joked with Deb that it was either the 22nd or the 24th. It's difficult to remember because our wedding day was also the day of the World Series. The decisive 6th game in a tense and exciting series.
Not that I'm the biggest baseball fan in the world, but I should never have agreed to set the date during the Series. This was before the unprecedented ascendancy of the Super Bowl. And the Big Show was always the big ticket. Moreover, many of the guys at the wedding saw it the same way.
In fact, after Deb and I were hoisted on chairs and paraded about the the room at the Riviera Country Club. And after much bourbon and beer had been consumed. And after I got permission from my new wife to have the bartender put on the TV, we caught up on all the action. But do not suffer from the idea that the occasion was dampened.
It was not.
It was the best day in my young 34 year old life. Not only had I found a beautiful woman who would stomach my peculiarities and my growing hirsuteness in places I would prefer not to be hirsute, she unguardedly signed up for a lifetime of it.
A head-scratcher, if there ever was one.
A few weeks ago, while cleaning out our jelly-tight closets of junk, crap and miscellany, I came across 3 videotapes of our wedding/reception. Shot by a couple of junior AV guys from the Chiat office who have gone on to great success in the field, thank you Sean and Jon.
Sadly, or perhaps not, the video is on 3/4" cassette tapes, the industry standard at the time. I could have the tapes transferred or digitized, but I suspect watching them would result in a pool of tears that would require repairs to my already old hardwood floors. And the rotting subfloors, installed in 1947.
I do remember the day was filled with laughter, joy, and the unbeatable warmth of friends and family who were genuinely happy to help us celebrate. It was, in a word, magical. I smiled so hard that day, my neck and jawline were hurting the following morning.
That was the morning Deb and I were to fly off to Tahiti and spend a week in Moorea.
Prior to that morning, we spent the night at one of the more declasse hotels in Santa Monica. Again, this was before Lowes and Shutters and the fancy boutiques developed in the area. But, and this is where the title of this post comes to life, our 8th floor quasi-luxurious room looking out onto Santa Monica Bay, had a working jacuzzi on the patio. With what I hope had been clean water.
For reasons that still elude me, and while Deb was slipping out her modestly expensive wedding dress into a bathing suit, I found myself submerged in the 104 degree bubbly water while still attired in my rental penguin suit.
"What are you doing?" said the newly-minted Mrs. Siegel, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake.
"Look it has variable jets," I countered while snapping off the top of another hotel minibar bottle of Maker's Mark.
And so began our 29 year adventure of insanity; laughing and loving and raising our two beautiful daughters that ended all too soon, almost a year ago.
Happy Anniversary Deb.
Cue the sound of a fresh Kleenex emerging from the box.
And a belated thank you to Deb's father, Bob Weinblatt, may his memory be a blessing, who graciously retrieved and returned the Wet Tuxedo to Gary's Rentals, while we snacked on coconuts, drank Hinano Beer and skinnydipped on a deserted mile long beach on the other side of the world.
"Sir, why is this tuxedo all wet?"
"That's a headscratcher, Gary, a real headscratcher."
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