For the longest time, I thought wedding receptions were to be held in some sort of VFW hall. Other than one wedding reception (my uncle’s,) held in some hotel ballroom in downtown Louisville, KY every wedding I went to until the age of 25 (seriously),was capped off with a Mostacolli eating, dollar dancing, draft beer drinking throw down (hoe down?) at the VFW  hall.

Tell me if this sounds familiar…

You arrive in some dank building with acoustic ceiling tiles. The floor is sticky and everything smells vaguely like grease, beer, and the sweat of a thousand old men. For a minute you hover in the doorway and scope out the decorations—tulle, twinkle lights, fake flowers, and balloons  are dangling, draped, tied, swagged and staple gunned to everything in sight. To the right of the door sits the gift table, you throw your card in the “wishing well” and scan the room for a seat. You never have a seating assignment at these receptions; instead you plop down at any table with enough room.

 While you wait for your friends, you admire the “centerpiece”—usually some version of candles floating in Wal-Mart’s finest glassware, arranged on a hexagon shaped mirror. For a minute you inspect your party favor—some type of candy or almonds wrapped in tulle, but you get frustrated trying to get the ribbon off, and so you head for the bar. At the bar, you order a Bud Light or a soda (the only beverages available for free).

Eventually, the wedding party arrives, and the DJ plays “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble” to announce the wedding party. They stumble into the room—pumping fists and yelling. You notice one of the bridesmaids is missing, and later learn she was throwing up next to the wedding party’s stretch Hummer.

 Dinner is a buffet served on plastic plates with plastic silverware. The menu consists of mushy pasta, even mushier chicken, floppy green beans, stale rolls, and an iceberg lettuce salad garnished with carrot shavings and approximately three slivers of shredded cheese. You don’t eat much, but drink a lot and now you are drunk, and secretly gleeful that so many of the girls from high school are fat.

Toasts are short and sweet, if they happen at all, because everyone is in a hurry to get to the good part—the dancing. The first dances are traditional, except during the bride and groom’s big slow dance, when the Toby Keith love song suddenly cuts off and fades into “Baby Got Back”. You watch as the bride really gets in to it—shaking her booty for all she is worth, while the groom stands open mouthed, appalled by her antics. For a few minutes, you wonder which phrase would work better during this situation, “Shock and Awe” or “Shock’n Y’all”.

Finally, the real dancing begins and you throw yourself into it—the Electric Slide, the Macarena, the Cha-Cha slide, the Chicken Dance. You do the YMCA and you even ‘throw your hands in the air like you don’t care’ during “Word Up”. You slow dance with an old ex-boyfriend from high school who is balding and has sweaty hands. You return to your table glad he broke up with you after junior prom. If things had worked out differently he could have been your husband—this could have been your wedding reception.

Hopefully, I am not the only one who has been to wedding receptions like this. I may be revealing a little too much of my Southern Illinois roots, but whatever. I haven’t been to a VFW hall in years, and I kind of miss them. I guess, since I have moved up the socio-economic ranks far enough to be invited to “fancy” receptions at country clubs, museums, swanky ballrooms and banquet halls, I get a little nostalgic for a low-fi  VFW  style reception.

Pass the Mostacolli. I’m hungry.