An elderly gent, a proper Irishman, asked if I was a bridesmaid.

Note to reader (if I have any, I don’t want to be presumptuous) I’ll use words like proper, grand and fuckin’ to sound more Irish.

He probably asked because I was posing, wistfully looking through a window in a Cinderella dress.

I said… “I was a bridesmaid…30 years ago when the parents of the groom got married”.

My roommate from college, my dearest (not going to say oldest) friend, a proper redhead named Kim Flannigan was going to Ireland for her son’s wedding.

Not Covid, not 10 hours in coach, nothing could keep me from the wedding of a young man I’ve known since he was in a car seat gleefully pointing out every McDonald’s.

This was before I had a kid, so I was pretty judgmental about a child being that happy over a Happy Meal.

I dug out my old Zara raincoat (I live in LA, land of sunshine & drought) overpacked and left.

We met in Dublin.

And immediately hit The Temple Bar, with its 450 kinds of whisky.

And the Blind Pig Speakeasy which is (literally) an underground pub.

It’s a throwback to prohibition, with a hidden door and a pig (not a real one) you must touch to enter.

We leave and head (stumble) to the hotel.

A man holds the elevator door for us.

As I rush in he says…

Dorothy?

For the love…

It’s Randy Jackson.

My friend from when I covered American Idol, like it was the January 6th Committee.

Randy was in Dublin doing “Name That Tune”.

My new idea for a reality show is…”Who’s In The Elevator?”

I start checking every elevator for Bono.

But no.

The next morning I post the flowers in the hotel lobby.

And get a DM saying…I just passed those flowers.

Holly Robinson Peete was in Dublin working with Randy.

It’s a small Celtic world after all.

Breakfast was scones and honeycomb.

I passed on the breakfast “pudding” made from pig’s blood.

Then 6 of us, mother, sisters & friends of the groom, head for Howth.

We hike the Howth Cliff Walk (me in sparkle sneakers since I didn’t pack hiking boots).

If you see an IG proposal from Ireland…it’s probably from the cliff walk.

An Irish lass named Amiee Louise takes us down the cliff to a secret beach

.I slip and grab for something.

In her lovely lilt Amiee says…that’s stinging nettle.

The girls, a dog and a friendly seal swam in the brisk (fuckin’ cold) Irish sea.

Afterward this requires Guinness.

I try ordering a light beer.

The waitress seems embarrassed for me.

The next day we’re driving, on what I call, the wrong side of the road.

Every left turn is a potential red wedding.a we head to the wedding.

it’s in a town called Meeth.

We thought it was pronounced meth.

But it’s MEth.

Meeth is green and grand all over.

We checked into Downton Abbey (the Bellinter House Hotel).

This stunning estate was built in 1750.

The trees are 300 years old.

So is he coffee maker in our room.

We put on jewel tone dresses.

With enough cleavage for the groom’s sister to sing…

“Star light,

Star bright,

Whose boob will I see tonight?”

We also sing “Going to The Chapel” as we go to a place I can barely describe.

I know, I’m writing, I should use my words.

But not even Disney can compete with this.

You’re on a road that’s more like a bike path.

Passing castles on every corner.

Then you come to Killyon Manor.

There’s a woman picking flowers for the bride’s bouquet.

She says…put on your boots.

They had suggested we wear wellies.

Those huge rubber boots.

I only know what they are because I had watched The Crown.

We walk 10 minutes in squishy mud.

Over the river (ok, the stream) and through the woods.

I’m looking for Grandmother’s house, the Lucky Charms dude or Jon Snow (they did film Game of Thrones in Ireland).

It’s an enchanted forest.

Even the field loo (the potty) is cute.

Suddenly, you see a clearing.

And the ruins of a chapel.

An ancient stone structure with overgrown trees for a roof.

There’s a woman playing a harp.

She says in a brogue…

“You here for a Vogue shoot?”

I thought in gowns and boots we had more of a Taylor Swift vibe.

The gorgeous bride walks the woods in a 10 pound gown.

I know the weight because I’m the dress sherpa who brought it back to LA.

The minister says he’s delighted to see us.

We all take out tissues.

In his vows the groom says he is undeniably in love with the bride.

We all cry.

He’s come a long way since his love affair with McDonald’s.

The minister says the Celtic wedding vows.

Telling them to smile into each others eyes each morning.

Telling them to give each other the first drink from their cup…

And the first bite from their meat.

The meat one makes us laugh.

There are more tears, photos and rose petals.

And then we walk back through the woods.

No rom com was ever so romantic.

Back at the hotel there’s champagne (no more Guinness).

And a feast.

At midnight there’s another feast.

I think it’s an attempt to mitigate the alcohol.

Glad I had my Hyland’s jet lag pills that says they relieve drowsiness or heartburn due to excessive eating or drinking.

We are a small, but loud crowd.

One guest was the son of a movie star (but I’ll protect his privacy).

Around 2am I ask our waiter…

Are we loud?

He says…

No, you’re grand.

And adds…

I’ve seen worse.

Around 3am I walk to my room.

I step outside by the window with the flowers.

Where the older gent had asked if I was a bridesmaid.

And it starts to rain.

It had rained on the wedding of the groom’s parents.

This is considered good luck, a sign of fertility and lasting love.

It was all those things for his parents.

I walk with a bunny and some birds (bats perhaps?) accompaning me…

And think…

What a proper, grand, fuckin’ Irish wedding.