Brawnee Inn was our next prospect.

We walked in. There was a very long line extending through the lobby that we practically had to play "Red Rover" with in order to get through to the front desk. The girl at the counter came around and asked us what we wanted to see. Rob joked that he wanted to see what everyone was in line for. She smiled wanly, and told us to follow her. She walked us about three feet, and into the "Grand Ballroom". Danielle was the first one in, and she spun on her heel and tried to shove me out before I even set foot in the thing. I poked my head over her shoulder. It was as big as a living room, and designed by IKEA. There was a faded sea-foam green carpet that stank like cigars. Plus, it stank like cigars. Rob, having not one gracious bone in his body made the negative "uh-uh" noise and stormed out. Danielle, Tom, and I followed meekly. On the way out, we passed the line again. Rob tried to cut in front of someone with the excuse that he had to pee, and this must be the line for the bathroom. Uh-uh. 

It was a line for a wake.

Yes, it is truly possible, that if you get married in their stinky living room (with French doors that open up to a garage) that in the next room over, they could be holding a dead body and everyone that wants to look at it. 

I'm not THAT goth. Sheesh.  

So there we were, driving on 80 west with the Millers, less than a week later.  Tom and Rob were in the front cracking jokes and Danielle had her laptop on my knees and was showing me the difference between a hydrangea and a mum. Or something to that effect. I had to keep looking out the window because something was making me nauseous when we finally arrived at ::dramatic pause:: Pennsylvania's answer to Buckingham Palace.

Tom parked, and they got out of the car. I opened my door as my head swum, tumbled out of the backseat as I swallowed all the spit that had accumulated in my mouth and landed forehead first into the side of a Mercedes. Tom rescued the Starbucks iced coffee cup from my hands without missing a beat before I had a chance to puke on it and he took a sip. I shot him a dirty look as I lay by the Mercedes tire.

Me: I needed that.
Tom: You're laying on the ground with a bump on your head and ejecta running out of your mouth after falling out of my car. This coffee is the last thing you need. ::ssips::

Danielle helped me up. I made a face at Tom's back and asked Danielle what "ejecta" was. She told me to never marry a theater dork. Rob ran past us because he saw a suit of armor on the front lawn and performed Hamlet's soliloquy at its head. A fresh wad of spit harbored in my throat, and my body threatened to produce more "ejecta".

Rob: (to the suit of armor) Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come-
Me: Oh, I like that movie. Robin Williams was dead and he-

Danielle smacked me on the back of my head. Tom smacked me on the back of my head. Just as Laurel and Hardy were beating me up, the concierge walked out in a full evening suit (it was eleven-thirty in the morning).

Concierge: Sirs and ladies. Please feel free to hang your coats in our cloakroom and wait for your appointed liaison in our lobby.

He looked at Rob, who was giving the devil horns to the suit of armor because Tom was taking a picture, and at Danielle, who was helping me to not fall down and look clean. He abruptly turned on his heel and went inside.

I yelled at Rob to get over here and be respectable. Rob came to my side and told me I had ejecta on the side of my mouth. I smacked him on the back of his head. This was quickly turning into a Four Stooges routine. I wiped my mouth and we went inside.

The inside was jaw-dropping. Ornate carved wood everywhere. It was decorated for fall, and beautifully. A different concierge (possibly Mr. Boddy who had greeted us had found other duties to busy himself with) pranced up to us and bade us to sit on the couches while we waited for Guinevere the event planner (I don't remember what her name was, this is my story, and I'll do what I want to with it) who would be with us shortly. Tom and Rob wandered around. Danielle found an enormous album under one of the coffee tables, blew the dust off of it, and dumped it into my lap. Inside was a collection of truly bad eighties wedding photos taken at Skytop. We giggled at them as my stomach settled. I took a deep breath and cozied into the leather couch as we made fun of the floppy hats and ludicrous bridesmaid dresses for about a half hour until the concierge came back and told us that the event planner was running late, and to go down to the Grand Ballroom and have buffet lunch on Mountaintop while we waited.

We gathered ourselves and got in line to get a table. Rob looked around at the rest of the clientele in the dining room. Without any provocation from Commander Miller or I, he immediately turned to Tom and demanded that Tom take his sweater off and give it to him. Tom took his fleece off and handed it over. Danielle and I looked at each other, and around at the other tables. Everyone was wearing their Sunday best, and I don't mean Sunday best. I mean Sunday Best. The waiter showed up to take us to our table. Tom, in his polo shirt, Rob in his newfound fleece, Danielle in her turtleneck, and I in my sweater and eleven year old chucks followed him to our table.

We sat down, and we reflected. To make me uncomfortable and awkward is one thing, but to make Rob feel weirded out enough to demand another man's clothes because he thought his nice, clean button down shirt and dressy jeans was not presentable was another matter entirely. I felt funny, and not in a comedic way. I put my napkin in my lap, and Rob grabbed his plate and went off to get some food. A different waiter. kinda sweaty and nervous looking, came to our table and asked us what "he" was doing. I blinked, and shook my head.

Me: I'm sorry, who?
Waiter with clip-on tie: That man you were seated with. Where is he going?

If I had had my chops about me, I probably would have told the waiter that Rob was going to duel with the suit of armor out front, but my wits failed me, and I simply told him that Rob was going to get food.

Waiter with clip-on-tie: Oh, no! Did he take the plate from the table?
Me: (again, my smart-ass gland failing me) Yes, why?
Clip-on: Those plates are heirlooms, and are not to be eaten off of!
Danielle: (Whose wits never leave her) You do realize that this is a buffet lunch, and that these plates were on our table?
Clip-On: They are place settings! We never use them! Oh no oh no oh no! ::takes off::

I started chewing on my fingernails. Tom rolled his eyes, and Danielle got that look on her face that says that she's PISSED. Rob came back, and Danielle explained the situation. Rob looked mortified as Tom
brought back a simple white plate for Rob to slide his food onto and not irritate the Skytop gods.

Okay, pause.

I have never seen Robert Lascar uncomfortable. EVER. I have seen him annoyed, irritated, pissed, and all levels of displeased. I have even seen him downright furious. But I had never seen him in a position where he was made to feel irregular by the people around him. Rob takes the situation, whatever it may be, picks it up like a rug, and shakes everything off of it until it pleases him.I did not like watching Rob look almost embarrassed because he dared to eat off a plate that was not good enough for the likes of us according to some Simpsons-esque nerdy teenage boy. However, Rob being born a theater dork, he rose to the situation, brushed himself off, and acted the part.

I don't think I want to get married here.

 It wasn't as if we rolled up in the Beverly Hillbillies wagon to a castle with dirty shirts untucked, displaying five teeth among the four of us, a'hootin and a'hollerin with moonshine jugs at the ready. This was a place well within our budget, (or else we wouldn't have been there to audition it for our wedding), and I did not like being made to feel as though I had won an Oprah prize and was here as some pity-vacation. This place was already grating at my nerves when the event planner showed up.

Piss-poor event planner: ::sits down, graces each of us with a smile:: "I'm Evelyyyyyyyyn. And whooooo is getting marrrrrrrried?

(Ed's note: I cannot enunciate the way she did without making her sound like a ghost. The best way I can I can explain it to you, dear Reader, is to read her part in your head like a badly-cast, throaty, rich soap opera villain.)

Danielle kicked me under the table. I stood, as I was instructed by her hours ago, and offered my hand for Evelyyyyyyyyn to shake. Evelyyyyyyyn took my hand, held it at arms length, and her fingers were as
slack as a dead fish. I was almost tempted to kiss it by the way she proffered it to me. Fortunately, the amount of costume jewelry prevented me from making this mistake and I simply held her fingertips for
the allotted amount of time and then released her. Her gross hand wrapped itself around a binder and she sat down in the empty chair.

Evelyyyyyyyn: And where is the groom?
Tom: He went to go check out the female dog-sledding team. AAaaaahhhoooohh, I'm sorry, he went to the men's room.

Danielle looked triumphant after kicking Tom in his shin. Evelyyyyyyyn cleared her throat and asked us when "THE DATE" was. Danielle took over here. I sat back in my chair kept my mouth closed as Danielle went over our guest list.

Rob came back from the bathroom, and sat down next to Tom. Evelyyyyyyyn graced him with one of her withering smiles, reserved for people who were clearly wasting her time. Rob grimaced at her, rolled his eyes, and started talking to Tom.

I don't think Rob wants to get married here.

Lascar over here was clearly over the pretentiousness of this place when Evelyyyyyyyn took us for a tour. We saw the various ceremony areas, cocktail areas, reception areas. When we came upon the main ballroom, I feigned interest at Evelyyyyyyyn's story of the people that were married here last week.

Evelyyyyyyyn: Theeeeeeey were a gloooooorious couple, she was Indian and he was IIIIIIrish. Sheeeeeeeeeee painted her hands and the bridesmaids' hands in Hennaaaaaaaaa, do you know what that is? Of course you do, you're from Berrrrrrrgen County. Aaaaaaanyway, she came in on a hooooooorse, isn't that amaaaaaaaazing, she came in on a hooooooorse, and all the grooooooomsmen wore kilts, and it was just faaaaaaabulous. Aaaaaaand so IIIIIIIrish. Her paaaaaaarents came in on their helicopppppppter. Did you know that we have a helicopppppppter pad? We do, and it's open to you and your fammmmmmmilies.

I poked Rob in his ribs. "Look, baby, Daddddddddy can get some use out of the old whirly-bird. How nice."

Rob didn't miss a beat.

Rob: "She said helicopppppppter, not Taun-taun"

Tom thought out loud here and mentioned that we had two other places to look at today, and that we should get moving. At that, Evelyyyyyyyn sneered at us, and after unloading a metric shit-ton of paperwork into Danielle's arms, commented that there's no place like Skytop, and that we'd be back.

Danielle dumped the metric shit-ton of paperwork into the nearest recycling bin, and we headed out the front door. The door didn't even hit us in the ass on the way out.

We know where we're getting married.

Okay kids. I know most of you are married, or have been married. For that I extend my hat to you, because being either the bride, groom, partner, or unassuming national monument (yes, I am referring to the lady who married the Eiffel Tower) the fact of the matter is you married somebody and the two of you had to pick a place and plan a wedding. I am good at neither picking or planning (see my post: "I can't plan a trip to the bathroom with four people and a map") and on top of that, I happen to be marrying an OCD-riddled brain with fabulously muscular legs whose opinions have given me apoplectic attacks.

If it were up to me, I probably would have settled for the Holiday Inn on route 4, simply because I didn't know my options, and was completely loathe to researching. Upon finding out the building I had chosen for our nuptials (hehehe that word looks like "nipples"), Rob would have given me one of his trademark withering looks, rolled his eyes, stormed off into the parking lot, and put my engagement ring up for bid on eBay on his godforsaken iPhone.

Enter my Bridal Battalion, led (in the planning stages) by Commander Miller and General Waters.

Danielle and Amanda sat me down on the porch of Ye Olde Waters Mansion (Much as they did, under the instruction of Rob months ago to covertly find out what kind of engagement ring I wanted), and asked me where I wanted to get married.

Me: I don't know. I want someplace wintery.
Amanda and Danielle: ... (they look at each other)
Me: I dunno... Medieval Times? Are they open in the winter?
Amanda and Danielle: ... (they look at me)
Me: Fine. You guys are so smart, YOU pick the place.
Amanda and Danielle looked at each other.

That weekend, Danielle and Tom whisked us off to Skytop.