Diary of a Single Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 1) (9 page)

Wednesday, October 23rd

Laura asked me today to train Charlotte on an event this weekend. She must be joking. In addition to sending my client the entire wedding file, Charlotte also told a bride her wedding was cancelled when it wasn’t, told another bride the groom was ridiculously smoking hot and she would date him in a heartbeat, and ordered a cake covered in daisies for a bride who had very emphatically requested
no
daisies anywhere at her wedding.

Charlotte says she saw DAISIES in all caps in the file and figured they were important, so she asked the chef to add them to the cake. I asked if she bothered to read any of the comments regarding daisies. Nope. Saw the word in all caps and figured the bride must like them.

Good Lord, help us. Now I’m supposed to take her to an actual wedding? Where she could screw up someone’s life? Well, maybe not their life, but a pretty darned important day in their life.

That’s the flip side of doing weddings. Everyone thinks it must be so much fun, but it’s a helluva lot of stress. This is the day a little girl has dreamed of her whole life. The day her mama has planned since the doctor said, “It’s a girl.” And the day her daddy has dreaded paying for since that same day, so he wants every single penny accounted for. He wants to know what he’s getting for his money.

Something as simple as the wrong color napkins can send a bride or family member into a complete the-sky-is-falling-and-you-ruined-our-wedding-and-our-life kind of meltdown.

I remember all too well my first event. What a disaster! I really did ruin someone’s wedding, and at the time, I thought I had ruined their lives.

The bride’s parents had surprised her with a beautiful white carriage pulled by six white ponies. They intended for Nancy to make a grand entrance to her outdoor ceremony like Cinderella coming to the ball. A loving and extravagant gift from her parents intended to make a statement about their princess’s worth.

Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly the fairy godmother in this scenario.

Laura told me to escort Nancy and her bridesmaids down a hallway and outside to the waiting carriage. Once Nancy departed in the carriage, I was to call Laura and then escort the bridesmaids back inside to another hallway where the groomsmen would be waiting to walk them down the aisle.

I was as much in awe of the carriage and ponies as Nancy was. As she petted the ponies, the sun’s rays caught the shimmer of her dress and it sparkled like magic. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. I knew without a doubt this had to be the best job anyone ever had. I wanted to hug myself with joy at my good fortune, and hers, of course.

When I called Laura and told her Nancy was in the carriage and ready to get married, she said to send her.

I smiled at Nancy as she straightened her veil and settled herself on the seat. “Good luck! You look beautiful! Like a princess!”

Her father sat tall and proud next to his beloved daughter as her bridesmaids sniffled and waved goodbye. I fought back tears. The carriage driver said to me, “So are we good to go, or is someone going to tell me when?”

I have replayed those words in my head a million times since that day. I am sure that is how he said it. But I would like to say again: IT WAS MY FIRST WEDDING.

It turns out the carriage ride is usually a two-part process. The bride and her father board the carriage, and they are sent to a staging area. A manager from the carriage company waits for them to arrive at the staging area and then goes to a vantage point where he can communicate with Laura at the ceremony site. When the ceremony is under way and it’s time for the bride to arrive, Laura gives a signal to the manager and he motions the carriage driver to pull forward.

Well, on that particular day of all days, the carriage manager had an emergency situation and needed to leave. The carriage driver thought we knew. Unfortunately, Laura didn’t get the message, and I was freakin’ clueless. So when he asked me if he was good to go, what he actually meant was, “Am I driving the bride to the ceremony right now, or am I stopping at the staging area like normal and waiting for someone to tell me when to go?”

Since I had no knowledge of the protocol, I answered enthusiastically, “You are good to go! Take this beautiful bride to meet her groom!”

It all went to hell in a handbasket from there.

While guests were still standing around talking and waiting for seating to begin, Nancy made her appearance in the carriage. A quick-thinking guest grabbed Frank the groom and dragged him out of sight to prevent him seeing Nancy while her mother and sister screamed at the carriage driver to go away.

I didn’t know then what had gone wrong, but I knew in that moment how much responsibility it was to be involved with someone’s wedding. One moment Nancy was shining in the sun, a princess enjoying the glory of her day. Then with one sentence from me, she had become a crying, embarrassed, and confused mess. The incredible gift from her parents, meant to exalt their daughter, morphed into a disaster that humiliated her.

Now, I could go on all day long about how a carriage and horses don’t do anything to show a person’s worth, or that it was a simple mistake and it didn’t ruin anything in the grand scheme of life.

But the truth is, it was her very special day. For her, it was ruined. If Nancy and Frank are married for fifty years, it will be the same disaster story every time they tell anyone about their wedding.

Oh, well. At least this weekend’s event doesn’t have a carriage for Charlotte to mess up. But it’s still somebody’s wedding.

Thursday, October 24th

Why do I even answer when my mother calls? I didn’t have time to talk, but I always fear the one time I let it go to voice mail she’ll be calling to tell me someone is dead or ill. Another false alarm today, though.

“I gotta go, Mama. I just stepped out of the shower, and I’m running late.”

“Oh! Where you goin’? Anything fun?” Mama asked, oblivious to the “gotta go” part.

“Cabe and I are going to a movie.”

“Who?”

“Cabe, Mama. He’s back.” Sort of shows how much we don’t talk that she didn’t know this already.

“I thought his name was Gabe.”

“You always think that, and I tell you every time it is Cabe. Short for Cable.”

“Cable. What kind of name is that? It’s so weird. Who would name a child Cable?”

“You say that every time, too. I’ve told you a hundred times he was named after his father’s brother, who died in Vietnam. His name was Cable.”

“Still an odd name. He’s not Southern, is he?”

“No, Mom. He’s from Ohio.” I cannot count the number of times we’ve had this exact same conversation since I met Cabe five years ago.

“Ohio? How’d he end up in Florida? Isn’t he the gay one?”

“Mama, why do you keep saying that? No, he’s not gay.” She could not let go of her theory that any boy who spent so much time with a girl without wanting to date her or sleep with her must be gay.

“There’s a gay boy here now. Lives up in the old Ramsey house. They say he’s got it decorated something incredible. Like out of a magazine. I haven’t seen it, but some of them from the Rotary Club went up there for tea. Said it was beautiful. Very tastefully done.”

“That’s nice. Okay, Mama, I need to get ready.”

“Doesn’t he like to cook and go antique shopping with you? Are you sure he’s not gay?” I have no idea why this topic is so important to her. We haven’t discussed Cabe in months, and the first time I mention his name to her, I am right back to defending his sexuality. She hasn’t even asked why he’s back or what happened to him in Seattle. We’re right back to the same conversation we had before he even left.

“Mama! He’s not gay. He’s married. To a woman. Well, he’s getting divorced, but he married a woman.”

“Well, that don’t mean a thing. I hear a lot of gay men get married to try to fit into society. Sometimes they even have children. I bet that’s why he got divorced. He’s gay, sugar.”

“No, Mama, he’s not, but his wife is. Which is why he’s getting divorced. Besides, what does it matter if Cabe is gay or not? He’s my best friend. I don’t care if he’s gay, so why should you?”

“Because I don’t want you pining away after him and getting disappointed! Tyler Lorraine, don’t you go getting all huffy with me. Being all defensive. All I did was suggest maybe you don’t know your friend as well as you think. I want you to be aware of your surroundings, that’s all.”

“Mama! I’m not pining away after Cabe. We are just friends. You know what? I’m not gonna do this today. I’m going to hang up. I’m hanging up the phone now, Mama. Bye. Love you. I’m hanging up. You hang up, too.”

I hung up on her protests. She drives me nuts. I will never understand how I was born and raised in her influence and turned out so different. Although, come to think of it, none of my siblings are like her either. Tanya, Carrie, Brad. None of us are really like Mama. Thank the Lord. Although, the older Tanya gets, the more I’m worried she may succumb.

Cabe rang the doorbell before I finished my hair, so I yelled for him to come on in. When I walked into the living room for us to leave, I nearly burst out laughing. There he sat in a beautiful pale pink Oxford shirt. I could hear my mother saying “I told you so” in my head.

Friday, October 25th

I want to have a serious conversation with whoever saw fit to sell modern-day brides on the idea the entire world is in indentured servitude to them on their wedding day. Much of the blame lies on these stupid television shows glorifying the Bridezilla image. A spoiled brat of a bride stomping her feet and demanding she gets what she wants simply because she’s a bride. They’ve done a disservice to the entire institution of marriage, I think. What union can start on a good foot if it’s hijacked by the whims of a self-absorbed prima donna?

Today’s darling diva experienced an all-out meltdown of epic proportions when her roses were not the same shade of white as her gown.

“Look at these flowers!” Brittany screamed, shaking the bouquet in my face. “What color does this look like to you?”

“Um . . . white?” I responded.

“They are not white!” she shouted. She tossed the bouquet back into the floral box and grabbed her wedding gown from the steamer rack. “This is white! I specifically ordered white roses because I’m wearing a white gown for a reason. It signifies purity and innocence on my wedding day. I did not maintain my purity for nineteen years for nothing. I want white roses. Those roses are not white!”

I stifled a scoffing laugh at Brittany’s concern over being seen as pure and innocent, willing to bet she was neither.

I looked back in the box at the roses, which were clearly white, though not nearly as white as the gown she held.

“They are white roses, Brittany, but the white in a rose is not the same as a manufactured white satin fabric. The roses aren’t going to be that white. They don’t come that white.”

“Aaarrgghh!” She growled as she grabbed the roses from the box and held them up to the dress. “They are supposed to match this dress. This is unacceptable, and I expect you to do something about it. I am not happy right now.”

I felt so sorry for her groom in that moment. I also felt thankful for my professional censor. It shushes my internal voice, which would have said to her, “So what, bitch? I’m not happy right now either. Suck it up. Do you think I can just pull a new bouquet from my rump because you don’t like the one you have?”

Instead, my professional censor made me say this:

“Brittany, I understand your concern. I agree with you the roses are not the same shade of white as the dress.” (
Let them know they have been heard and you understand their concern
.) “Unfortunately, this is the white rose bouquet we ordered from the florist. We are unable to change the color of the roses.” (
Give them the bad news—the facts—sandwiched in between two nice statements
.) “However, it is a stunning bouquet. You are going to look amazing in your dress walking down the aisle to marry the man of your dreams. No one is even going to think about the roses when they get blown away by how gorgeous you look.” (
Finish off with a sticky sweet reassuring statement they can’t disagree with. Laura Wedding Strategy # 427 for Problems on the Wedding Day
.)

Brittany wasn’t feeling sticky sweet. “Cut the bullshit, Tyler. The roses aren’t white. I ordered white. I intend to walk down the aisle in my white dress carrying white roses. So I suggest you get on the phone with someone and do something. Mother, would you please make her do something? Don’t just stand there. Ugh.”

Her mom, Caroline, lifted the roses gingerly from the box. “Honey, these are white roses,” she said. “As white as they come.”

“They’re not white!” Brittany screamed. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Look, look!” She snatched the bouquet from her mother and held it up to the dress. “They are
ivory
! The dress is white. The bouquet is not.”

I gritted my teeth and tried one more time. “Well, the roses aren’t going to be the same shade of white as your dress, Brittany. The roses are made by nature. The dress is made by man. This is nature’s white.”

“It’s ivory! Cream! It contrasts with my dress. I think you used the wrong roses. I want a new bouquet, and I want it to be white. Mother?” Brittany turned to Caroline with her chin held high in defiance.

One of the bridesmaids held up her phone for Brittany to see. “It says here ivory roses mean fidelity and commitment. Why don’t you use the ivory roses, Brittany?”

“Shut up, Abby. If you want ivory roses on your wedding day, then if and when you have a wedding, you can have ivory roses. Today is
my
wedding. I want
white
roses, and I am not walking down the aisle until I get them.” Brittany glared the bridesmaid back to the couch with the others.

I was about to go off on the bitch, so I decided it would be best if I left the room.

“Let me take the bouquet over to the dinner room and see what Renee, the florist, can do,” I said. Brittany turned on her heel and flounced back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

“Thank you, Tyler,” Caroline graciously said. Her face flushed red with embarrassment, but I felt no pity for her. She had created this monster, after all.

I hope whenever I have kids, I have the courage to say no to them. I hope in my efforts to provide for them and give them their hearts’ desires, I never lose sight of the fact that handing them everything only makes them nasty and spoiled. It helps no one. A healthy dose of disappointment and struggle can go a long way in shaping a person. Not that roses failing to be white enough can even be considered a “struggle.”

Freakin’ Bridezillas!