by Howe, Violet
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 w
hite 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!
Saturday, October 26th
So I guess in all fairness, I should say Charlotte didn’t ruin the wedding today. I don’t think she’ll be making senior planner any time soon, but it could have been much worse.
First, she poked herself while pinning on the groomsmen’s boutonnieres. Not like a little pin prick where you say ouch and keep working. She gouged her finger and bled on the groomsman’s shirt. A big, bloody spot right up front and center just below his bow tie. How one does that while pinning a flower on a lapel, I don’t even know, but she did.
Then she forgot to give the best man the rings. Which I know I should have double-checked, but I handed them to her and said, “Go give these to the best man.” He was in the next room. I kind of thought she could handle that without follow up. My bad. So that was a first for me—walking down the aisle in the middle of the ceremony to hand my clients their rings. Not cool.
I sent her to the reception site with instructions to put the toasting glasses on the head table, the cake knife and server on the cake table, and the place cards in alphabetical order on the marble table outside the dinner room. I realize in hindsight it may have been a bit much to expect, but they were all pretty simple tasks. Or so I thought.
I arrived at the reception site mere minutes before the guests and found the place cards in random-ass lines on the marble table with no uniformity and no thought given to presentation. Okay, my bad. I should have given more specific directions and suggested she make it look nice. I thought the fact it was someone’s wedding might make that an unstated goal, but evidently not.
Then I noticed they were not all in alphabetical order. Charlotte came be-bopping out of the dinner room as I was freaking out trying to fix the cards.
“Charlotte! The guests will be here any minute, and the place cards are not in order!”
“Yes, they are! They were wrapped in rubber bands by table, so I put them out that way. I know you said put them in alphabetical order, but I didn’t know if you meant by last name or first name. Then some said “guest” so I did a whole row of G’s over here. Whoever is a guest can get theirs from that row.”
“Charlotte, the people don’t know what table they are seated at, so they won’t know which table to look for. And the guests of the guests won’t have any idea whose card is whose to look for table numbers . . . oh, never mind. Scoop up all these cards, and we’ll put them on a table inside the dinner room. They have to be in alphabetical order by last name so when people walk up, they look for their name in order to find out which table to go to.”
I gritted my teeth before entering the dinner room, half expecting it to be a disaster from her presence alone. Oh, sweet relief to see all the tables set, the DJ in place, and the cake on its stand (without daisies). I exhaled and headed to the head table to check the toasting glasses.
It wasn’t hard to find them. They were on the table between the bride and groom’s chairs. Still in the box. Still wrapped in plastic bubble wrap. Price tags still on the bottom.
To be fair, all I told Charlotte was to put the toasting glasses on the head table. I never said, “Take them out of the freakin’ box, unwrap them, rinse them out, take off the price tags, put the box away.” Silly me. Who knew I was such an inept manager??? It’s funny how you assume people will figure things out when they seem like simple concepts.
After frantically unwrapping and washing the toasting glasses, I made my way over to the cake table to find exactly what I expected at that point. The cake knife and server were still wrapped up in tissue paper inside their box on the table. Although, I must say she added a flower beside the box. I guess I should give her an A for creativity. But seriously?? Did she expect the bride and groom to unwrap their toasting glasses in order to toast each other and then unwrap their cake knife and server in order to slice the cake and feed each other?
I tried to remind myself about a giddy little planner who sent the carriage at the wrong time, but surely this was different. My mistake had been a lack of knowledge about the process. Which I guess is technically still ignorance, but this had to be a different level of ignorant.
Oh, well. The bride and groom were happy. That’s all that matters, right?
Sunday, October 27th
Melanie and I had a ten o’clock ceremony this morning with a brunch afterward. No special dances, no cake cutting, no open bar. A laid-back, everybody-happy, small affair with an older bride and groom and thirty of their closest friends. We were done by noon, so we headed over to see Carmen and the baby. She asked us to bring her a cheeseburger and fries, and you would’ve thought we brought her gold bars as excited as she got over her quarter pounder with cheese. Mel went straight for Lila, as always. All babies love Mel. The woman is a baby whisperer. I hate that she and Paul were never able to have one of their own. It kills her.
“When are you going to bring Lila to the office?” I asked.
“I need to, I know. It’s such a production to go anywhere. It takes
me forever to load everything up and get out of the house. Lillian came by Thursday night. She brought Lila the cutest little outfit. She still insists I named this baby after her!” Carmen laughed. I wondered if she had mentioned the trunk full of goodies to Lillian, but I didn’t want to ask in front of Melanie.
We talked for a while about Lila, then we caught her up on current events in wedding world, and of course, we told her all about Charlotte.
“I hope she quits before I get back,” Carmen said. “I will not be able to put up with it. I will go off on that girl.” Carmen shook her head and took Lila from Mel to nurse.
“Did Tyler tell you Cabe is back?” Melanie asked as Carmen got settled on the couch with Lila.
“Yes,” she said. “I say karma is a bitch, my friend. He’s getting what’s coming to him for doing Tyler like he did.”
“What?! No, Carmen don’t even say that!” I said.
“I’m serious. It wasn’t right how he did you. That girl was no good for him from the start. Forcing him to give up his friends and family. Moving him way out there. Then she goes and leaves him? She’ll get what’s coming to her, but right now he gets what’s coming to him. Mark my words, chica. Karma is real.”
“I feel sorry for him,” Melanie said.
“I don’t,” Carmen said. “He didn’t have no business moving out there. He needed to stay here. Look after his mama.” Carmen nodded her head and looked to me for agreement, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I definitely didn’t think Cabe did anything to deserve Monica hurting him. As glad as I was to have him back here, I would give up being able to see him all over again for him to be happy. Even if it meant him being in Seattle without any contact. I hated seeing him hurt.
I looked back and forth between Mel and Carmen, who were still discussing Cabe’s return. They were my closest friends. They were here for me when he moved to Seattle and dropped off the planet. They kept me afloat when Cabe dumped me as a chocolate chip cookie. I didn’t expect Carmen to welcome him back with open arms. She was protective of me like I was protective of him. I understood that.
