Out of the Loop

My brother is getting married next summer. I am going to be a bridesmaid. Mr. J. kindly pointed out that I will be the oldest bridesmaid in the wedding party by about 10+ years. That's good for the self-esteem, yes? Although I suppose I may be able to hide a bit since I am one of eight bridesmaids.

So while learning that I was going to be a relic on public display didn't exactly make me feel young, nothing has made me feel older than this new phenomenon: Trash the Dress.

Have you heard of this? I had not. And I called myself a wedding planner's assistant!

My brother e-mailed me Friday to tell me that he and his fiancee were in the midst of planning their "Trash the Dress" shoot. I had no clue what he was talking about, so after he explained it, I did some Googling. Here's what I found:

"Amid the posy photos and puffed-up bios that comprise the wedding announcement section of Sunday Times Style Section, there was a fascinating article on the rising trend of so-called Trash the Dress wedding photography.Trash the Dress, you say? It's exactly what it sounds like -- following the blessed event, the bride straps on that gorgeous dress once again for a final farewell photo to the gown she spent a fortune to wear for one day only. Only instead of posing in some predictably idyllic setting, the picture is shot in a scroungy back alley or a mossy lake. These so-called Trash the Dress photos have become all the rage with brides who want to add something unconventional to their wedding albums. And unconventional they are -- particularly the photo at right in which a bride has set her wedding gown aflame, a la Joan of Arc. This shot was taken by a photographer named John Michael Cooper, who coined the phrase Trash the Dress. If you want to see more of his edgy, arty wedding photography, check out his website, which chronicles his collection of Trash the Dress wedding photos. Pretty cool, huh?"

Suddenly, I'm older than someone who lived through the Great Depression. Because, no - this is the opposite of pretty cool. Why would one spend thousands of dollars on a dress, wear it once and then trash it? I'm sure some of my younger readers could enlighten me on this one. For the sake of "art"?

I also suppose it doesn't help that I'm turning 37 on Friday. Whoopee!

Weeds and Wedding Showers

Like I need a new vice. Wednesday, I was in the mood to "chill out" in the freakin' "heat emergency oh-my-gob-it's-so-hot-my-head-might-fall-off" heat and watch rented DVDs. I wanted something fun and funny. So, like the uneducated dumbass I am, I rented the first 6 episodes of season 1 of Weeds. After all, Elizabeth Perkins was just nominated for Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy. A comedy. A summary: Mary Louise Parker plays a woman whose husband dropped dead while jogging with his 10-year-old son. They live in a scary-looking Mom-bot/Stepford wife community and she wants to "maintain her lifestyle," so she becomes the neighborhood pot dealer. The writing is brilliant and the soundtrack makes me realize how little I actually know about music. However. A widow and two boys without a father. Widow and older brother are in serious denial and the 10 year old is asking to be put on Prozac or Zoloft or whatever. Elizabeth Perkins' younger daughter is overweight and she torments her poor daughter (Her daughter's name is Isabelle, but she calls her "Isabelly") every day. Death. Drugs. Drive-by shootings in the 'hood. Infidelity. Eating disorders. Financial troubles. Hahaha, hahahahahaha! Oh, the hilarity! Good times.

Yes, there are some killer funny lines and there are absolutely no sacred cows in it. I liked it so much that I totally binged on it (healthier than bingeing on a bag of potato chips - I'll take dark circles under my eyes over cellulite on my ass any day) and ran back the next day to the video store to rent the second half of season 1. Lest you remain unclear about how much I love this show, let me elucidate: I watched the special features. I even watched the episodes with the commentary on. I never do that. I've tried to do that and I find it annoying and pointless. I will ask for the soundtrack for my birthday, which is coming up. (Yippee. No mothers say, "Your child is 36? That's a fun age!") But it is not a "comedy." I don't know if I would even call it a "dark comedy." Because I cried while watching it, more than a few times. I don't think I ever cried while watching a Seinfeld episode (that I remember. Maybe, this one time, when I had too much wine) - although Seinfeld wasn't a dark comedy, apples to apples and all that, I get it. Have you ever watched Weeds? What do you think? Is it a "comedy"? Personally, I think it's a really sharp soap opera with great acting and super-cool "I can too still be hip after the age of 35 because now I know of obscure bands" music.

*****************************

Okay, I know the correct term is probably "Bridal" shower, but I likes me some alliteration. I didn't take Mr. J.'s last name. Before we got married, we discussed that probably over the years, there would be times when people would call me Mrs. J., or people might call him Mr. Teacher Lady, and we'd just laugh and be cool with it.

However. When you send me an invitation to a bridal shower, which is basically a "gimme some stuff" request in a nice envelope, you might want to be cognizant of the fact that I didn't take my husband's last name. After all, if you know me well enough to ask me for a cappuccino maker and some fluffy new towels, you know me well enough to know this. But, sometimes with extended families, the word doesn't always get around, so call me Mrs. J. - I get it, it's cool.

But, let's say for illustration's sake that Mr. J.'s last name is Smith. The invitation was addressed to Mrs. Smithington. I hate: families, bridal showers and stupid people. Not in that order.

How to be a Good Wedding Guest: More Life According to Teacher Lady

Another wedding yesterday. This one was (for the most part) really quite lovely. The bride could not have been sweeter. The usual suspects (the mother of the bride and the maid of honor) were also charming and low-key. It was a few of the guests, unfortunately, who were the problem.

A few people have told me I should write a book. I don't really think I have it in me to write a book, but I could write a hell of a pamphlet. And for a few years now, I have been meaning to publish a pamphlet about weddings. I realize the world does NOT need another wedding book - it doesn't even need a wedding pamphlet. But this wouldn't be like Jessica Simpson's "How to Have Your Dream Wedding on a Budget of only $1.5 million" book. (Actually the title is Jessica Simpson I Do: Achieving Your Dream Wedding. Now having a wedding is an achievement? Sheesh. No wonder the divorce rate is stratospheric.)

Oh, no. This would be a completely different spin. It would be entitled, "How Not to be a Huge Pain in the Ass at Someone Else's Wedding." And it would never sell a single copy because no one ever thinks they're being a pain in the ass. Although - can you IMAGINE the social scandal that would ensue if some bride bought hundreds of copies and enclosed one with each invitation? That is a delicious scenario and I relish it like a bite of expensive chocolate mousse. I know - see you all in hell, etc.,

Anyway, since I adore all of you dear readers who take time out of your lives to read my yammerings, I now present you with an exclusive! sneak! preview! of my never-before-seen Teacher Lady/wedding planner pamphlet!

How Not to Be a Pain in the Ass at Someone Else's Wedding:

• Don't vomit in public.

The end.

Just kidding. But that's probably one of the most important ones. Here are a few others:

• Last night, post-ceremony, pre-reception, a guest approached me. "Are you the event planner?" she asked. Fuckin' stupid radio. That and my sour expression probably give me away every time. Yes, I'm the planner, nods, smiles. "I didn't want to bother the mother of the bride, but I'm lactose and gluten intolerant. I'm just wondering what will be available for me to eat?" How about the bottom of my shoe, lady? I'm pretty sure you won't find any dairy OR gluten in it. Seriously!!? Seriously. Now is the time to inform someone of your food allergies? The plated salads have already been pre-set, the band is playing the standard, "Let's all sit down and eat" music and now is when you tell me you're lactose and gluten intolerant? I can't imagine a better time for you to give anyone that information. I had a copy of the menu and double-checked it. I could barely contain my joy, "We're having seared salmon!" I declared. "Oh, thank you, Jesus, for the seared salmon," I thought. I was almost dancing with joy. Until she said those hated words, "Well, I can't eat it if it's been prepared with butter. Can you please go check?" Again. Why now? Why not 35 minutes ago? Because you know, if you had told me (or, heck, someone in the family, oh, I don't know, when you got your freakin' invitation), perhaps I could have said to the chef, "Hey! Please don't put butter on that one because it's for the lactose-gluten-guest who wants to rain on everyone's parade." So folks, those of you with dietary restrictions: While guests are being seated for dinner? Not the time to mention the 74 things you can't eat. I think that should be easy to understand.
• I may offend some people, but: Do. Not. Take. (Under any circumstances!) a place card/table number/seating thing that is not your own. Unless (and this is a very specific unless) you have said to the other person, "When I get to the reception, I'll get your place card/table number/seating thing." And really, you shouldn't do that because here's what happens. At EVERY wedding!!! Every one! EVERY damn one! (Am I making myself clear!? This drives me crazy!) Mrs. Smith walks up to place card table, where I am often stationed with a back-up alpha-numeric list. (You'll see why this is important in a minute.) Mrs. Smith says to her hubby, "Oh, look! The Crapmeisters are here. I wonder where they're sitting?" And then she takes the Crapmeisters' card, looks at the table number and says, "Oh, they're with us at Table Number 'we'll-make-the-planner want-to-kill-herself.' I'll just grab their card for them." And in the instant that Mrs. Smith says she'll grab their card, someone turns to me to tell me they're sad because they didn't get their netted tulle Jordan almond favor or the ring bearer wet his pants and do I have any extra Pull-ups and I miss a crucial piece of information. Because 10 minutes later, the Crapmeisters are in front of the table and all three of us are combing through 300 place cards, trying to figure out why we can't find their card. Then Mrs. Crapmeister says, "I have never been SO offended! I've known the Peoplepleasers for 35 years. I can't believe they don't have a table for us!" And luckily, my alpha-numeric list comes in handy and I tell the Crapmeisters where their table is and apologize profusely for any confusion, knowing perfectly well that some yahoos took their card. But on the way to the table, the Crapmeisters will run into the Peoplepleasers and say, "Clearly, your wedding planners are not up to snuff. Can you believe they didn't have a place card for us?" and we're off and running. So people: Trust me. Your dear friends the Crapmeisters will never in a million years think that you just "did them a favor" by grabbing their place card, so don't do it. Hands to yourselves, okay? Your card, and your card only. Thank you.
• Back in May, a guest walked into the reception with her two daughters. She looked at me, giggled in a pretend-embarrassed way and said, "Now, don't be mad at me." (I guess my snarky bitterness exudes from every pore.) I pretend-smiled. "Oh, come now. Why would I be mad at you?" Guest says, "Well, I only RSVPd for one, but BOTH of my daughters came home from college to surprise me for Mother's Day and I couldn't just leave them at home, could I? So, I didn't think it would be a big problem if I just brought them with me. How hard can it be to find two extra plates, right?" Lady. Ahem. Lady. You have two daughters. Do not tempt the Fates. Karma is a bitch, and when your daughters get married, you will find out exactly how hard it is to find two extra plates when some clown brings two extra people to your reception. And I hope, as it was the case the day that you made some other bride's mother (ostensibly your "friend") freak out, that the ballroom is packed, and each table is a 10-top, and there are not any no-shows, and there is absolutely no place to seat two additional people, except maybe in the corner on the floor. And I hope I am there to see it. Even if it's looking up at you from the burning flames of hell.
• No, you cannot switch tables. Have you been living under a rock? Don't you know that doing wedding reception seating charts is only slightly more daunting than the seating chart for the White House Press Corps dinner? Aunt Millie hasn't talked to Cousin Myrtle in 17 years, so they have to be across the room from each other. Susan dated Mary's husband back when they were all in college and they can't be anywhere near each other. Rick and Uncle Paul used to be best buds until someone borrowed someone's socket wrench and never returned it, so we're going to have to split them up and put them with the other side of the family. It's just a few hours for one night of your life. Who cares if you're at the "losers' table?" You probably deserve it. I know - me, hell, handbasket.
• And finally: Do not be late. Do not, do not, do not, do not be late. Do not come crashing into the church/temple/museum/field of daisies/primate house at the zoo with your faux whisper (which happens to be louder than your normal voice would) telling me your sob story about getting lost or losing your hotel room key or whatever your problem is. The bride could give a rat's ass. She will give a rat's ass however, that everyone is not staring at her stunning bridal glory, but is now turned around and staring at you. And you lose points for asking the obvious. As you look at me and then look up at the front of the church/temple/monkey house at the zoo, you must see the officiant, the bride, the groom, the assembled maids and men standing underneath the chuppah, the three-piece string quartet musicians, their bows hovering over their instruments, as the bride and groom slide cool metal rings on each other's fingers. So why do you ask in your loud whisper, "Oh, am I late?" What do you think?

Four Weddings and Some Annoying People

I have a contractor set-up where I run weddings at a local museum. People like to get married there. For example, Saturday there were four weddings there. So, Teacher Lady put on her wedding planner hat and ran around like a lunatic for approximately 10 hours.

If there is anything worse than a bride, it is four brides. If there is anything worse than a snippy matron of honor, it is four snippy matrons of honor. And finally, if there is anything more terrifying than a freaked-out, crazy/controlling mother of the bride, it is four freaked-out, crazy/controlling mothers of the bride.

But I think I held my own pretty well. It was actually people who had nothing to do with any of the weddings who drove me nuts. For example:

The first wedding of the day involved a bride who wore something very exotic looking. It was electric blue satin; pants and a short-sleeved top with lots of elaborate gold embroidery edging the entire outfit. She had the whole henna hand thing going on and she also had gold chains draped throughout her hair. She was Caucasian and I knew she had two officiants - a Muslim cleric and a Baptist minister. (No, this isn't the beginning of an inappropriate joke - that's really who married this couple.) Her bridemaids, however, all wore saris which I associate with Indian culture.

Upon her arrival, the security guard had contacted me via radio that morning to say, "The bride is here." Since the first three weddings were pretty much back-to-back and each bride was getting ready in a different location, I said, "Brandon, can you tell me which bride it is so I know where to direct her?" He responded, "She's in some kind of Aladdin outfit." Nice. Brandon is really a sweet guy, but come on. Those radios aren't supposed to be for conveying quiet information or inappropriate jokes. That's not really getting the day off to a brilliant start.

During the ceremony, my job is to stand near the site entrance and glare at any regular museum guests who might try to wander into the ceremony location. Of course, I'm standing in 95 degree heat in the museum garden, wearing black (as is the standard dress code for wedding and event planners), sweating profusely, praying it doesn't rain on anyone and suddenly, a strange looking couple is standing next to me. "Yes?" I ask, giving them the hairy eyeball. They both are trying to peer around me. "We just love weddings," says the woman. "We just want to see the bride." I sigh and move out of the way. "Oh!" exclaims annoying woman. "How interesting! Is she being married by a Buddhist Monk?" Why do people ask me these things? And why do I engage in these conversations? "No," I whisper, "A Muslim cleric and a minister - two parts of the ceremony." And her husband decides to take this moment to lecture me.

"Actually," he says, clearing his throat, "That can't be right." (And oh my gob, I'm having flashbacks to inappropriate sister. Unless I'm in a classroom, I honestly try to avoid telling people that they are wrong- or that I think they are wrong. Because ultimately, who cares? But sometimes I wonder: Why can't I be so unabashedly know-it-all-esque? And also? Why do I seem to attract these know-it-alls? Every-freakin'-where I go!?) "You see," he continues in his annoying scholarly tone, "The women are wearing saris. Now, a sari is a traditional Indian garment, and Indians are typically Hindus or Buddhists, so I doubt that's actually a Muslim performing the ceremony."

Here's what I wish I had said: "Dude. Can't you see I'm working? Do I wander into your office and tell you how to do your job or ask you inane questions and tell you that you're wrong? No. So scram."

No. I had to get into it. Because I'm an idiot. I said, "The father of the groom just introduced me to him and said, 'The Muslim cleric who is performing the ceremony has a time conflict and needs to perform his ceremony first, which is not what we practiced at the rehearsal,' so I'm pretty sure he is a Muslim cleric, since there was clearly some sort of relationship between him and the groom's family and they would probably know." (and I wanted to add, "and they would probably know better than you, you nosy asshat.")

And annoying dude just shook his head at me like I was a student who happened to be failing his class (due to my innate stupidity) and said, "Yeah," sighed, shook his head again and said, "I doubt it," and walked away!! One of my professors told me that she thinks I have a magnet on my forehead that reads, "Freaks," and I'm starting to think she's right. Except maybe it doesn't just read "Freaks," it reads, "Know-it-all Freaks who like to bother people when they're working." Because really? Nothing else explains my life.

Not What I Expected

I started worrying about my face-off with Bridezilla as soon as I woke up yesterday. I began wondering about the likelihood of an attack of appendicitis or other sudden onset illness that would require my hospitalization. Anything to get me out of a day with the crying bride from hell who tells her fiance that she hates him.

I arrived at the venue an hour before the bride. Everyone there from security to housekeeping had something to say about her: "This one? She's a trip," and "Yeah. She's a real pain in the ass." "She's a card." "She's a nutjob." Before she even got there I started humming to myself, "How do you solve a problem like Bridezilla?"

Then the photographers arrived. I immediately got a HUGE girl crush on both of them. They were cool and we instantly bonded. I asked them both, "What's the deal with this bride?" They just laughed. "Oh, she's fine. Seriously. She's a bit high strung, but the deal is, you just need to tell her what to do. She wants someone to tell her what to do. Once she knows someone else is in charge, she relaxes and really she's fine."

I didn't believe them, but since they were my new best friends, I figured they had no reason to lie. Finally, the bride and I laid eyes on each other. She was stunning. And she was 23. The groom was 43. It was officially the creepiest and saddest wedding I have ever seen.

As soon as I introduced myself, she started talking a mile a minute. First, she pointed out the groom's 12-old-daughter. "That's Maggie," she said. "She has ADD/HD, OCD, anxiety disorder, two other things she's been diagnosed with that I can't remember and her mother abandoned her." I didn't know what to say. That's certainly way more information than any bride has given me before. Before I could comment, the bride (let's call her Laci) started flipping out about the musicians. "I totally don't trust them and I don't think they're going to play the song I want and also, I do NOT want my guests to-" and I did what my new photographer friends told me to do. I played the bossy Alpha dog card (which I just now realized I should have done with Inappropriate Sister on the first day of the semester, but, oh, well - as they used to say on Ally McBeall, "bygones."). "Laci," I said seriously and firmly. "Yes?" Now she was all Bambi eyes, looking like I was about to give her the most important piece of information she would ever get in her life. "Are you marrying the man of your dreams?" She didn't even hesitate. "Yes." "Okay, then. That's all that matters. Everything else is icing on the wedding cake. Let's get you married to this wonderful fella, then!" She visibly relaxed. And then she hugged me!!!!! "Oh my God. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Then I got the family tree, which today is pretty important to know for some weddings. I got strict instructions to NOT call the woman who gave birth to her "your mother." Laci said, "That is not my mother. That is Gina. The woman who is my mother is that woman over there." Let me break it down for you: FOB (or "Father of the Bride") is on his third wife. Laci is Dad's first kid with his first wife. Then, we had 15 year-old surly teenager dude, Alan, dad's son with his second wife. Then we had the ring bearers, Tommy and Timmy, 6 and 4, who are dad's kids with his third and current wife who apparently has done something right, because Laci calls her mom. And FOB, by the way? Looked to be about two years younger than the groom and definitely had more hair. (The groom was struggling with some serious male-pattern baldness.)

The rest of the evening just made me want to cry, and not for the reasons I might cry at other people's weddings. This poor girl (because really, she was a very young 23 - she was just a girl) that everybody (including me) had written off as a Bridezilla just wanted (although she'd never admit it) and needed a mom. As soon as the ceremony was over, I led the new Mr. and Mrs. over to the cocktail reception area. Laci pulled me aside and whispered, "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do now." I looked her in the eyes. "You have fun. Do you drink?" She nodded. "I will get you a drink. What would you like?" She looked at her new husband/clear Freudian father figure. "What would I like?" she asked him. "Wine." She looked back at me. "I would like some wine." "Red or white?" She looked at him again. "Red or white?" This groom was clearly in charge. "Red." She looked back at me. "Red," she repeated, like a sad, modern Stepford wife. I went off to get her red wine and as I type this, I have tears in my eyes.

Although I probably have no business making assessments about this couple and this family after spending only 6 hours with them, here are my thoughts:

This 43-year-old groom married this child bride who says she hates him because he is no dummy. His daughter? That kid is a serious handful. She managed to piss off everyone working that wedding. If you piss off people who work weddings for a living, you are definitely off-the-charts obnoxious. These people have seen everything and if you send them over the edge, you can bet that it's with good reason. The photographers, who were the most mellow photographers I have ever met called her "Heinous bitch" and "spoiled rotten awful diva child." The catering manager called her a "hideous brat" and I will just say she is clearly not on the right meds, obviously going through a bad time and getting NO discipline or guidance from her father. I can't tell if the father has absolutely no clue what to do with a special needs child who happens to be a girl, or if he just feels too guilty to mete out any discipline or what. But it doesn't matter because 23-year-old Laci has clearly taken over the monumental task of raising this child. And although she's still just a kid herself in many ways, she's good at it. Wild child/spoiled brat listens to her. Women twice Laci's age might have liked this man, met his daughter and then run screaming for the hills. Either Laci is a saint in mortal's clothing, or she's too young to know any better.

Laci's family is a mess. Both the caterer and the DJ warned me that Laci had told them how only 38 people were attending because of numerous family "rifts." I asked the DJ if I needed to have the police on stand-by. Would this be one of those weddings where punches were thrown and members of the wedding party ended up in jail? He assured me it would not. "The bride talks a lot," he said. "There's just a lot of 'issues' in this family, apparently." Indeed.

To repeat myself: It was just the strangest, saddest wedding I have ever worked. There was no "joyous energy." I have been working weddings for eight years now. I can walk into a room and instantly pick up on the energy. I can usually tell if the bride and groom are getting married because they're crazy in love with each other or . . . for some other reason. This wedding was . . . I don't know. Just flat. No joy, but no sense of panic or stress or other "Bridezilla-y" emotions. Just resignation, I guess.

I will end this post with the father of the bride's toast (one I have never heard before): "The vows have been said, the cake has been cut, now let's hope Laci doesn't get a big butt."

Here Comes the Bride . . . zilla!

A venue coordinator called me earlier this week to ask me if I could take over for her on this wedding. "I have a last minute family thing and I need to be there. Please help me! It's really easy," she said. "About 60 guests - ceremony at six, followed by a reception. They don't seem like the partying crowd, so I don't even think you'll be here too late." I didn't have any plans for Saturday afternoon, so I said sure - an easy way to make some cash, plus I like her a lot and wanted to help her out. Us wedding/event planning types have to stick together. Once I agreed to do it, she e-mailed me with this news, "Um, just so you know, the bride is a little nutty." Oy.

When a woman who works with brides for a living says a bride is a "little nutty" that is the equivalent of saying Kevin Federline is a bit of a gold digger. Or a little trashy. Or just a touch of a redneck.

I e-mailed her back: "Define 'nutty'." Here's all she would tell me:

She cries during planning meetings and tells her fiance she hates him.

Nutty? No, that's a Bridezilla.

So, if this happens to be my last post ever, just know that it's because I was killed by a Bridezilla. I hope I went quickly and didn't feel any pain.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

No, not that time of the year. That time of the year. I’ve been holding out on you, dear readers. I have a dirty little secret. (My apologies to The All-American Rejects.) Because being a doc student and teaching fellow doesn’t exactly pay the big bucks, I have a part-time job or two. Or twelve. This time of year, my gig is wedding planner’s assistant. I have a friend, let’s call her Saint Fifi, (with the emphasis on SAINT because that’s what you need to be in order to work with brides), who is a wedding/event planner. I have known her for 8 years now, and have helped her out on a semi-regular basis for 7 of those years.

I had planned to post today on two of the weddings I worked this weekend, but I decided that first, we must engage in that age-old tradition, “The De-Bunking of the Myths.” Because with wedding planning, there are many myths. Let us debunk them now.

Myth #1: Wedding planning is exactly like that J-Lo movie, The Wedding Planner. Let me be clear: Cinderella is less of a fairy tale than The Wedding Planner. If that’s what a wedding planner did on a regular basis, I’d throw this whole school bullshit to the wind and open up my own shop.

Myth #2: Wedding planning is glamorous. Anyone who thinks this has never had to help the 90-year-old grandmother of the bride put on her pantyhose. Perhaps the darkest moment of my life. And also, my yardstick for workplace angst. No matter how crazy my life gets, or how annoying and exasperating my students can be, I stop and ask myself, “Self, is this worse than putting on someone else’s grandmother’s pantyhose?” and the answers, to this point, have been, “Nope, not even close.” The day that the answer is, “Yeah, it’s pretty much the same,” I am out of there, wherever “there” happens to be.

Myth #3: Wedding planning is fun. Like attending parties for a living. Well, I guess this one could be true, depending on who you are, and what you usually do at parties. If, for example, at parties, you might be found:

• Putting cover-stick on a zit on the bride’s father’s forehead
• Scuffing up other people’s new shoes outside on the sidewalk so they don’t trip down the aisle
• Holding a sweaty, screaming 4-year-old flower girl who is hungry and needs a nap while her mother ignores you, hits on the 22-year-old groomsman and pretends you’re the babysitter
• Fending off the advances of drunken ushers and groomsmen all the while being gracious and polite because they think that part of what you’re “paid” to do is make them seem fascinating (hmm . . . similarities between wedding planners and Heidi Fleiss . . . could be?)
• Convincing the wasted, anorexic and extremely wealthy aunt of the bride that you’re not, in fact, the same blonde who took her coat earlier that evening (because you weren’t even there, but that’s another story) and are not refusing to give it back to her just to be rude
• Begging drunk guests to be patient just TEN minutes longer because you cannot send a 50-person shuttle back to the hotel with 12 people on it
• Listening politely to the mother-of-the-bride express her dissatisfaction with the color of the hand-soap dispensers in the women’s bathroom
• Convincing the hotel manager (for the third time) that they don’t need to call 911 – the flower girl and ring bearer are just a little high-spirited and you will do your best to keep them away from the house phones (again) and you have, honestly, explained to them that dialing 911 is not a good game,
  

Then yes, I guess wedding planning is a lot like attending parties for a living. Begging, groveling, listening politely, standing on your feet while wearing high heels and "party clothes" and apologizing for things over which you have no control not for you? Then neither is wedding planning.
Stay Tuned for Part II.