The Bewildered Housewife

The Photographer:

I’ve seen plenty of wedding albums, and most I cannot tell between.  Stiff portraits, noses in bouquets, family shots, bride putting on makeup, yes yes.  What I wanted was something different; something with personality, artistry, character, movement.  I searched vigorously for names of photographers whose portfolios I liked and, as requested, submitted them to my mother-in-law.  One by one, she methodically crossed them off her master list; this one because she didn’t ‘get the right feeling’, that one because she didn’t like the sound of his email, another because he seemed (get this) to be available, and yet another because she literally did not like his hair.

Her end choice was a famous photography company that is often featured on bridal television for reasons I will never understand.  The photographer himself seemed to be high on methamphetamines, and was almost punched by my husband for not being able to keep his nose out of my neck, where he was supposedly admiring my perfume.  And the pictures?  Stiff portraits, noses in bouquets, family shots and a bride putting on makeup.

The Cocktail Hour:

My mother-in-law decided that she must throw a cocktail hour before the ceremony.  After considering for a while, my husband and I decided strongly against it.  We simply wanted a sober crowd for the vows, a little bit of reverence for a measly 20 minutes.  Then people could get as drunk as they wanted!  We explained this to her and she seemed to understand.  “Done,” she said.  We asked if she really got it.  “Of course!  Why would you have to ask me twice?”

Why, indeed.  Two weeks later, she phoned to ask what kind of wine we wanted served before the wedding.  The woman took advantage of my flabbergasted silence to express how it simply must – MUST – be done, no way around it.  I will not repeat the raging profanities traveling loudly from my mouth to her ear; I will say that the sweet, accomodating daughter-in-law everyone hoped for went away that day and is still on vacation.  She has stood a little further from me ever since. 

The Rehearsal Dinner:

Lamb.  That’s all I have to say. 

The Registry:

Six months of fielding phone calls from my husband’s mother, insisting we change our choice of knife set, luggage, linens and appliances to the brands of her liking.   Because nothing else will do, no?

The Wedding Cake:

Despite numerous reminders to keep the top layer of the cake for my husband and I, we arrived for brunch the day after the wedding to find that my in-laws had eaten it for an early breakfast.

I could continue, but fear the memories will make me homocidal.  There is one thing amid the crap that remains sacred, though.  I was such at wit’s end before the wedding that our officiant, a wonderful wonderful woman, made an amazing suggestion.  If we really wanted something special only for us – something that not even his mother could hijack – she would marry us a few days before the wedding date.  And that’s exactly what we did.  Three days prior to the public circus, we stood in front of our fireplace and exchanged rings and vows; my husband in his favorite dress shirt and me in a lily white minidress, all of us barefoot and determined to retain the real spirit of this thing. 

When we stood in the garden for the formal ceremony that weekend - with the blue flower arrangements, as the cover band was setting up, and in front of the two hundred guests who had already been drinking – there was nothing that could ruin my wedding.  We were already married. 

I still delight in that secret.