Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
When my daughter decided she wanted a do-it-yourself wedding at the beach, everybody loved the idea. We didn’t realize it meant Daddy would be the designated turkey fryer and 57 relatives would supply macaroni and cheese.
I’ve entertained a lot of fantasies about what my daughter’s wedding would be like, but none of them included me strangling scallops with bacon on her big day. My fantasies starred professional caterers who know how to roast prime rib and marinate meatballs simultaneously—without setting the reception hall on fire. When shells show up in the crab cakes, you need people to blame who aren’t your cousins, as any wedding planner will tell you.
But I didn’t dare push the issue, because the golden rule of prenuptial peace is not to argue with the bride, who might hurt you if you happen to be her mother.
Any female—no matter how naturally sweet, lovable and easygoing she was prior to her engagement—becomes a ticking time bomb under the pressure of ordering monogrammed M&M’s to match the groom’s cummerbund. No one knows what teeny detail might push the bridal brain over the edge.
If a normally law-abiding bride-to-be got up one morning and decided to rob a bank, she could just tell the judge she needed extra cash for her cake topper and plead “Premarital Insanity.” She’d get off with the court’s deepest apologies for her inconvenience, as long as she promised to leave before exploding.
So, in the interest of self-preservation, her dad and I just started nodding in agreement with every word our deranged baby girl uttered six solid months before the wedding.
She didn’t want bridesmaids, since it was too difficult to find dresses that flattered everyone’s tattoos. The only members of the wedding party would be her two Labrador retrievers sporting casual beach attire. And the only rule of etiquette that concerned her was making sure the ceremony would be properly Facebooked, Twittered and blogged.
Thankfully, she didn’t want me anywhere near the kitchen. My only job was to decorate the groom’s car after the ceremony on the big day, which came before we knew it.
We couldn’t have asked for better weather. The warm sunshine was perfect for guests to wait around the beach for the father of the bride, who was still frying fowl when he was supposed to be giving the bride away. The delay also gave the bridal party time to eat their outfits.
By the time the bride and groom said “I do,” we’d transformed the groom’s black Honda into the picture-perfect wedding mobile. A couple of artistic nephews helped me attach streamers and balloons and stencil hearts all over the car.
We knew the newlyweds would be thrilled with our masterpiece, until they slipped into the other black Honda parked across the lot. My nephews and I backed away from our work and watched as two guys we’d never seen before drove off in our “Just Married” mobile.
We hustled over to the reception, where the party was already going strong and none of the little snafus seemed to matter anymore. Months of craziness were finally over, and the radiant bride was returning to her sane, lovable self. Life was good.
And then her sister caught the bouquet.
EDITOR’S NOTE: South Carolina Living is reprinting some of Jan A. Igoe’s previous columns. This “Humor Me” originally appeared in the February 2010 issue. Visit SCLiving.coop/news/in-memory-of-jan-igoe.