I planned a wedding in five months.  I joked with people saying, “If you give up every aspect of tradition, wedding planning is a cinch.”  I did good.  I enjoy event planning.  Go team wedding.  But being one to draw humor from the negative, or at least use self-deprecation as a humor-crutch, I found good in the little bad that occurred over this time.  I was no Bridezilla by any means, and I feel I reached a zen-like calm with my lists and to-dos and was done with everything two weeks prior to the date itself.  That being said, there were three hiccups:

1. Soon on Etsy: I thought in my head it would be crafty to do intense wire creations for boutonnieres.  Wires and welding, feathers lifted from Cirque du Soleil’s shag carpeting, glorious and intricate expressions of artistic experimentation.  I scrapped the idea eventually because I felt bad making the wedding party wear my homemade dreamcatchers.  If we were in North Dakota and my wedding dress had a wolf print on it, maybe, but for a city landscape I think I channeled too much of my inner hippie for comfort.

2. Mainstream Wedding Fail: The last visit to the craft store I discovered that they actually had a row just for wedding things.  Feeling a little foolish that I hadn’t ventured outside the two aisles I’d been frequenting I decided to load up on the traditional things like a guest book, thank you notes and envelope labels.

Guest book:  Why must you be 900 pages long?  I’m having a modest wedding.  Why must you ask for the date and address of my guests?  Don’t know you know I plan ahead and already got that from them when they RSVP’d?  I want nice things said about us, the happy couple, pictures and anecdotes and drawings!  And you dare insult me by assuming I need their address?!

Envelope labels:  Why must you be possessed by the devil?  You and my printer were in cahoots, I’m sure of it.  I put the practice sheet in, it prints out right.  I put the fancy sheet in.  It prints out wrong.  What did I do different?  Put in another practice sheet.  Correct!  Page two goes in.  FUCK BALLS WRONG.  At this point, the third and final label page is useless, but I still try to speak the secret language of the label… and sigh heavily in defeat as it prints out incorrectly.

Thank you notes: Apparently a bit pricey to send 75 thank you notes.  So in the wedding aisle I looked for a deal and found 100 in a package.  Hell yeah, mainstream wedding industry.  Thanks for helping a bride out.  I get home to find that these thank you notes (which we sacrificed cuteness for quantity), didn’t have envelopes amidst this jam pack.  And unfortunately there is no separate box of 100 envelopes and I’m stuck waiving my fist in the air.

Seriously, wedding aisle.  You get no gold stars.  I will continue to DIY and craft my own crocheted thank you wedding scarves.

3. I Know I’m Right: I am an organized person.  I will remember the date and time you give me.  I will write it down immediately and not need to double check because I am right.  I am an organized person.  So when I am told by the tailor’s assistant to pick up my dress last Saturday at 5pm, I didn’t quite understand why she was so confused and defensive at my arrival.

“I’m here to pick up my dress.”

“We’re closed now.”

“Um… I was told 5pm on Saturday.”

“No… I’d never make an appointment for that late.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, I’m sorry, but I was told 5pm.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

Fuck… I didn’t.  It was in my other bag.  Now, this elderly European woman had the upper hand and I had to beg to give her money in exchange for something 20 feet away on a hanger.  She insisted she would have never made an appointment for 5pm since they close at 2pm. Yes, I thought.  But you did not make the appointment.  You assistant did.  And I am correct and ever so right that the appointment was set for 3 hours after you closed.

My dress is a cocktail dress.  The alteration was very simple and she could have sewn the sides together with her dagger eyes in two seconds.  Luckily she didn’t turn me away.  She went into the other room to grab my dress which I noticed had an entirely new receipt on it.  My Spidy Sherlock Sense blipped as I paid, and thanked the woman as if she’d done me this great favor.  She said “you’re welcome” thinking she’d done me a great favor.

I get home and check the receipt she gave me.  I was right.  Sept. 25th at 5pm.  DON’T MESS WITH ORGANIZED BRIDE.  Now I have this internal struggle saying, “Just let it go, it’s not worth it.”  Which it’s not.  But the other part of me wants to reenact a “Good Will Hunting” scene and slam the receipt on the shop’s door, proving something about ‘dem apples and asking if she in fact enjoyed them.

And now today is the wedding.  And people say to just go with the flow.  No problem.  So after clearing up a quick confusion with the cupcake place that mistakingly thought they had no record of our order (oh, those silly kids!), I sit on the couch finishing my cup of coffee while my husband of the future kills zombies online.

Tonight we get married.  Things are good.