(I’m attending my friends’ beautiful outdoor wedding. They are both aware that I have certain health issues regarding various food and drink, but they have done all they could be reasonably expected to do to make sure I’m not left hungry or thirsty. The food is fantastic and the “bottle bar” — serving everything but four beers out of bottles — is varied, but their soft drink selection is limited to [soda], [diet soda], and lemonade. Limited, but it’s fine.)

Me: “Can I have a [soda], please?”

Server: “Sure.” *grabs bottle of [diet soda]*

(One of my health issues is that the artificial sweetener in various diet sodas causes me gastrointestinal distress — stomach ache/cramps/increased need to use the bathroom — and headaches within an hour of drinking them. I want to enjoy the rest of the evening without writhing in pain, so I shout to try to stop them.)

Me: “No, not diet! I just want [soda]!”

Server: *ignores me and pours glass of [diet soda]* “That’ll be £2.”

Me: *thinking they might not have heard me over the music* “I said [soda], not [diet soda].”

Server: “We only have [diet soda].”

(The ceremony has been over for about an hour and a half by this point, and most people are drinking alcohol, so I am annoyed that one of their three soft drink options is apparently already gone.)

Me: “You could have told me that.”

Server: “It’s basically the same.”

Me: *looks at the menu again* “Which lemonade do you have?”

(Some of them use artificial sweeteners, and I really don’t want to only drink water for the rest of the night.)

Server: “Lemonade.”

Me: “[Brand #1]? [Brand #2]? Is it cloudy?”

Server: “It’s lemonade.”

Me: *defeated* “Just give me a lemonade, then.”

Server: *makes lemonade and puts it down* “£4.”

Me: *annoyed* “I didn’t want [diet soda]. It’s not what I asked for. I’m not going to pay for it.”

Server: “But I already poured it.”

Me: “I didn’t ask for it. I wanted [soda].”

Server: “But we ran out of [soda].”

Me: “And you should have told me that instead of assuming I was okay with a substitute.”

(Another weddinggoer walks up and orders a round from another bartender. Their order includes a [diet soda].)

Me: *to the other bartender* “Don’t pour one.” *gives them the [diet soda] I don’t want* “This one is ready to go.”

Server: “Hey, you can’t do that!”

Me: “Why not? He wants it. I don’t. I’m not going to pay for it. He will. That way you’re not wasting off stock, and I don’t have to walk away with a drink that I don’t want.” *hands over a £2 coin* “Here is the payment for my drink. If you have any problems, I’ll be over on [table number].”

(I didn’t hear anything else. I did mention the encounter to the bride and groom — after their honeymoon, of course.)

It’s my wedding day, and I made it very clear there is no dress code. I know that everyone will always dress up for a wedding, and I don’t want people to spend a lot of money for just one day. As long as it’s neat, I don’t care if it’s worn 100 times before, or brand new. My husband 100% agrees.

My father doesn’t know what to do with the dress code. He’s used to coming in a suit, fancy shoes… pretty much black tie. I tell him over and over again I don’t care if he wears jeans and a shirt, which he normally does; his presence is most important — plus, he got a wedding-license-for-a-day, so he can wed us, which is a dream of his.

The day itself is quite hot, so my dad has to change plans on the day itself. A suit is going to be impossible. He looks for a neat pair of pants in his closet and a button-down shirt. Still, he insists on wearing his fancy shoes, but he doesn’t want to get them dirty, deciding to go in worn-out shoes and put the fancy ones on at the castle where we’ll wed.

When he arrives at the castle, he puts on a shoe… and pushes the sole out! His fancy shoes are now in two parts — they were fancy for multiple years, so they are quite old. My dad starts to panic; he can’t go to his daughter’s wedding in the worn-out shoes!

He suddenly remembers his hiking shoes are in the back of the car. He takes a brush, used to clean the dogs after a visit to the beach, and cleans them the best way he can. The time is then up and he has to start the ceremony.

Nobody noticed my dad’s drama, but I’ll always remember this as the day fate told him to forget the black tie and just go as he truly was!

(I end up being the wedding planner of a Bridezilla. The bride’s sister — and bridesmaid — gets pregnant. The Bridezilla informs her that her pregnancy is inconvenient, and throws a fit at her poor timing because the dress will have to be altered to handle the pregnancy, etc. I flee to another room and shut the door, but they are having it out so loudly I can still hear the fight. After what seems like an eternity, the sister says coldly:)

Sister: “We’ve been trying for three years. While the wedding may be your day, you knew what I was going through to get the chance to have a baby.”

Bridezilla: “Well, then, I guess you can’t be in my wedding, because I don’t want to deal with the problems your pregnancy will cause.”

(While I stand there, flabbergasted, I hear nothing but silence and then the quiet shutting of the door. The sister had walked out without another word. I put on my best retail face and continue with the plans. A few months later, [Bridezilla] and [Bridezilla’s Mom] are with me, and [Bridezilla’s Mom] gets a phone call. [Bridezilla’s Mom] excuses herself and left to answer. She spends most of the meeting on the phone. Towards the end, [Bridezilla’s Mom] comes back, slowly putting her phone away. It looks as though she’s been crying.)

Bridezilla: “Who was that?”

Bridezilla’s Mom: “Your sister… She lost the baby.”

(Yep. [Bridezilla’s Mom] has definitely been crying… right along with her poor, distraught daughter on the other end of the phone. My heart breaks for them. There is nothing I can say to take the pain away, and there are not enough tissues in the world to mop up my sympathetic tears that are about to come to the surface.)

Bridezilla: “Oh. Well, I guess she can be in my wedding, then, since she’s not pregnant anymore.”

(I have never seen something snap behind another person’s eyes before. It’s absolutely terrifying! [Bridezilla’s Mom] turns to me and speaks in this deadly soft, deadly calm voice:)

Bridezilla’s Mom: “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time, but it looks as though I won’t be financing the wedding anymore. It looks like my daughter will be taking over paying for everything. I hope this doesn’t cause your business any trouble.”

Bridezilla: *suddenly horrified and in panic mode* “MOM?!”

Me: *giving [Bridezilla’s Mom] a brilliant smile* “I understand, ma’am. I think we can sort out the snags.”

([Bridezilla] freaked out, shrieking, waving her arms, screeching horrified questions, and getting more and more panicked as [Bridezilla’s Mom] coldly refuses to answer the demanding, “Why?!” of her “sudden and unexplained” refusal to pay for the wedding. [Bridezilla’s Mom] left, her back ramrod straight, trailed by her hysterical [Bridezilla] daughter. The wedding was cancelled entirely, twenty-four hours later, by the would-be groom.)

When I first started event-planning, a friend of mine hired me as a gift to her cousin to boost my business. Since the wedding was going to be a total DIY project, I was merely another set of hands to help out, and a record keeper. The bride was very creative and wanted to get married on Halloween of all days. Her greatest wish was to be married in a rainstorm at her grandfather’s house under the gazebo.

The two months leading up to the wedding consisted of making silk sunflower arrangements, procuring non-allergy hay-bales, and the bride painstakingly hand-dyeing lace black on a second-hand wedding dress she found at a church rummage sale.

The almanac and weather forecast called for clear skies that day, so we rigged up sprinklers and soaked hoses on the roof, and rented a tent to butt up against the gazebo to keep the guest area dry. Once we added a lighting strobe and the thunder recording, the effect was amazing.

The morning of the wedding, the bride got a glimmer of hope when, out of nowhere, the forecast called for a chance of thunderstorms that night. We met up at her hair appointment, and she remembered she needed more goodies for the kids party. Skies were clear when we entered the store, but when we came out, a dark mass of clouds was rolling in on the horizon. The bride literally skipped all the way to the car, singing, “It’s gonna rain.” Many people stopped and smiled at the sight of a grown woman with the freshly-done “I do” updo, complete with tiara and veil. skipping through the parking lot like a little girl.

By the time all the guests had arrived, it had started to sprinkle, and by the time the bride walked down the aisle it was a downpour. After the kiss, the bride and groom ran back up the aisle, through her grandfather’s house and out on the the driveway where they danced in the rain. All the black dye began streaking down the dress.

A few of the guests snipped at the display, but the bride didn’t care. She got the wedding of her dreams.

The bride hired me for a few extra weeks to help her rip apart her dress and make mini quilts for their parents and grandparents to be a backdrop to a pair of pictures in a shadow box: one picture of them saying their vows, and the other of them kissing in the rain.

(It’s my wedding day, and my dad is driving me insane. Literally.)

Dad: “I’ll drive you to your hairdresser appointment.”

Me: “Thanks, but I can drive myself, Dad.”

Dad: “No! It’s your wedding day, and I know how you brides get. You’ll probably crash your car because you’re hysterical. Better to let me do it.”

Me: *giving up* “Fine. I need to go to [Salon]. Because the timing is a bit tight, I’ll need to take my dress with me and change after my hair is done, so don’t drive off with my dress still in the car, okay?”

Dad: “Leave everything to me.”

(We get in the car and start driving… in the wrong direction.)

Me: “Dad?”

Dad: *ignores me*

Me: “DAD!”

Dad: “WHAT?”

Me: “Where are we going?”

Dad: “To [Wrong Location], just like you told me!”

Me: “No, I told you [Salon]!”

Dad: “Ugh.” *turns around*

(We arrive at the correct location.)

Me: “Okay, Dad, just let me grab my dress—”

Dad: *starts to drive away*

Me: “DAD!” *bangs on car*

Dad: “Now what?”

Me: “My dress!”

Dad: “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” *opens trunk*

(The rest of the day goes fairly smoothly, but then we get to the reception. I am happily chatting with some of my guests when Dad walks up to me with a scowl.)

Dad: “Hey, I need to talk to you.”

Me: “Sure, what’s up?”

Dad: “Your grandmother needs a cup of tea.” *looks at me expectantly*

Me: “Okay?”

Dad: “Well? Talk to one of these people!” *gestures at the staff*

Me: “Why me?”

Dad: “You’re the bride! They’ll listen to you!”

Me: “Dad, you’re the father of the bride, and you’re a guest. They’ll listen to you.”

Dad: “Hmph.” *stomps away*

(The irony is that, after his insistence that brides get “hysterical,” the only thing making me even close to hysterical that day was HIM. I still love him, though.)