In which I type in capital letters a lot

Ah, weddings. So much planning, so much stress, so many many details, for ten minutes worth of "Do you? Do you? I now pronounce you husband and wife".

It makes me glad I never, ever have to get married again.

Wednesday night, my phone exploded with THE DRAMA OF THE DRESS! L, the bride, had hired a dress maker (a trained dressmaker, mind you, not some random person off Craigslist) to make her dream dress. A gorgeous Edwardian cream colored gown with a ruched bodice and a slight train.

What she got? THREE DAYS before the wedding? After weeks of calling and a very lawyerly phone call on the part of the lawyer groom? A misaligned bodice, a skirt whose lining seams were not centered with the over skirts seam and buttons that fell off. FELL OFF. Not even counting into the equation that there were straight pins sewn into the seams, random bits sewn in to disguise a poorly cut neck line and ORANGE MARKER visible on the back. Luckily, CK was on her way and managed to save the dress (blood, sweat and tears were involved) and L looked lovely.

But the damage was done and L, who is a wee bit (read VERY) high strung was already well on the way to freak-out town.

Which is how the photographer almost got stabbed to death with cocktail toothpicks.

Here's a tip, photographers, when the bride is standing in 40* weather, anxious to get the day over with already, telling her to "Just shake out that stress! Come on, just wiggle it free with me! Now, look longingly for your lover..." is a sure fire way to lose a limb. Or all of them.

About that time, I got a text saying "If you are joking about having Xanax in your purse, I'm going to KILL YOU".

Really, though, who would joke about THAT?

Just as L's eye began to twitch, we arrived at the site and I spared several of my precious and within a half an hour she began to calm down. Flowers the wrong color? Eh. The hem of the dress filthy because the veranda hadn't been swept? Eh. People running late? Eh. The minister forgets the part where they exchanged the rings? Ha ha! So funny! Not enough chairs? Pass the bacon-wrapped shrimp!

Can I just tell y'all? If you're sitting there wondering what to get your cousin Francine for her wedding next week? The answer is XANAX.

The wedding was lovely and short (the way I like them) and the bar was well stocked (EXACTLY the way I like them) and at the end of the evening? When everyone was tipsy and half dead from dancing? They passed out teeny-little grilled cheese sandwiches.

Seriously! How brilliant is that? Who doesn't like grilled cheese!

So, I guess, really, this story has two points. 1) Xanax is the magical Tic-Tac of happiness and 2)Grilled cheese is the best party ending canape EVER.

Oh. Three points.

If your kid is leaking snot like the Exxon Valdez of mucus, FOR FUCKS SAKE DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE and then sit next to me. Or I will stab you. Even if your baby looks exactly like a wee-little Charlie Brown and charmingly shouts HULLO! in the most adorably random impression of Grommit. No free pass will be awarded based on crooked ears and three teeth. None. Snot trumps all get out of jail tiny Chuck Taylor's.