Even for someone who has had every last minute detail of her wedding planned since year dot, wedding planning is HARD, guys! I’m ashamed that I had my first proper Bridezilla moment at the weekend.
So we are full steam ahead. We got engaged on 5th October, and looking back over my email, by the 8th October, I had sent off approximately 25 emails enquiring about this that and the other. Seriously – if a child has been wanting to eat a piece of cake it’s whole life, and then suddenly it’s handed a piece of cake, you don’t expect it to take its time savouring it, do you? Nope, I was on it, like a car bonnet.
I’m usually quite organised and methodical in any task I undertake, I like to keep track of exactly what I’m doing, where I’m up to with everything and what needs doing. I love excel for this. There are functions which could only have been created for event planning, don’t you know!? But no, I went crazy, I clicked ‘enquire’ on every page I went on, and sent off tons of emails. After a day or two, when I hit the ground head first with a dull thud after my sugary proposal high, I realised I was a mess of not knowing who I’d contacted, what questions I’d asked them, or where I was up to. The Doc was amused: “Engaged Melanie is hilarious. Although a little crazy”. I was perplexed. I sorted myself out.
So, where are we up to? I told you that I was full steam ahead, right? I think we may have employed a Wedding Planner. A Spanish Wedding Planner. That gives you a clue as to where we’re getting married. Next October.
She happened to be on a roadshow and we bagged her last appointment here in Manchester. The meeting was, um … OK, let me set the scene…
Friday night, I was out with my bezzie, his wife and The Doc – he’s all rich and shit now (he works for Google and his salary is 4 times mine) and so he kept on buying champagne and cocktails all night in celebration of our pending nuptials. We ended up in a bar with very high round tables with high stools. You know the kind of stool us littluns have to proper hoike themselves up on to? I have no idea what happened, I was sat chatting (OK, ‘chatting’ is a bit of a lie. I was pretending to play the organ along to Phantom of the Opera) and then it was like someone kicked out the bottom of my stool. I was on the floor with the table and all its contents on top of me, a black eye, a huge lump on the back of my head and various other areas of me were soon to turn black and blue. I did what any other girl full of champagne in my situation would do – I cried like a baby, from that moment until the moment I was home safe in bed. Seriously, there was mascara on my FOREHEAD when I got home.
Saturday night we had an engagement we couldn’t get out of – one of those where diaries had been compared for months in order to try and coordinate a bunch of us being in the same place at the same time. I did the only thing I could and plastered over my black eye with make up and forced that first glass of wine down past the gags. After the first glass of wine, the rest went down easy and before I knew it, I was home vomiting. I haven’t vomited from alcohol since I was young enough not to know better. I am not that girl. Usually.
So, the appointment with The Wedding planner, who shall from hence forth be known as The Sergeant, was at 9.30 the next morning. The Doc had to put me in the shower and drag me all the way there. I can’t say I gave the best impression of myself. I hate that. I love to make a good impression, and I tried really hard to, I tried to be the dreamy eyed sparkly bride – but in truth, I had the DT’s and couldn’t concentrate. I was probably green and smelt like vom, too. Given the limited time with The Sergeant, she obviously had to sell herself to us. In doing so, I got the wrong impression that she was telling me that our wedding must be this way and that way and her way. I sat there thinking that we were going to walk out of the appointment and say in unison “NO WAY” … but actually, we walked out and The Doc said “I. LOVE. HER.”
I stewed on it for a bit, but ultimately ended up in tears back at home that “My wedding is being taken away from me, it’s her dream, not mine. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ve got a hangover.” Proper tantrum. Proper idiot.
After being installed on to the sofa with a blanket and a cup of tea, reality reared its head and all was not as un-well as I’d thought it was.
The Sergeant is professional. She was demonstrating to us, in her speech, about how regimented she is on a wedding day so that the couple don’t have to lift a finger. Rather than ‘you don’t get a say in it’ she was telling me that ‘I will do your talking for you’. When she was talking about tapping her watch at suppliers and other people involved in the day, I pictured her tapping her watch at me while I was trying to choke out my vows, or my Dad while he told the world how beautiful and perfect his daughter is (har har). You’ve seen the episode where Monica is Phoebe’s wedding planner, right? The Sergeant is not like that. I had it in my head she was. I realised, with a little help from the Doc, that she is working for us, it’s her job to make everything exactly as we want it, and her no shit attitude is exactly perfect for that.
I was so embarrassed afterwards. Seriously, had I been sat in tears because I’d met a highly organised wedding planner?