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Father of the Bride |
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By Tom Gable
Back in the troglodyte days, my wife and her mom planned our wedding on a few pages of lined paper from a three-ring binder. Now, the San Diego Supercomputer Center could crunch the data as mother in California and daughter in Virginia e-mail Excel spreadsheets back and forth daily. They started some 10 months before the event. Given the logistical details and precise timing, we could have used their expertise for the invasion of Cuba or the rescue of the Mir spacecraft.
As recently as a decade ago, friends and family provided most of the advice on wedding planning. Today, the Internet offers at least a dozen advice sites (like theknot.com and sandiegoweddings.com), including bulletin boards where brides-to-be, brides, moms, divorcées, female impersonators and others contribute hot tips, advice and warnings on local suppliers (“The food was good at the preview tasting, but staff at the reception had the hygiene habits of Pakistani sheepherders.” “Go to the bridal fairs to make sure you don’t hire one of the slimy deejays.” “Check the potential playlist so the parents can dance to something other than Third Eye Blind, Metallica and Anthrax.”). The suppliers often fire back (“What do you mean by slimy?”), but woe to the one who tries to outflame the leaders of the wedding party in full hunt.
The guest list requires computer management, since there is the A list, B list and nondescript-relatives-and-former-friends list (we are trying to arrange a special room or spot in a neighboring forest for the reception overflow, should some surprises show up). Lists seem to be subdivided into the wedding list, the reception list, the post-event announcement list and the delete list.
Much must be learned by osmosis, since including males in the planning process is about as popular as taking the ladies’ bridge club to a sports bar during Monday Night Football. A lot can be gleaned from the 312 bridal magazines and books scattered around the homestead—Martha Stewart Living, a for-Dummies book and special issues thick enough to be used by Richard Simmons for his step class. If one wants to speed the educational process, one may browse magazine Web sites, which feature photos of bridesmaids’ dresses (strapless, armless, long-sleeve, short-sleeve, backless, etc.) that can be easily copied and e-mailed for perusal and approval by the bridesmaids—or for a few laughs among the groomsmen.
Selecting the caterer—from industrial-sized ones who provision parties for American Legion conventions to the cook at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant—goes from comparing apples to apples, organically grown endive to organically grown endive. Say adieu, aloha or adios to finger food for receptions. No more cheese cubes and crackers, carrot and celery sticks, nachos and cheese, won-tons, little Hormel wieners on toothpicks in a Spam sauce.
A sit-down dinner may be required. Dads can hedge by going to buffet service and lower-priced fare but could risk sullying the family reputation for decades (“Where did they get that menu? Folsom Prison? Meat loaf, mashed potatoes and creamed corn!”). But beware of the chef from the gourmet restaurant with custom options (“Your guests will love the puréed lobster on endive enhanced with little smiley faces made from caviar and capers—$40 per person”).
As one cost-saving measure, The Native is starting a cottage industry: faux wedding cakes—great plastic replicas, similar to food displays in restaurant windows in Japan. Offer a range of architecturally magnificent structures. Leave a little notch in the back of each, for real cake the bride and groom can cut during the ceremony. Have little squares of cake from Costco presliced and ready to serve from the kitchen. No one will notice. By the time of the cake-cutting (four hours after the wedding, given the photography, videography and other stuff), guests will be bleary-eyed from consuming a year’s supply of $4.99 Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon and Old Buckeye Light Beer and dancing the macarena.
Perhaps we need a return to simplicity, with hippie-era trappings and budgets: Holly Hobby dresses on the women; tied-dyed shirts on the men; a little ceremony on Sunset Cliffs conducted by a ponytailed Priest of the Righteous Surfing Spot (or other fringe religion formed for the sole purpose of abetting draft evasion in the 1960s); wine in 5-gallon boxes; a communal potluck; dancing until we sweat through our shoes.
It may be too late for this wedding, but with one more daughter waiting in the wings, the concept has potential.
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