Revenge of the Wedding Planner – Part I
When I got married a little over three years ago, I was lucky enough to be able to afford the services of a wedding planner. At the time, we lived in Chicago, and that was where we were getting married. However, as neither of us grew up there, we turned to our friends and colleagues for recommendations to find a planner.
At the time, my husband and I were of the mind that there were likely two types of wedding planners (at least in Chicago):
1. The Suburban Yenta
2. The Gay Male. Not wanting to be subjected to someone’s great aunt Judy’s idea of what would make a marvelous kiddish cup, we immediately weeded out all the women and only interviewed the men. We discovered pretty quickly that we were wrong in our assumption about the two types – one of the men we interviewed was straight (shocker of all shockers) and basically was the grandpa male equivalent of the yenta, for whom a wedding was more of a business than an individual event. Needless to say, we quickly weeded him out, too, and went with the gay wedding planner of our dreams. His name was even Frank, although, sadly, he did not pronounce the way Martin Short would.
We always knew Frank was marvelous – we called him from the parking lot two seconds after we left his office to ask if he would indeed be our planner – and he never disappointed. He was a delight to work with the entire time, and made what would have otherwise been an overwhelming and stressful process lovely and fun. I may have been the least stressed out bride to be anyone has ever met. Frank convinced a caterer to keep his our appointment for a tasting open during a Chicago blizzard, greeting us with what would be our ‘signature drink’ after we all trekked through the snow after work looking like sodden yetis. He stuffed, licked, stamped, sealed and sent out our invitations for us. He had lighting design meetings and event space walk through that we didn’t even have to go to. At the wedding, Frank and his minions were all dressed in mock turtlenecks and stage blacks with headsets, treating the event as though it were the biggest Broadway show. They were polite, knowledgeable, and helpful – to us and everyone else. Frank even fluffed my train before he cued me to head down the aisle.
After our blissful Frank experience, my husband and I always recommend getting a wedding planner to newly engaged friends if they can swing it. “It’s the absolute best thing you can do for yourself. Worth every penny,” we say. That is, until last weekend.
Last weekend, when my blissful innocence was ruptured at my cousin’s wedding. My cousin and I are extremely close; she was my maid of honor, and last weekend I was hers. Since she got engaged, my concern was making sure my MOH duties were executed faithfully and correctly–organizing the bachelorette party, learning the bustle, all those things. Luckily, early on my cousin took my heretofore sage advice and hired herself a planner. And at this point, I thought this would make my MOH duties even easier. I was mistaken.
I should have caught little hints that this wedding planner was no Frank earlier on. At times, my cousin would mention to me as we chatted online that her planner wasn’t booking things when my cousin asked, holding up the planning until it suited her own schedule. And periodically my cousin would say things along the lines of, ‘I don’t think the planner is very happy with me.’ While I love her unreservedly, my cousin can have high standards, so I just wrote this off as her possibly being a little difficult to please at times. Now I fall to my knees–Cousin, I did not give you enough credit.