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Ally
I don't like to call any bride I work with a bridezilla, but holy shiitake mushrooms.
I've just stepped out of the wedding venue to grab a huge, overpriced black coffee because I'm going to need it to make it through this Friday night wedding. While I am out, I check my email and see that my renter arrived at the condo with no issues.
He sent me a very polite email through the rental app, which is more than I can say for most of the people who rent my condo. I keep the place immaculate because I mainly use it as a home office when I first meet with clients. I spend so little time there on weekends because I'm working weddings all over the city, so I'll usually spend weekend nights in hotels near the wedding locations or at my Pops and Grams' house.
I may not love Taffy, the bride I'm working with tonight, but as soon as Taffy's check clears, I'll be able to put a down payment on a second property. I'm thinking of a picturesque spot in the country where I can stay on weekends while I work on weddings in more rural setting
s. It makes sense because half of my weddings these days are held at a vineyard or somewhere out in the rural areas. With as much driving as I do and the late nights I work, I do need multiple places to crash.
Creating memorable dream weddings has always been my passion. But what makes me memorable are the personal touches I put on everything I do, which is true for weddings and renting out my condo. Case in point: as I sip my coffee and scroll through my rental profile, I see that Mr. Smith has already left a review.
I smile like a dope, letting myself feel good about having at least one satisfied client tonight. His post reads, "Place is immaculate. Owner is very thorough with directions and advice for things to do in the area. Her sweet notes made me feel welcome, and the place feels even better than home."
Mr. Smith's praise has me feeling a little giddy, and before I can tuck my phone away I get an alert for another email from him, telling me his boss, the ranch owner, might be getting married soon. I forward him my contact card and let him know he can text me at that number directly if he has any questions.
I had hoped the bride would maintain her calm while I stepped out. It took me literally five minutes to run across the street from her venue here at the Windsor Hotel, but she's in full meltdown mode when I return.
"I told that woman to wear black. It was on the invitation," Taffy wails at me, her arms gesturing wildly, her teary eyes threatening to ruin her makeup. "Everyone is supposed to be wearing black floor-length gowns or black suits. If she's not in black, it ruins the photos. You might as well go ahead and send the photographer home because I don't want a single moment of what she's done to me on my day preserved forever!"
It's not necessarily my job to talk a bride off the ledge, but I'm pretty good at it. Taffy's maid of honor is drunk and crying over having gained half a pound since the last fitting, so she's no help. It's an hour before the ceremony and things are already out of hand.
But that's OK. I got this. It's what I do.
I hand over my coffee to the maid of honor. "Drink this," I say sweetly, and then plaster on my brightest smile and hiss for only her to hear. "And get your shit together; your best friend is getting married in an hour."
I lead Taffy to the chaise in the bridal suite.
"Honey," I say, talking to my client like she's my lifelong best friend, even though she's been the all-time worst client of my entire life. All she needs is a reminder that the love of her life is waiting for her downstairs to start their life together, and whether or not her mother decided to wear charcoal is not going to matter when they're on their honeymoon in Paris.
I feel her pain, a little bit. I'd be pretty pissed if my mom did that to me, but then, if I do ever get married, I won't give a flip what people wear to the wedding. The guests could be naked for all I care. I've done several hundred weddings in the last five years -- and a huge guest list with a dress code is almost always a recipe for disaster -- if the bride cares too hard. And the bride always cares too hard.
Taffy is on another level, claiming that these photos are going to give her PTSD.
I'm about done with this nonsense. It's time for some tough love.
Asking everyone including the makeup artist to clear the room, I offer some perspective. "Taffy. You are about to marry Jason, the love of your life, and you are about to make partner. Your daily barre class has your backside killing it in this dress, and your bridesmaids are carrying flowers that were imported here from Vietnam. I didn't think I could pull that off for you, but I did it. So let me tell you something else about PTSD. My grandpa—who was drafted in 1969, served proudly, and received a Purple Heart—has actual PTSD, and flinches whenever he hears helicopters."
Taffy's eyes go wide.
"Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and hides under the bed. That, Taffy, is actual PTSD. Do you understand now?"
I worry for a moment that I might have pushed too far, but I press on.
"So do you think you can overlook your mother wearing a charcoal gray dress and get that immaculate backside of yours downstairs to get married?"
Taffy seems to understand but she still pouts. "I just don't know why she has to be so spiteful."
I squeeze her shoulder in understanding. "Some moms be crazy. Move on, woman."
Just then, a voice comes into my ear via my headset. My assistant tells me that all the guests are seated and it's time for the bridesmaids and the groomsmen to make their entrance.
"Send Dad on up. Let's do this."
Taffy gives me the hairy eyeball. "I can't believe I'm paying you to talk to me like this."
I smile sweetly and say, "Honey, that little pep talk is extra."
