The mother of the bride stood before me, a vision of confidence in a Chanel suit she bought at Rich’s, “in Atlanta, don’tchaknow.”
“Now, dear, we want to make sure that Merry Sue’s wedding is given the proper coverage, don’t we?”
“Oh, golly yes,” I replied. “I just hope the networks don’t waste time on that pesky war in Iraq because I’m sure they’d rather be covering your daughter’s wedding.”
“See here,” she said, while I paused to lap from a saucer of cream on my desk. “Merry Sue’s father, Dr. Wayward Penberthy Extravagance III and I have planned this wedding for years. I guarantee that it will be the social event of the season.”
“Okay, but you probably wouldn’t say that if you’d been at the Tammy Faye Messner karaoke and look-alike contest at the Sheraton last week.”
She didn’t laugh. Bridal mothers have no sense of humor. I know this because I’ve assisted them with their daughters’ wedding announcements for years.
I can tell you there is no more tenacious, single-minded and utterly obnoxious creature on this earth than the Southern Bridal Mother.
The worst day of my employed life was the day I accidentally ran a bride’s photo and write-up in the newspaper the week before her wedding. The Sunday morning the paper came out, I had a call at home. The sun wasn’t up yet.
“You have ruined my life and that of my daughter,” she said.
It was an unforgivable slip. In the South, seeing the bride’s gown before her wedding day ranks right down there with finding out your grandmother’s sterling is actually silverplate or—worse—that the groom has relatives in Pittsburgh.
It was a wretched error and I knew that I’d destroyed the most special day in this young woman’s life.
Oh, well.
I won’t say there haven’t been a few laughs working with bridal mothers.
There was the one who loudly announced that “getting married to that clod will be the biggest mistake my daughter has ever made,” then dismissed the groom’s family as “cheap Christmas trash.”
Impending nuptials have a disturbing effect on brides-to-be.
Where else will you see a mom bully her all-grown-up-with-a-Ph.D daughter as if she were six years old and trying to sneak another Chilly Willy from the freezer before dinner?
I have seen these women wilt quicker than convenience-store roses in the presence of their mothers.
“But Mama, Waylon and I just have to have that Apache Indian prayer read at our wedding. It will be the most meaningful part of the entire ceremony.”
“Forget it, Toots.”
“Okay.”
See what I mean?