The wedding, what a minefield! This is often where the real drama starts. William Shakespeare did not give us much of a revelation when he wrote, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” The path to planning the perfect day has never been easy, and believe you me, the petal-strewn walk down the aisle will be no bed of roses either!

“Honey, you can have any kind of wedding you want . . . ” he may whisper to you in the early stages of bliss. Don’t fall for this as you fall into his arms. Be as wary as an alley cat eyeing a bowl of milk placed by a fence. You want a big wedding at a romantic destination or in a sweet, simple chapel, while He wants his ex brother-in-law (his best friend!) to be his best man. This is part of the big bag of trash you both bring to the relationship that sometimes can never be disposed of, but perhaps can at least be compacted.

Regardless of the location, your special day is likely to be an assembly of friends, foes, and dysfunctional family: His, yours, Hers, and theirs! This celebration brings out the best and the beastly! Your perfect day will be analyzed and scrutinized from all sides.

His female friends, especially the ones He bedded or potentially bedded, will be furious. There is no better description—they are all up in arms and wondering what kinds of tricks you pulled to get him.

If you are marrying money, her newly flossed porcelains are ready.

She probably gripped him with her great oral hygiene . . . what a slut! one thinks to herself as she holds the wedding invitation in hand. Still another affirms her wedding day strategy to her closest confidante, “I’ll go to the wedding, look simply fab, be mean to Her, and He will wish it were me He is whisking off my Manolo Blahniks!”

And you can just hear his family’s reactions now.

“Our little angel is marrying Her,” bemoans his vigilant mother, protecting her cub. “No surprise to me,” says Great Gramma Lil. “I just hope She’s not in the family way!”

Mama Bear, in shock that her poor son is taking on the Kate Gosselin brood, whispers back, “I don’t know how he’ll ever make this bunch a living. I tell you one thing, she better not expect me to babysit one minute. It’s not me getting into this mess—it’s my husband’s son.”

They are all up in arms and wondering what kinds of tricks you pulled to get him.

Your mother is likely to be in one of two states at this point. If you are marrying money, her newly flossed porcelains are ready. “I just love my new son-in-law,” she will beam to everyone within earshot. Is it the smell of her brand new perfume purchased for the Big Day, or her syrupy bragging to her friends (whose children married assorted losers) that is creating a wave of nausea rampant in the room?

Dressed to the nines but with somber expressions, they know this could be the end.

On the other hand, your mother’s bouts with depression could reappear. If your Soon-to-be-Betrothed invited your father to accompany him to Men’s Warehouse to pick up his one-day tuxedo rental (and his mother offered to bake homemade meat loaf to serve at the rehearsal dinner), your mother will be forced to consider renewing her Valium prescription.

To his crowd, a place setting means deciding which place at the table they can grab the fastest to wolf down another Frito pie! Here comes another freeloader, your mother thinks, wishing she could get a refund on your private school tuition. When she ends up throwing neighborhood parties in her doublewide, all the scrimping I did to pay for her sorority gown will prove needless, she laments.

At the wedding rehearsal, the mothers-in-law try never to come close enough to rub any body parts together, including hugs or handshakes. Even though flu season has long passed, these two act like quarantined athletes ready for a fight. The slightest spark of competition can send the two mama bears into a sparring match while their two cubs receive last-minute instruction from the clergy.

. . . your mother will be forced to consider renewing her Valium prescription.

His children are freshly spit-shined from the saliva his Ex-wife has spewed. Their processional resembles Mary Queen of Scots going to the executioner. Dressed to the nines but with somber expressions, they know this could be the end. She has assured them, “Daddy is hooking up with the ugly stepmother. My darlings, you’re toast! You will be lucky to get a Walmart special next Christmas—it will be the one thing left that her kids didn’t want.”

Just then, the bitter enemy approaches—the Last Wife’s Best Friend!

You’ve threatened your children, “Do not make a scene.” They are at their Sunday best. Little smiling cherubs or teenage starlets, they will put on an Oscar-worthy performance. “Mommy, we are so glad to be at the ball. You look so pretty,” they chime together. (At this, the thought briefly occurs to you that maybe you shouldn’t have divorced their father since your genes so evidently worked to perfection!)

At the reception, both families jockey for the best position in the buffet line. The shoving and hissing among the bloodlines might be clandestine, but be certain it’s there.

Another wedding . . . at least the food looks good, the family misfits think as they gnaw on another beef rib. “Oh well,” mutters cousin Bernie. “Even if my top button snaps, I am eating another round. Moneybags can pay for it.”

Here comes another freeloader, your mother thinks, wishing she could get a refund on your private school tuition.

Just then, the bitter enemy approaches—the Last Wife’s Best Friend! She has been angling all night for a direct hit, one that can land you where you belong. She and the Last Wife have practiced their moves during their “just-one-more-glass” pity parties throughout your engagement. If she could not get to you before the priest marries you off, she will get to you during the conga line!

By now, your face is beginning to freeze into an eternal “say cheese” position. “What are you smiling for?” she spits. Shocked into reality, you realize permanent lines have now formed around your grin even as you think, How I hate this witch.

Suddenly your charm school training kicks in. “We know you are so happy for us,” you say as you squeeze your Beloved’s arm.

Thank God the ring is tightly wound around your finger!

Hyperventilating and unable to reply, she skulks off and later expresses her disappointment with a text to his Last Wife: “She is still standing. But I won’t give up. I am just like family and you can count on me.”

Thank God the ring is tightly wound around your finger! This battle is over, but the war has just begun.