Marital vows

While most of us have just recovered from the mental and financial hangovers of last season's weddings, many couples are already hard at work planning next year's nuptials. Yes, you batty brides- and bridegrooms-to-be, we know the whole shindig is all about you. But in the unlikely event that you actually care to consider your guests' feelings, I thought I'd offer a few suggestions from the perspective of the people helping you pay for that honeymoon in Kuala Lumpur. (For the record, Kim Kardashian could not be reached for her expert commentary.)

 

Allow invitees a plus-one, regardless of their relationship status. I once received an invitation addressed to "Mr. Richard Greeley and Jeannie." Yeah. My dad (who didn't even know you were engaged) and I would love to attend your wedding together. I am here to support your foray into the archaic institution of marriage. You could at least throw a bone to your hedonistic, commitment-phobic friend and the hot gay date I will molest in front of your in-laws. 

Don't scatter your closest friends at different tables. This is not a job fair or a speed-dating event. If I wanted to meet your cousins once removed, I'm perfectly capable of mingling. Just let me eat my family-style turkey dinner without having to serve as entertainment for these tepid personalities.

Don't foist too many decision-making duties on your bridesmaids. Between the shower, the bachelorette party, the dress, and various other obligations, I'd personally prefer you just ask me for $1,000 and tell me what to do and where to be. That way I won't be subjected to those incessant email chains of indecision. I would rather simply write a check than play psychological gymnastics with a group of passive-aggressive women who will all look worse in that hideous dress than I do.

Spare me the religion. After a night of binge drinking at your rehearsal dinner, the last thing I need is to awaken to Father Reilly selling me on traditional values for a full two hours. (And that Eucharist is not helping anyone's cottonmouth.) Besides, nothing outs your friends as the heathens they are like that awkward game of pew pantomime that ensues as they try to figure out what the hell is going on.

Open the damn bar for a bit. I am here to mourn the soon-to-be-compromised social life of my formerly single friend and await the impending announcement of conception. A girl needs a drink for this shit. Give me at least one hour of belligerent booze binging before I have to do the YMCA.

Return my gift. If, perchance, your big day turns into a big flop (like all your catty friends predicted as you were rushing to the altar with that floozy), I expect you to return my gift from the shower, engagement party, or other pre-wedding bilking event. Then I'll actually have one set of matching stemware to rival the dusty collections that my married counterparts amassed from their bloated bridal registries.

Send a thank-you note. No, an email doesn't count. And a Facebook message is like a digital bitch slap. I want a handwritten, USPS-sanctioned, saliva-laden, stamped envelope with a heartfelt sentiment that makes me feel like you remember I was there. In fact, if I was in your wedding party or helped plan your bachelorette bash, I want it delivered via a carrier pigeon . . . carrying a martini . . . with a nugget of weed hidden in its talons. Yes, your hands will cramp as you engage in the antiquated practice of penmanship - kind of like ours did as we were writing all those checks. Consider it payback.

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer and a happily unhitched bitch. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.