I Should Be a Wedding Planner

I spend a lot of time looking at wedding photos. Thinking about strangers' weddings. Staring at flower arrangements, designer gowns and seaside ceremonies.

As a single gal, this does not depress me. Nor does it send me to the uncomfortable world of wishful thinking. For this, I am thankful.

But sometimes it gets overwhelming, mentally assessing the overblown budgets. Pondering the financial strain people must willingly endure to hold one fancy party that will be over all too soon. Maybe I'm just not a peacock-feathers-in-the-imported-bouquet kind of girl. Or I'm just comfortably poor and unwilling to consider throwing a bash that costs more than a house.

I should be a wedding planner.

Have you seen this? A woman was scouring through a used-clothing warehouse in Montreal and found her dream dress. For 5 dollars. The photo is pre-ironing, so don't judge.


Too bad the name Wedding Bells is already taken. Would have been a brilliant name for my business. There has to be a way to do gorgeous on a budget. In fact, I know there is.

Brides-to-be, call me.



P.S. You can now get married at the House of Juliet in Verona. Lovely. In theory. Personally, I'm a little wary of seeking a R&J kind of love. Quite frankly, faking my own suicide to avoid getting married to some icky man even though I already have a (banished and cousin-killing) husband (who I married out of that angsty adolescent lust that doesn't quite guarantee forever) only to have my beloved commit a real suicide (which inspires me to graduate my fake suicide to a real one too) doesn't spell R-O-M-A-N-C-E to me. But I'm old and cynical.