Look, I've been in scads of weddings, my own (leading to a dismal marriage and an even more dismal divorce) and approximately twenty-seven others. Which means that I've propped up hysterical brides, sobered up inebriated grooms, changed dirty diapers on flower girls, and worn bridesmaid dresses that were patterned after the Hindenburg. So now that my daughter Jenna has been bitten by the matrimonial bug . . . I can handle it. Being Mother of the Bride couldn't be any worse than being in those other weddings, could it?
In a word, "yes."
I'm going to need some serious help. But my posse, my three very best friends, have zoomed into the Twilight Zone. Brilliant Gwen can't find her car keys -- or remember if she owns a car. Sweet-tempered Marie is ready to divorce and/or kill Jack for leaving the toilet seat up. And Jessica, thrice a grandmother, is lusting after guys who should still be offered crayons at Denny's. With insanity running rampant in my inner circle, how the heck are we going to get this wedding planned -- and find dyed-to-match shoes that won't bruise our bunions?
Looks like you're on your own this time, Angie Hawkins . . . for better or (most probably) for worse!
