the (accidental) wedding planner

Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet.
A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes.
You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance, and I quickly kneel by your side offering you a whole book as a gift.
You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say here is a rope, tie it around me, I will be your companion for life.

~ Our Union by Hafiz

A friend of mine, let's call her the Neurosurgeon, is getting married on Saturday to this guy who, for the sake of simplicity, shall be known as the Diplomat.

Because the Neurosurgeon works long hours on crazy shifts and the Diplomat is not even based in Singapore, somehow, I landed the job of Wedding Planner.

My only experience has been as a 姐妹 (twice), a guest-book-angpow-box guardian (also twice) and Polaroid photographer (once, super fun until I realised I had to shoot a former MP and my company's CEO).

So far, we have settled:

-- the dinner venue (after the crushing disappointment of not getting the first choice restaurant),
-- the hair stylist (the Nazi, of course)
-- the flowers (a very efficient and cost-effective friend)
-- the alteration of gowns (my seamstress, who is not only good, but also always cheery and has lots of gossip to share about acquaintances with $20,000 French lace wedding gowns and cheap bridesmaids' outfits)
-- the shoes (two pairs bought in one intensive Saturday afternoon of mall pounding)
-- the photographer (finally found one after being turned down many, including three by the names of Desmond, Desmond and Desmond)
-- the music (acapella outfit from a smokey cigar bar, zero input on song selection from me, because I have deplorable taste in music)
-- the accessories (vintagey, hand-made and a perfect match to the gown)
-- the last-minute cheongsam (Tong Tong Friendship Store)
-- the last-second additional wedding gown (designed by my former elf, still being made as we speak).

I was also asked (but adamantly refused) to design her wedding gown (no experience, too stressful) and take photos (ditto). I gladly offered my services for her food tasting session, though, where three of us devoured portions meant for six.

Only things left to do: Make the angpow box, do the place cards for the dinner and lose enough weight to fit into the dress I am intending to wear.

Phew. Did we leave anything out?





If I ever get married and if I decide to wear a poufy white gown and if I decide to hold a wedding dinner and if I do get a band to perform -- all very big ifs and all of which I am not sure I want -- then these would be the songs I choose. Of that I am sure. The tenderest love songs are those crooned in Hokkien.