They said it could not be done.  My critics said it was impossible to arrange a decent wedding in one month here in California.  We were out to prove them wrong.

I knew no Catholic priest would want to marry me and my fiancé B with such urgency but we were determined to marry anyway ---  with or without  rites.  I thought of being wed in Vegas.  This, after all, was America, where instant gratification was the rule.  Too tacky, B said.  How about a civil wedding in the city hall?  Too tasteless, B countered.  He wanted me to have a classy little wedding that we still would be proud of years later, where I could still be queen for a day and be married. 

As a young girl growing up in Manila, I didn't dream of fancy weddings where the bride was adorned with the finest lace and tulle money could buy.  I despised weddings where the  guests mirrored a celebrity who's who list, or receptions were held in the grandest ballrooms of five-star hotels.  These, I thought, were for the rich and beautiful who married money 
with power to further propagate their seeds.  My parents neither had wealth nor power so I dreamt of simpler weddings and a married life that started in bliss, not with a mountain of debt. 

The Filipino tradition requires the groom's family to pick up the wedding tab. In Belgium where B comes from, it was also the groom's family who foot the bills.  In America, it was the bride's family, the payment being a symbol of dowry given to the prospective groom.  With these traditions in mind, B and I nevertheless agreed that our parents should not have to pay; we earned enough sufficient to shoulder our own expenses. 

Having gone through so many friends' wedding preparations, my friend K volunteered her services.  She was artistic enough as she churned wedding invitations from her laser printer.  When she presented me with a sample made from quality linen paper with doily and lace ribbons inserted, I forgot about my earlier misgivings.  I provided her my list of invitees that numbered thirty, and instructed her to put RSVP.  I had always wanted a quiet, intimate wedding but while the invitations went through snail mail, I called everybody to ensure their attendance. 

At first, I thought it too cheesy to don a wedding gown, with only a few guests anyway.  Yet K managed to convince me - a bride would not look like a bride if she were dressed in other than a wedding gown.  That logic sounds faulty in hindsight but I believed it then.  K dragged me out of my lazy state and drove me to a Jessica McClintock store in Glendale.  I tried several off-white gowns before I fitted in a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder ivory gown that flowed to my ankles.  A big fat bow hang at the back, I looked like I was headed for Cinderella's ball.  When K saw me, she stood there entranced.  Then she announced that this was perfect!  I had no penchant for sleeveless outfits, much less for a sleeveless wedding gown.  I balked, but my gung-ho friend cheerfully replied that she'd fix the sleeveless part.

By some unknown standard, people measur the success and beauty of one's wedding by the cost of the bride's gown and the designer associated with it.  Many a bride I knew (and read about) poured over countless magazines and window-shopped indefatigably for months in search of the 'right' gown.  Los Angeles even has bridal expos and similar fairs. My decision to buy an off-the-rack gown was due partly to my practicality that I would wear this outfit for only a day and afterwards will box it away inside the closet beneath layers of useless clothing.  Other women deigned make it their tradition to hand it down to their daughters; I had no such intentions.  Not that I did not give importance to my own wedding day but my decision to go this route was also because I knew that the success of my marriage would not depend on the price tag of my gown but on the quality of my relationship with my husband.

The Yellow Pages became our reference guide during those days before the Internet 
became vogue. B scouted for a minister to preside over the rites.  He must have called up more than a dozen non-Catholic ministers or judges who could marry us until he found a Methodist minister in San Clemente who said he could do it, provided he interviewed us in person first.  The minister named the day and time of his availability.  It fell on the second Sunday of June.  When I heard this, I gleefully remarked, my wish to be a June bride would 
happen!  We decided to have the ceremony outside the church grounds where a gazebo stood.  The best part was the breathtaking view the Methodist church afforded as one stood near the gazebo that overlooked the Pacific Ocean below and the clear blue skies above.  I could not have imagined a better spot! 

Two weeks before the date, we met with the minister.  He asked how and where B and I met, how long we dated, and the like.  He probably wanted to make sure we were neither too young nor too naïve about the task at hand.  After all B and I had dated exclusively for 
five long arduous years before deciding on this.  We knew the minister was convinced for he even suggested musicians for the wedding and a couple of restaurants as the reception venue.

We checked out the three places he suggested.  The first two places were indeed exceptional yet affordable.  The problem was both were fully booked the entire month of June.  Yikes, how did you find the best location at such a short notice?  I searched not for elaborate receptions, merely an opportunity to have loved ones join us towards our venture to the unknown. 

For the third restaurant, my soon-to-be mother-in-law accompanied B and I. We intended merely to spy around the place but while we were there, I noticed this particularly secluded glass-windowed room which overlooked the ocean with sailboats in all sorts, sizes and colors that passed by at one's eye level.  This I thought was the perfect spot to hold the reception!  An avid sailor himself, B agreed, and we speculated that we could have a long dinner table with everybody gathered around.  When the hostess realized our intentions, she immediately doused our interest by saying that room was not available.  Crap, I said.  Undaunted, my would-be mother-in-law told the hostess:  In that case, we're having lunch here today and would like to meet the owner or manager after.  How could the hostess say no?  To make the long story short, when we met the American owner, he sincerely agreed that location was the best for our needs.  What was interesting was he confided that his wife too was Filipino so he understood these occasions implicitly. 

Our deal sealed, our newfound friend recommended a French-German bakery shop that specialized in wedding cakes.  How convenient, I mused.  Yet I, in my indulging state, managed a sigh of relief for the ordeal was soon to be over.  We got a three-tiered chiffon cake decorated with yellow and green pipings. For the cake topper, I purchased a Precious Moments bride-and-groom figurine from a Hallmark store.   From JCPenney, I ordered a pair of flutes since they didn't have it in stock.  They promised 5 days and if I wanted names embossed on the flutes, it will take another five days.  I didn't want to take the chance so we had plain flutes with gold rims. 

I had a Filipino officemate whose hobby was taking videos at weddings, and whose references seemed faultless.  When I struck an agreement with him, I patted my own back for booking it.  Yet about two weeks prior to the date, this officemate pleaded that I make advance payments so he could buy more professional video equipment and that he did not realize that he had to drive 80 miles south for the wedding venue.  I almost freaked out when I heard this!  Since K knew the guy, I asked her opinion on the matter.  She seemed 
unperturbed, but I felt uncertain.  I thought, the guy was truly an amateur - why did I have to finance his equipment plus worry about his driving? 

I discussed the situation with B, and scrapped my officemate's services.  I felt that I'd rather lose that guy's friendship than start marriage with an argument if the video was a disaster.  Additional pressure bore down on us to find a substitute.  Remember that B and I worked full-time - he in Orange County and I in Los Angeles - 70 miles apart.  The plans we had made were a result of hours and hours of long distance calls, e-mail exchanges, and 
driving great distances. 

I took it as good omen when ten days or so before the wedding, B hired an artist- photographer to take pictures and cement this occasion for posterity. I couldn't comprehend how he managed it but he said that he visited this man's studio and liked the portfolios plus the photographs on display.  No more videos, we decided. 

And to add a touch of class, B also arranged for the minister's daughter and her friend to play (violin and cello) the wedding march.  He then called his best buddy in high school (who he hadn't spoken with for at least five years) to be his best man.  I knew the gods must be on our side when this buddy graciously accepted with only a week's notice.  I had waited for this call for a long time, he said.  B and I then went to a tux shop and fitted him with a rented one.  We also arranged and prepaid the costs for B's buddy when he came in for fitting. 

Somewhere between going to the minister's interview and hiring a photographer, we purchased our 18k matching wedding rings at a well-known jeweler.  Simple gold bands with our names encrypted inside.  We also made our way to the local city hall and paid for the marriage license.

B surprised me by hiring a driver complete with limousine - the first time ever I rode in a limousine.  Flowers?  The day before the wedding, K drove to Flower District in downtown Los Angeles and bought the best yellow and white long-stemmed roses for my bridal bouquet and for the men's buttons.  She also bought bright yellow and white mums in small and big pots to line the aisle I was to walk on and to highlight the makeshift altar.  She fashioned a wedding wreath that was to hang in the middle of the gazebo. 

On wedding day, I woke up as nervous as any first time bride could be.  I looked out from my rented hotel room and saw that it was drizzling.  Oh crap, I thought, who heard about rain in June in Southern California?  K, who shared the room with me, sensed my anxiety and offered an assurance.  She forbade me to worry lest the crease on my brows showed on the pictures.  I laughed and headed for the shower.  My mom and another friend helped me with 
my makeup and gown.  The photographer showed up to take the customary pre-wedding preparations.  The limousine driver arrived as expected.  When the clock hit the eleventh hour that morning, sunshine peeked through the clouds.  It had become a perfectly gorgeous day in Southern California.

I could not imagine how K single-handedly did it because when we arrived outside the church grounds, the wedding site looked so together from where I sat inside the limousine with my parents waiting for my turn to emerge.  The gazebo was decorated with yards of intertwined tulle and the colorful wedding wreath suspended in the middle.  Terra cotta buckets with yellow and white lace ribbons around it were filled with yellow and white roses.  Seated 
unobstrusively in front of the gazebo, the two musicians provided background music as the guests arrived one by one and occupied the white resin chairs neatly arranged on the Bermuda grass.  A white carpet was rolled out in the middle - leave it to K not to miss that detail!

Thank goodness for the limousine's tinted windows, I had the advantage of observing who had arrived and who was missing, without anybody seeing me.  B drove himself to the ceremony.  My brother and his family drove from San Diego.  Another brother flew in from San Jose.  B's Seattle-based sister and her husband were there.  Another of B's sisters and several of my friends drove from Los Angeles.  B's only brother arrived with a date.  All the 
invitees were there.

From my vantage point, I saw that the minister, B and his best man took their place on the makeshift altar under the gazebo.  The procession started.  We didn't practice anything but instinct told me that it was time for me to emerge from behind the safe confines of the limousine when I saw my maid-of-honor walked up the aisle.  The photographer started clicking away. My parents alighted from the vehicle, and as I got out, all eyes turned to me.

When the first notes of "Here Comes The Bride" struck, I walked down the aisle with my father and mother at either side.  The sun shone brightly up above. As I extended my gloved hand to my waiting, equally-nervous groom, I knew in all sincerity that we did the right thing.  Fifteen minutes later, the minister pronounced us man and wife. 

For the reception, we had foregone the tossing of the bouquet and garter, the doves, the first dance, the money dance.  The usual stuff we Filipinos had. Heck we didn't even have a band playing or people dancing.  We could have spent lavishly on the reception - hired a disc jockey, rented a ballroom, or invited the world to witness the celebration.  Yet we chose not to.  It did not matter.  The basics were there.  Love.  Well wishes.  Food.  Smiles. 
Laughter.  Wine.  Inside the restaurant, everybody clearly saw me as the blushing bride with my dashing groom.

As I looked back, I felt no tinge of regret with the way my husband and I prepared for our own wedding.  For us (and the friends and family who helped us pull it off), it was an exercise of creativity.  We spent less than fifteen hundred dollars, relatively inexpensive by American standards.  It was an intimate affair, classy and effective by way of comments from the 
people who attended.  It also silenced my critics whose names I shall leave under a cloak of anonymity. To this day, the reality that we spent far fewer dollars than we needed to in far lesser time than normally accorded weddings gave my husband and myself a glowing sense of pride and satisfaction that we did it our way.
 
 

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