I prefer to keep bachelor parties like I keep my underwear, private.

When it comes to bachelor parties, I believe unfamiliarity is the best policy.

Them: So where is the Cowboy this weekend?
Me: Montana
Them: Really? Cool. Where in Montana?
Me: Somewhere with a bar?
Them: So what was he planning to do there?
Me: Consume beverages, I suppose.
Them: So who did he go with?
Me: Not sure, but he took a 14-passenger van.
Them: When's he coming back?
Me: Look, it's a bachelor party. I prefer to believe that this weekend's events didn't occur until they're over. All I ask is a text every day so I know he isn't dead.

You tear, you're toast

As the days draw near and the details emerge, I have to comment on how not-stressful this wedding planning is. Sure, I turned bridezilla once or twice, a detail or two was forgotten and my fiance keeps threatening not to marry me unless he's wearing a Cowboy hat. But otherwise, life is good. Wedding planning is good.

The only part I dread is the wedding itself.

See, as much as I like to write about myself and my relationship and reveal a little too much, standing in front of a crowd, possibly crying, puts me out of my comfort zone. This is why couples elope, people. That and for the price of a photographer, you and three friends can take a Grey Goose and Godiva trip to Las Vegas. Who better to marry you than Elvis? He steals the show, and the attention, anyway.

So I've come up with distractions:

* the bridesmaids are wearing dresses and hair of different styles. Stare at them. Judge them. Envy their matching heals. Anything to take the eyes off me.

* My wedding singer is a natural alto, but her range is so wide, she can hit notes higher than some sopranos. Look at her. Creep on her. Leave your glasses at home because she will surely shatter them. No boring tunes for her. Her one requirement is to "knock everyone's socks off." If she can't do that, she's fired... kind of. :)

* The vows I chose are the "I do" ones, where the pastor says all the words so if my voice cracks, I say one sentence and I'm done. Champagne, anyone?

* If all else fails, I instructed my little brother to light the church on fire. He's good at this. When he was five, he cut the cord to a plugged-in and turned-on lamp. I promised him I'd use the wedding loot as bail money. Fancy a trade, officer? Three mixing bowls and a Longaberger basket for the tall Colorado kid with tan skin and dark eyes who looks nothing like pale, short me.

So I need your help:

No crying at my wedding. Please. No matter the maid of honor, the grandmother of the groom or the groom himself, you tear, you're toast. No five-tier wedding cake for you. If you start crying, then I'll start crying and then I'll cry because I didn't want to cry. And with all the water, North Dakota will flood again. Embarrassing. But what's more embarrassing for you is when a lady in white dress slaps you on the face and says "pull yourself together." No one will ever forget it. You're in the small towns now. :)