I have been to a great many weddings lately. My friends' children are all at the marrying age, and they all seem to be getting married this year.

Every single wedding I have been to has been absolutely exquisite. There have been vows exchanged at sunset on the river, with flocks of doves skimming the water as if on cue. There have been brides in heirloom wedding dresses, with mothers so lovely they stole the show from their beautiful daughters and sons.

I have eaten shrimp and grits, beef tenderloin, fresh corn pudding, grilled lamb and chilled salmon, stuffed grape leaves, fried green tomatoes and wedding cakes I still think about. I have toasted and roasted and laughed and cried at these weddings. But mostly I have made notes. I have lists of flowers I like and food I adore and places that would be good for rehearsal dinners.

In fact, I have planned all three of my rehearsal dinners. I know how many guests I will invite and what the tables will look like and what we will serve on great big white plates. I have it perfected, but alas, not only is there no bride in sight, there is not even a hint of a girlfriend between my three sons.

My friend who also has three sons, has three girlfriends as of this deadline. They are each the kind of girlfriend you want your son to bring home to mother. Each one is gorgeous, down-to-earth and quick to laugh.

They travel together, my friend, her husband, her three sons and the three girlfriends. I see pictures of all of them squealing with laughter and posing with one another and truly enjoying each other and themselves. No one seems ill at ease or nervous or intimidated.

Unlike me. I am a basket case when it comes to hosting girlfriends. My son brought a girl home from college last summer. I went upstairs for the first time in a good while to shoo my youngest son out of "the guest room" and I filled up a couple of trash bags with undesirable items I won't describe.

I placed fresh flowers in strategic places, along with a new bar of soap and clean towels. My sons had never seen "the guest room" look so presentable.

When she arrived the first thing my son said was, "My mom fixed your room up really nice." That comment alone was easily worth all my trouble.

But I was a wreck. I wanted her to think I was Miss Perfect. I got her breakfast order the night before. My sons looked at me like I was an alien as I repeated 'Eggs Sunnyside up - dry wheat toast'.

I was running late the next morning and forgot all about the sunny side up eggs. I was scrambling a skillet full of eggs and browning English muffins when my son reminded me of the aforementioned order.

She sat down at the kitchen table while the scrambled eggs began to set and cool and become unappetizing. I threw dry toast in the oven and carefully cracked eggs so the yolks wouldn't break.

I kept apologizing to her as she waited. My son scurried around, offering her more orange juice and opening jelly jars for me. It was getting really late.

Suddenly the toaster oven binged and I grabbed the hot toast and flung it onto her plate. It missed and landed on the not-so-clean kitchen floor. My back was to the girlfriend. I did what any not-so-accomplished wedding planner would do. I reached down for the toast. But before my fingers could even touch it, my son stomped it, leaving his large bare footprint right in the center of the bread.

I understood immediately that she had seen the entire scenario. I did not make eye contact with her. I just put another piece of bread in the oven and excused myself from the kitchen. I added one more note to my list: Do not allow son in kitchen during rehearsal dinner prep.