Strong-Arm Others To Join Your Bad Trip!
Sorry, but I'm undercharmed by Renaissance Faires. I can't help but side with the guy who is equally undercharmed by the order to come dressed for one for his brother's wedding. Here's an excerpt from "Malcolm In The Middle Ages," my Advice Goddess column I just posted:

My fiance and I are having a costume wedding. We thought having everyone dress Renaissance/medieval would be a fun alternative to stuffy black-tie. The problem is, my fiance wants his brother to be his best man, but the guy simply refuses to come in costume. How can I get over the resentment I feel toward his brother for not wanting to fully participate in our wedding?

--Maid Marian

It’s no surprise you long for days of yore, when it was much easier to get the peasants to follow orders. Unfortunately, like most people these days, you only got engaged, not coronated. All you can do is hint how pissy you’ll be for the next 50-some years if you don’t get your way -- which, as a motivational tool, doesn’t have quite the same punch as the power to flick your scepter and screech to the palace guards, “Off with his head!”

It’s your party, and you’ll make him dress like Friar Tuck if you want to! Well, that’s one way of looking at it. But, look where it’s gotten you. Suddenly, what should be a celebration of love is degenerating into petty infighting over who wears the pants in the family -- and if they can demand the rest of the clan wear knickers, curly-toed shoes, and tights.

Ask yourself what really matters: whether your wedding is the epitome of medieval accuracy, down to guests who smell like they bathed once (back in 1434) -- or whether everybody feels included. (“Well, having a historically accurate wedding, of course!”) If that’s how you see it, you’re probably feeling relieved you’re marrying your fiance, not his stuffybutt brother. Um, not so fast. You don’t just marry a person, you marry into a person’s family -- which means you’re vowing to spend at least part of the rest of your life with everybody from the groom’s brother to his flatulent Aunt Frieda.

In other words, it would behoove you to stop stamping your feet and insisting everybody meet your needs and start smiling and inquiring about theirs. But, wait, isn’t this supposed to be your wedding, that “most important day of every girl’s life”? That thinking is not only vomit-inducing, it’s what gets the mother of the bride chasing the mother of the groom with one of those spiked balls on a chain -- typically, over life and death issues like whether the centerpieces should be calla lilies or bud roses.

The rest is here.