Our family likes chandeliers. We like sparkles. There are even crystal knobs on the light blue kitchen cabinets and on the drawers of their oversized island, which is painted lavender with a granite top. Over each set of two French doors that lead to the backyard, Aunt Camellia has hung a group of faux crystals, “for spiritual blessings and continued happy sex lives.”

In winter, they light a fire in the fireplace; in summer, they light candles inside the fireplace. With the French doors open, we can hear the ocean’s waves and feel the wind drifting in, soft and smooth.

“We met with a lot of semi-hysterical brides about their wedding flowers,” my mother said. “Two called in, we met with two on Skype, and two came in. They’re all jittery. Nervous. Only one was relaxed and happy. She didn’t seem bright, but she may have been stoned.”

“She was stoned,” Aunt Iris said. “She smelled like a skunk.” Aunt Iris is the blunt and practical aunt. She calls things like she sees them. Or smells them.

“Oh, the joys and spiritual awakenings that occur during wedding planning,” Aunt Camellia said, coming over to the table. She pushed a piece of chocolate cheesecake toward me. I would have no more than one or two slices. I deserved it after the running I did this morning. That was exhausting. My butt still hurt. I rubbed my butt.

“Some spirits are awoken in brides that are dangerous and hysterical,” Aunt Camellia went on, sitting by me. “I think the blonde one should slather my nerve-calming rose lotions on herself. She had definitely lost her inner peace. She had a twitch in her eye, and she kept wringing her hands and saying, ‘I do want to get married. I do want to get married.’ And I said to her, ‘Do you want to get married?’ and she started massaging her neck and then she squeaked like a mouse and had to go outside and bend over. She called later and canceled.”

“I had one on the phone today who was hyperventilating,” Aunt Iris said. “Then she started getting absolutely specific about each floral arrangement for her wedding. I hate when the type As get married. They have to micromanage. I don’t think she appreciated it when I told her that if she didn’t chill out she’d have a heart attack on her wedding day.”

“Wonderful image to give to a bride, Aunt Iris.”

“I tell the truth.” She reached for a second beer. Iris likes beer.

“We’re getting into Panicked Bride Season,” Aunt Camellia said, “which means we all have to take time each day for meditation and tranquility.”

“Yes,” Aunt Iris said. “And beer. Or tequila.”

“We need to put my tranquility lotions on our wrists for pulse-comfort, and on our necks for soothing our airways, and behind our knees for joint health,” Aunt Camellia said.

Yes, lotion solves all those problems according to my aunt Camellia.

“But your sister,” Aunt Iris said to me, “she is the perfect bride. No Godzilla there. She simply wants a huge party and dancing.”