Hey kittens…you know what’s super fun to do? Wedding Planning! No, actually I’m totally shitting you there. Planning a wedding is worse than having dental surgery.
Here we are with 99 days until the grand event and there is still so much shit up in the air that even I am having a hard time pretending it’s all going to sort itself out. Luckily I love my groom-to-be more than life itself, and I want to marry him in the worst way. I have already tried to cajole and wheedle my way into having him agree to a quickie wedding down south (no dice), a low-key Justice-of-the-Peace affair at city hall (HELL no), and a wiccan handfasting (well maybe I didn’t ask him for that one, but only because I knew he’d say no). He would probably go for the quickie wedding if I would agree to still host the MOTHER OF ALL SHIT SHOWS in June on our chosen wedding day anyway. I, however, see no point in planning TWO wedding extravaganzas when I am already freaking about one. So here we are, back to square one, with me trying to Pollyanna my way through the next 99 days, all the while ignoring the pink elephant that is our impending nuptials, dancing around in my living room.
I am literally fresh off an argument about wedding rings.
Birdman: “I was shooting the shit with Larry today” (Larry is our jeweller, by the way.)
Me: “Oh good. Did you ask him how much we owe?”
B: “WHAT? WE OWE? FOR WHAT???!!!???”
Me: “The wedding bands.”
B: “I thought we paid those?”
Me: “Nope, just the deposit.”
The debate began there, and raged on about the feasiblity of hammering out some sort of tin circle (his idea) to adorn his ring finger, in the off chance that he were to lose it. When it was pointed out that he wouldn’t be taking the damn thing off, he reasoned that he would probably be even more attractive to the ladies as a married man, and for this reason, I believe he agreed to pay the outrageous (although not known by him) amount that is due for the symbols of our blessed union.
Now, those rings are important to me. They are a symbol of our commitment to each other, and though I know for a fact that many men don’t give a rats ass about the ring on their finger (and act accordingly), I know that my man does. I want to be sure that beautiful ring looks as appealing to him 10 years from now, as the day it did when I put it on his finger. You may all gag now…I know I did.
The rings are really just a tiny fragment of the wedding anxiety. I have been harassing people for addresses for invitations that haven’t been ordered yet. I AM SO BAD AT THIS!!! I received the final wedding invitation designs, including clever reply and info cards, and cute seals, but have yet to order them. I promise I will do it this weekend. I have to do it this weekend, or I will have a nervous breakdown imagining myself emailing the entire guest list to request their honorable presence at our poorly organized but beer-soaked occasion.
I did cross one thing off the list this week, though. Flowers. I met with the florist this week and toured through her cooler to show her all the flowers I completely detest. I eliminated 90% of what she had to offer, leaving her with a very limited selection of flowers that will not make me want to throw up. I am sure she was pleased when I backed off enough to assure her I wasn’t interested in micro-managing her job, and that she should feel free to be creative with the floral straight-jacket I had just fitted her for. She did get her revenge in the end though, when we totaled up the bill and realized that my few flowers will cost more than one of my mortgage payments. She is probably still laughing at the image of me picking my bloody jaw off the floor when she dropped that bomb. It drives me crazy that I have to pay for this stuff, but goddamn it, I am THE BRIDE and I’m getting what I want.
There is some good news though. We will be bottling our wedding wine next week, and then whisking it into a cool, dark place to fester for 3 months. Hopefully it will be mildly lovely and robust for all of you winos out there. For the curious, we know nothing about wine, and basically picked it based on the fanciness of the label. I think you will love the one with the monkey on it.
Now the clever among you may have realized that this post is mostly filler, with very little nutritious content, like a big, ole, bologna sandwich. You would be correct. The truth is, the kiddies are with their dad this weekend, and Birdman and I have some mutual appreciation to get to, and the cocoon is calling. If I leave it to him to write the blog tonight, I’ll be asleep in the cocoon, drooling on my sweetie’s memory foam pillow, while he is still downstairs at the kitchen table, giving birth to the mother of all blog posts. For Christmas, I swear I am getting him a copy of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing, so he can clip along at more than 3 words a minute. In the interest of getting my fun night started sooner, I threw myself under the bus and agreed to spit out a mediocre post with a word count of at least 1000.
Sorry Kittens, but Mama’s gotta get some. 🙂 I promise to do better next time.