There you have it -- an update!!
No seriously, all apologies to Mandy, Kara and The Baby Jeebus, but there hasn't been much on the ol' wedding front, other than my purchase of a wedding-planning banner. Hell, I still have two unwatched episodes of Bridezillas sitting on my DVR right now.
That said, it's nearly 1 a.m. Nov. 7, which means that the election day madness is nearly over, which means that I'm thisclose to being a regular human being with, like, a life and everything. So yeah, I should have some weddin' stuff for y'alls soon.
Yay.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Some updates
The Rash was not really The Rash (aka psorosis) -- it's poison ivy. Apparently, I'm allergic to it. Whoopsy.
Oh, and Kyle and I got the site we wanted for our wedding/reception. Yay! Now all the real planning (wherein we are sure to get into some knock-down-drag-out fights with each other, our families and others) can begin.
Anyhoodle, getting our grubby paws on the site was quite the adventure. Because I am a lazy, lazy, lazy lady, I will spare myself the retelling of the story and instead give y'all a sneak preview of the column I wrote for work about it. Here it goes:
In the off chance my mother hasn’t yet reached you with the news, here’s the scoop: I’m engaged.
With my pending nuptials has come the overwhelming flurry of wedding-related paraphernalia. Stacks of pastel-colored bridal magazines have taken root in our living room, while outside, our mailbox is teeming with glossy postcards advertising catering services and the like.
Apart from all that gear, my fiance, Kyle, and I have been struggling with that most vexing matter of all – questions about when and where we’re actually going to tie the knot.
Folks, I finally have an answer. But getting there was no easy task.
Here’s the thing: As much as I’ve tried, it’s difficult to avoid the hypnotic, color-coordinated influences of the WIC.
Wait? You don’t read bridal blogs every day? WIC is slang for the Wedding Industrial Complex, or those fine folks responsible for those shiny postcards nesting in my mailbox, as well as for helping jack up the average cost of the one-day event to a staggering $25,000.
But I digress.
For my big day, I’m not looking for a poufy dress, a sparkling tiara or – as depicted in a recent episode of my new favorite show, Bridezillas – a groom wearing a golden crown.
What I do want (and what those candy-colored magazines heartily endorse) is something unique. Something totally me.
Er, I mean, us. Totally us.
I found that at the North Bank Park. Nestled along the Scioto River, the park is new – it opened in 2005 – and has a modern, glass-enclosed pavilion with a commanding view of the city.
Did I mention there’s a fountain? And a tangle of wildflowers along the river? And (with the proper permitting) it’s OK to serve booze? Perfect.
One warm summer weekend, I took Kyle on a tour of the place, and he, too, was sold. It was time for us to reserve the site.
And that’s when the madness began. You see, under Columbus Recreation and Parks rules, a site can only be reserved as soon as a year before the date you plan to use it.
Still, I thought we’d be in the clear. After all, I am a unique snowflake, and no one else would think of this place for a wedding, right?
I couldn’t have been wronger.
I called the department just short of a year from our intended date. It was booked. What about a week before that? Booked, said the woman on the other end of the line. And the week before that? Also booked, she said.
It was time for some advance planning.This time, I looked further on the horizon, so I could make my reservation exactly 365 days in advance. The day before the appointed date, I again called the department offices to ferret out any details I might’ve missed. Thank goodness for that.
Although the department’s offices open at 7:30 a.m., I should expect a line of people waiting at the door beforehand, said the staffer I spoke to, before she gave a mirthless laugh. I shared the news with a coworker.
“You should get there at 3 a.m.,” was his advice.
And so that’s how Kyle and I ended up camped out on a concrete pad in front of the recreation and parks offices in the early hours of Thursday, Sept. 6. I brought provisions: some trashy reading, food and caffeinated beverages, card games, and then we sat. And sat. And sat some more, the chirp of crickets our only company.
Until, that is, until around 4:15 a.m., when a smartly dressed woman pulled into the parking lot and walked over to us. She smelled like flowery perfume. We reeked of bug spray and stale sweat.
When we discovered we were vying for the same spot, she was nicer than I would’ve likely been. A wan smile and a muted congratulations later, she climbed in her car and left.
That was the last competition we would have. Dawn broke, the department workers filtered their way in and then the doors were finally opened. A few friendly words with the staff, a handful of signatures and a swipe of the ol’ MasterCard later, and it was done: the date was set.
Pleading curiosity, one of the women working at the permits desk asked us what time we arrived. We told them, and I cringed, apologizing for our single-mindedness.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said one of the staffers. “Last week, a couple came out here at 7 – at night.”
I guess for them, as it was for us, it was anything for love – and a lovely place to express it.
Oh, and Kyle and I got the site we wanted for our wedding/reception. Yay! Now all the real planning (wherein we are sure to get into some knock-down-drag-out fights with each other, our families and others) can begin.
Anyhoodle, getting our grubby paws on the site was quite the adventure. Because I am a lazy, lazy, lazy lady, I will spare myself the retelling of the story and instead give y'all a sneak preview of the column I wrote for work about it. Here it goes:
In the off chance my mother hasn’t yet reached you with the news, here’s the scoop: I’m engaged.
With my pending nuptials has come the overwhelming flurry of wedding-related paraphernalia. Stacks of pastel-colored bridal magazines have taken root in our living room, while outside, our mailbox is teeming with glossy postcards advertising catering services and the like.
Apart from all that gear, my fiance, Kyle, and I have been struggling with that most vexing matter of all – questions about when and where we’re actually going to tie the knot.
Folks, I finally have an answer. But getting there was no easy task.
Here’s the thing: As much as I’ve tried, it’s difficult to avoid the hypnotic, color-coordinated influences of the WIC.
Wait? You don’t read bridal blogs every day? WIC is slang for the Wedding Industrial Complex, or those fine folks responsible for those shiny postcards nesting in my mailbox, as well as for helping jack up the average cost of the one-day event to a staggering $25,000.
But I digress.
For my big day, I’m not looking for a poufy dress, a sparkling tiara or – as depicted in a recent episode of my new favorite show, Bridezillas – a groom wearing a golden crown.
What I do want (and what those candy-colored magazines heartily endorse) is something unique. Something totally me.
Er, I mean, us. Totally us.
I found that at the North Bank Park. Nestled along the Scioto River, the park is new – it opened in 2005 – and has a modern, glass-enclosed pavilion with a commanding view of the city.
Did I mention there’s a fountain? And a tangle of wildflowers along the river? And (with the proper permitting) it’s OK to serve booze? Perfect.
One warm summer weekend, I took Kyle on a tour of the place, and he, too, was sold. It was time for us to reserve the site.
And that’s when the madness began. You see, under Columbus Recreation and Parks rules, a site can only be reserved as soon as a year before the date you plan to use it.
Still, I thought we’d be in the clear. After all, I am a unique snowflake, and no one else would think of this place for a wedding, right?
I couldn’t have been wronger.
I called the department just short of a year from our intended date. It was booked. What about a week before that? Booked, said the woman on the other end of the line. And the week before that? Also booked, she said.
It was time for some advance planning.This time, I looked further on the horizon, so I could make my reservation exactly 365 days in advance. The day before the appointed date, I again called the department offices to ferret out any details I might’ve missed. Thank goodness for that.
Although the department’s offices open at 7:30 a.m., I should expect a line of people waiting at the door beforehand, said the staffer I spoke to, before she gave a mirthless laugh. I shared the news with a coworker.
“You should get there at 3 a.m.,” was his advice.
And so that’s how Kyle and I ended up camped out on a concrete pad in front of the recreation and parks offices in the early hours of Thursday, Sept. 6. I brought provisions: some trashy reading, food and caffeinated beverages, card games, and then we sat. And sat. And sat some more, the chirp of crickets our only company.
Until, that is, until around 4:15 a.m., when a smartly dressed woman pulled into the parking lot and walked over to us. She smelled like flowery perfume. We reeked of bug spray and stale sweat.
When we discovered we were vying for the same spot, she was nicer than I would’ve likely been. A wan smile and a muted congratulations later, she climbed in her car and left.
That was the last competition we would have. Dawn broke, the department workers filtered their way in and then the doors were finally opened. A few friendly words with the staff, a handful of signatures and a swipe of the ol’ MasterCard later, and it was done: the date was set.
Pleading curiosity, one of the women working at the permits desk asked us what time we arrived. We told them, and I cringed, apologizing for our single-mindedness.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said one of the staffers. “Last week, a couple came out here at 7 – at night.”
I guess for them, as it was for us, it was anything for love – and a lovely place to express it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Efffffff!!
Stressy. It may not be a word, technically, but it should be. I've already complained about my days upon days of bad dreams, so I'll skip that, at least for now. A holiday-shortened workweek means longer workdays and absent sources, which yeah, is totally stressful. And then psorosis has taken over again -- this time on my face. Stressy.
Ahem. Is it bad when I am repeating myself so early in this? I'll try to move on.
So, earlier this month (my, the weeks fly by) found Colleen and I in a wedding consultation with the ever-helpful Regan, who is pretty darn awesome. Regan distributed the stacks of magazines and books she'd accumulated during her own wedding planning and showed us her "wedding porn." (Lest you be confused, we're talking pictures of the big day, not anything that would be inappropriate to show in mixed company.) Can I say how amazing her wedding was? It was an old-fashioned circus-themed event, with bright banners, decorations, and even a homemade photobooth for the guests to take pictures of themselves. Regan's light pink wedding dress and her bridesmaids' outfits were both beautiful in and of themselves and a lovely expression of each individual's personality. The pricetag for the weddin' was impressive, too -- the whole kit 'n' caboodle, from the event itself, to the rings and the honeymoon was $5,000, which, wow, is still a chunk of change, but is *way* cheaper than, well, anything I've seen beyond the city hall or Vegas route. And more than that, it was clear that everyone there was having a great time, which I think should be the ultimate goal of such things.
So, thanks, lady, for being a great inspiration and a great sane voice in the madness that can be the world of weddings and such. I really appreciate it, and I hope (with your willingness, natch!) to get together again soon.
In other wedding-related news, Kyle and I traveled (with our friend Laura in tow) up to Vermont on the 17th, to see our friends Dave and Jess get hitched. It was a long -- long! -- drive, exacerbated by my desire to stop every few hours to take pictures, a visit to a thrift store, our decision to take a long dinner at a bar in Bennington, and by the crappy rain and fog we encountered toward the end of the drive, but late Friday, we arrived in Brattleboro. The next day, we made our way around the town (I forced Kyle to buy me a "I lovermont" t-shirt, which I have long lusted over), before it was time to set out for the School for International Training, where Dave and Jess had planned both their ceremony and reception.
Wow, it could not have been a more perfect spot.
Dave and Jess have both made social activism a significant part of their lives, for one, so the having it on the campus of such a neat place was pretty perfect. But just as importantly, the scenic setting was just perfect. The clouds had hung low and dark earlier in the day, but by the time the ceremony was to start, they had cleared, leaving a bright blue sky in their wake. With the lush green mountains serving as their backdrop, Dave and Jess proceeded to have a really thoughtful ceremony, with family members and friends reading passages that seemed to be really true to them both as individuals and as a couple.
Later, of course, was the reception -- which featured mini bottles of maple syrup and foil-wrapped chocolates in the shape of the state of Ohio, wine (too much wine, if you were me), dancing, an embarrasing argument with the fiance (again, this pertains to me only, as far as I know) which involved me snotting on my skirt, watching Dave as he found his new car covered with wrapping paper and other decorations (fortunately, Ritu was talked out of using condoms for the task), hanging out afterward in the tony Hampton Inn conference room, taking two baths in hopes they would forestall vomiting (again, this probably only pertains to me), finally giving up and throwing up, watching Coach on our crappy television, a brief sleep and then a long, long drive.
In other words, it was a pretty great time.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Update
Update: The Knot has me covered. Apparently there are legions of brides-to-be with "skin disorders," unsightly tattoos, freckles (egads!) and and bruises in need of cosmetic coverage.
Scrooge McDuck fantasies
Is TheTeet linking me a subtle reminder that I should post on this thing more frequently? Anyway, I'll take the gentle nudge. Some updates, and then some ranting:
At risk of jinxing things (I am ashamed to admit I fall into that category of not-really-superstitious-but-hey-why-don't-I-take-that-umbrella-outside-before-I-open-it), I think we've found a place for our wedding and reception. There is a comma in the cost of renting the site, a comma that pains me to no end -- I mean, there still is that blasted presence of TJIMHWIACB, after all -- but all things considered, it's not too too expensive. Yes, the WIC (er, wedding industrial complex, we're entering indiebride slang territory now) has broken my spirit, which, whatever, that's no big victory, as recent events have left it as brittle as an osteoporosis-hobbled centenarian.
In other news, the rash I developed in winter 2005, believed to be psorosis (a diagnosis that came only after seven unsuccessful attempts to draw my blood for allergy tests before a successful blood draw found that hey, I don't have any allergies) has returned, and this time, as in every good sequel, it's back with a vengeance. What I thought was a couple of bad mosquito bites on my left shin has gotten bigger, redder and badder, and similar spots have spread to my other leg, stomach, chest, back, both arms, right hand, right index finger and neck. My manic scratching has me feeling like Tyrone Biggums, minus the ashy lips and the crack habit. Bad genes are the likely culprit for my outbreak -- my dad has psorosis, too -- but the stress at work has clearly worsened things. But hey, things could be worse. Anyway, I still have some steroidal cream left over from last time. And let me tell you, there is nothing hotter than asking (The Boyfriend? The Finance? The Kyle?) to rub salve that smells like it was magically transported from a medicine cabinet in 1952 all over the raised itchy bumps on my back. H-O-T-T.
But here's the time for my girly confession: On top of my concern for ending this immediate problem, there's a part of me that's like, Oh, shit, what if my skin is like this when I get hitched? Am I gonna have to get some of that freaky-ass greasepaint that is supposed to hide, like, scars and birthmarks and such? Or am I gonna have to wear tights? What am I gonna do? Realistically, I know that I can just get a prescription for oral steroids, if need be, (and what aspiring Bridezilla wouldn't benefit from a lil' 'roid rage?), but yeah, I s'pose this evidence that I can't rid myself of all of my god-given girlhood. Next, you'll find me wearing pink and talking about my love for bunnies. Oh, wait.
Finally, I read a great entry on good ol' offbeat bride today about a service that provides expert service to help with wedding proposals. From the website of Go Get It (and let's just get it out in the open -- any organization led by someone named "Jenifour (also known as Jeni4, J4 or simply 'Four')" is going to be bad news):
(Thanks to TheVom.com, which deconstructs the madness that is TheKnot.com for this.)
At risk of jinxing things (I am ashamed to admit I fall into that category of not-really-superstitious-but-hey-why-don't-I-take-that-umbrella-outside-before-I-open-it), I think we've found a place for our wedding and reception. There is a comma in the cost of renting the site, a comma that pains me to no end -- I mean, there still is that blasted presence of TJIMHWIACB, after all -- but all things considered, it's not too too expensive. Yes, the WIC (er, wedding industrial complex, we're entering indiebride slang territory now) has broken my spirit, which, whatever, that's no big victory, as recent events have left it as brittle as an osteoporosis-hobbled centenarian.
In other news, the rash I developed in winter 2005, believed to be psorosis (a diagnosis that came only after seven unsuccessful attempts to draw my blood for allergy tests before a successful blood draw found that hey, I don't have any allergies) has returned, and this time, as in every good sequel, it's back with a vengeance. What I thought was a couple of bad mosquito bites on my left shin has gotten bigger, redder and badder, and similar spots have spread to my other leg, stomach, chest, back, both arms, right hand, right index finger and neck. My manic scratching has me feeling like Tyrone Biggums, minus the ashy lips and the crack habit. Bad genes are the likely culprit for my outbreak -- my dad has psorosis, too -- but the stress at work has clearly worsened things. But hey, things could be worse. Anyway, I still have some steroidal cream left over from last time. And let me tell you, there is nothing hotter than asking (The Boyfriend? The Finance? The Kyle?) to rub salve that smells like it was magically transported from a medicine cabinet in 1952 all over the raised itchy bumps on my back. H-O-T-T.
But here's the time for my girly confession: On top of my concern for ending this immediate problem, there's a part of me that's like, Oh, shit, what if my skin is like this when I get hitched? Am I gonna have to get some of that freaky-ass greasepaint that is supposed to hide, like, scars and birthmarks and such? Or am I gonna have to wear tights? What am I gonna do? Realistically, I know that I can just get a prescription for oral steroids, if need be, (and what aspiring Bridezilla wouldn't benefit from a lil' 'roid rage?), but yeah, I s'pose this evidence that I can't rid myself of all of my god-given girlhood. Next, you'll find me wearing pink and talking about my love for bunnies. Oh, wait.
Finally, I read a great entry on good ol' offbeat bride today about a service that provides expert service to help with wedding proposals. From the website of Go Get It (and let's just get it out in the open -- any organization led by someone named "Jenifour (also known as Jeni4, J4 or simply 'Four')" is going to be bad news):
Suppose you have a special occasion to celebrate. When you hire Go Get it, we will create a rousing adventure for you and your loved one. Along the journey, perhaps he or she will be boated across a moonlit river, greeted by a smiling psychic or taken on a romantic escapade through New York City.
Perhaps he or she will travel by a stretch limousine or mysteriously handed a map and keys to their fantasy sports car. Possibly they will be accompanied by their own publicist for the day or find that they have been turned into a star overnight with their pictures gracing the cover of People Magazine. They may arrive at a fantastic surprise Soirée with a room full of their closest friends flown in from all over globe.
So yeah, I've decided that Kyle's proposal isn't good enough. I want a Fairy Tale (nonsensical use of capitalization courtesy of Go Get It) proposal. Something involving a pegasus and a room full of coins I can swim through, a la Scrooge McDuck, should do the trick.(Thanks to TheVom.com, which deconstructs the madness that is TheKnot.com for this.)
Friday, June 29, 2007
The yelling in my head is unstoppable
I just spent the last hour registering on TheKnot.com and looking via The Internets at various wedding/reception/future crime scene sites. Mostly, it's been a lot of The Jenny In My Head Who Is A Cheap Bastard (Or TJIMHWIACB, for short) screaming as loud as she can, WHAAAT? You expect me to pay how much for a two-hour site rental??? I have never spent so much as $100 for a party, and now the wedding industrial complex would have me pay around $28,000 for the one-day event. Sure, that's an amount that would make your average My Super Sweet 16-er rage about how cruel and penny-pinching her parents are, but given that I think my parents never ponied up more than, say $75 for a skating party when I was in the second grade, the thought of spending three figures on a party, never mind four, just blows the ol' noggin.
Of course, it doesn't help that I'm all hopped up on Diet -- excuse me, Sugarfree -- Red Bull and am procrastinating doing work.
Sigh ... it is times like this that imagining myself getting hitched by a greasy-haired, stubbly chested Elvis impersonator sounds not just tempting, but downright reasonable.
Of course, it doesn't help that I'm all hopped up on Diet -- excuse me, Sugarfree -- Red Bull and am procrastinating doing work.
Sigh ... it is times like this that imagining myself getting hitched by a greasy-haired, stubbly chested Elvis impersonator sounds not just tempting, but downright reasonable.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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