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.