At one of the venues I toured last year, while looking for a place to combine all our loved ones and copious amounts of alcohol, a venue-owner asked me: “What kind of bride are you?”
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the bride is held responsible for all things Wedding. And that the groom is expected to know — and do — jack shit.
Making a registry was one of those things we hadn’t gotten around to doing. Partially because we’ve been in “Oh shit!” mode about the save-the-dates. Mostly, though, our professional and personal lives as of late have prevented us from buying groceries most weeks, let alone thinking about “outfitting our home” with things like place settings and wine decanters.
I was talking to a friend about wedding size.
“Here’s now we kept ours small,” she said. “We told our parents they could invite only people I or my fiance had met.”
Reasonable. But that won’t work for us. There are nearly 100 people on the guest list that neither I nor my fiance has ever met.
Our save-the-dates have been working their way around the world for about a week now. As my coworker told me today, “Now the real bullshit begins.”
And some of the shit that I don’t know how to deal with is people asking us to find them a place to crash when they come into town for our wedding.
Most of our save-the-dates went out last week — to my family and our friends, anyway (my future in-laws are still all, “Guest list? What guest list? Just drop 1,000 invitations from an airplane over the state in which most of our friends reside and see who shows up!”).
After I dropped the block of post cards in the mailbox with a resounding thud (and yelled “Save the date, bitches!”), I was satisfied that yet another wedding chore had been checked off the list.
Little did I know that plenty save-the-date-related annoyance was yet in store.
Because our friends (bless their stupid little hearts) are posting on Facebook about receiving them.
When I left my family Christmas party, a well-meaning cousin hugged me goodbye and whispered conspiratorially, “Remember … don’t freak out about silly wedding stuff.”
FUCK THAT BITCH.
So, in my last blog, I celebrated being a “mature bride.” Well, today, I did something completely bonkers. Some would call it less than mature, but it felt so good…
If you’ve ever watched Say Yes to the Dress, you’ve heard the consultants call some women “Mature Brides.” It basically is a “nice” way of saying “Old AF.”