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Archive for the ‘Wedding’ Category

You know, when wedding planning, it’s not uncommon to run into some “problems,” especially if you’re having a destination wedding. For 20 months we’ve been saving scrill to throw this party and we’ve saved QUITE a decent amount while on somewhat pathetic salaries. Living in Boston and saving for our overseas nuptials hasn’t been easy–but it hasn’t been impossible either. So it’s kind of funny that our woes are really not money-related, they are Dutch related. And volcano ash related.  Twelve guests are family, out of the approximately 30-some people coming to our lovely Euro nuptials. That means the majority of people flying over the pond are friends. Not just any friends, the type of “I’ll take a bullet in the ass for you” friends that are hard to come by. The kind that pee on you and molest your man and the kind that take 12 hour round trip bus rides from Philly to spend 36 hours to see you in your dress in the first stages of its raw, before-silk version. Here’s to hoping Eyjafjallajokull’s big brother doesn’t decide to up-one his kid brother and cause a blackout throughout Europe this summer.

Friendly French
Whew. People give the French a bad rap. In fact, I think the whole snobbery cliche persona is simply for people who deserve to get snubbed wherever they go, not just while perusing France and not just by the French. All of the French natives we’ve worked with while getting this wedding together have been nothing but cordial and accommodating. And then we met our Dutchman. We met on a May afternoon with the sun high in the sky and sweat beaded on our foreheads. We sat under terrace awnings and drank some cool Rosé and snacked on some foie gras and lobster–our dinner tasting. Food? Amazing. Ambiance? Enchanting. Dutch dude? Interesting.

This guy is so “laid back” and easy going and yet, with two months to go, he has erupted into a volcano–rivaling the Icelandic troublemaker responsible for so many people’s travel woes–coming up with ridiculous demands that were never discussed before. Like forcing people to stay at his hotel since he’s assuming we will blast our tunes so that Monte Carlo will pause and look upward in annoyance toward our cliff-side restaurant. Long story short? He was trying to milk whatever he could out of us and we tried to accommodate, until we realized he was just being an ass. As such, we decided there was no need for us to be bent over–so we switched positions. We’re in our twenties, yes. We’re paying for this ourselves, yes. We’re American, yes. So? That does not mean we are push overs. He’s now fully aware that while we’re excited for the wedding, we’re not going to deal with this kind of insolence when we’ve kept our side of the bargain. And lest he forget, there will be a number of 6ft+/200+ pounder dudes who will show up to his fine establishment whether he likes it or not. Whether they decide to come with the friendly demeanor that Americans are sometimes known for, is purely up to him.

Luscious Loubs
On to happier things…so I bought my egregiously expensive Loubs that I can’t walk well in and make me 6 ft tall. And I love them. A deep-rooted love for their sleek toe cleave that is as deep as their red soles. Having a bad day? Get yourself some toe cleave in a 4 inch heel and walk around not wearing any pants. It’s lovely hahahaha.

Oh Iceland, please cease and desist your bitchy ways and please, big brother of the tempestuous little volcano, which is causing all this commotion in the air–please do not decide to erupt when everyone is trying to head over!

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Continuing from the “Get drunk, get naked and BE somebody” post: The day started off well enough, although a little out of sorts from the previous night’s festivities. Coco had scampered off with her man and Zoe made it safely back to her hotel with her boy. Dallas went back to her abode to recollect herself, having been sober the night before and not planning on repeating that feat on this Saturday night.  Post breakfast, Coco presented herself just in time for us to all make a break for it to North Station to hit up a dress shop where I am getting my dress made. We made the train, arrived in the quaint little town and then promptly got lost.

My Google Maps was failing me as I reassured the ladies that, “This is in no way a precursor to how the wedding abroad is being planned!” Luckily, after walking into multiple establishments, we were told that it was indeed on “Main Street,” except that it was one town over so we had to walk a mile or so to get there. We stopped in a local liquor store to pick up some bubbly, settling on poor man’s champagne, aka Prosecco, to commemorate the dress fitting. “Did this town just get better looking or are you not from around here?” remarked the shopkeep warmly.

“I don’t know about that, but you will all be better looking after some of this…”

We trekked down Main Street and passed some lovely New England/colonial-type homes, a horse farm/stable and finally, the shop. Inside, we met the bubbly lady who would be creating my dress. Before trekking upstairs, we meandered around her shop, looking at the little knickknacks, headbands, purses and other girly items that struck our fancy. “I need to buy some stuff,” announced Coco, who felt her cash burning holes in her pocket.

With mental notes made, we marched upstairs to the design table and got right to it. Scarlett, the future Esq., made sure the contract was in line as I was in no mood to hammer out loopholes and details. Zoe was snapping photos, creating “memories” to reflect on after all was said and done and Coco was….hungover. I felt a bit overwhelmed myself–the amount of “swatches” of fabrics and colors were massive.

After selecting a design and fabric–this close to deciding on a RED wedding dress, I signed a contract and felt like I’d accomplished something.

We headed back to the train, myself still wondering if I could really do a red wedding dress. Coco walked up beside me and reminded me: “You don’t get to pull off wearing a white gown all that often unless it’s your wedding–you’ll end up regretting it. And what about your mom–would it bother her?” Her simple remark and traditional take on the situation made it clear that white was the way to go and I could squeeze in some red perhaps in my hair, in lieu of a traditional veil.

Waiting for the train, Coco and I decided we needed some “travel juice” for the ride home. Scarlett was avidly opposed, having gotten into some trouble with the law for relieving herself on the streets of Philly, her mind cloudy with the effects of whiskey.

Still, Coco and I had no law schools to impress, so we signaled to each other to “make a break for it,” before the train came–in truly a over-dramatic fashion, Coco darted to the liquor store. She rushed back, bottle in brown paper bag and we boarded the train. Unfortunately, the train was packed with commuters and some sketchy guys who seemed like they’d had their fair share of hooker spit and Natty Ice–it was not a situation to get saucy in. So we saved the bottle for later. We’d soon find out the consequences of drinking all day and into the night…

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Apart from the usual holiday festivities: the joining of family and friends and the over-indulging in tasty holiday delicacies–drama is usually a part of the overall experience. This Thanksgiving was no different. The underlying tension revolving around the impending nuptials abroad for one brother and his fiancé was for the moment, forgotten and instead, blanketed by the aroma of roasted turkey and simmering side dishes. I came down the stairs and noticed the absence of chatter, realizing that the crew had already begun munching. My man had so thoughtfully served me a plate–I find myself still smiling at these little acts of thoughtfulness, often wondering why they resonate so well with me.

The meal went on and chatter started up again. Creamy cheese-covered broccoli and buttery, silky mashed squash had a new taste this year. I recalled the previous Thanksgiving where the same dishes offered no satisfaction. I had already forgotten, as I stuffed my face, about how just one year earlier I didn’t realize the turkey had finished roasting or that there were pots simmering because I couldn’t smell a thing. The concussion I suffered the July before last Thanksgiving rendered me impaired. Instead of dropping an obscene amount of weight, I simply gorged more (and I’ve read in some places this has to do with the fact that the brain doesn’t compute that you’ve had enough deliciousness for one sitting and therefore are full–because there is nothing delicious about the mechanical action of shoving food in your mouth without the right nerves in your brain working!). Instead of only being able to distinguish sweet from sour, salt and spice, I was able to taste the walnuts in the cranberry sauce and the buttery nuttiness of the mashed root veggies I was enjoying. Just one year earlier, only white wine tasted somewhat palatable, with red wine having the same effect as a cup of coffee or a glass of flat soda–well, with the added value of total inebriation if I drank enough of it and the off-chance that I’d forget my current tasteless plight of an existence (it was a big deal).

The night progressed, ending at a neighborhood dive bar where cans of Pabst were $2 each and the proprietor of the fine establishment donned nothing more than a dingy white undershirt and a penchant for calculating tabs in his head–to the detriment of his intoxicated patrons. After downing one too many, the liquid courage of one sibling announced that no one wanted to go abroad for the nuptials. A bit taken by surprise, the thoughtful husband-to-be and his lethargic lady were more surprised by the choice of venue to make the announcement rather than the actual statement. Words flew, we listened, bantered light-heartedly…and then I left, at first just annoyed, followed by extreme pangs of anger, resulting in a rage-induced, sobbing cell-phone rant to my brother from the top of my lungs as I combed through the jet black roads in this now suddenly hostile Maine backdrop. Such sentiments would have been appreciated 18 months earlier (not that we would have changed any of it).

With encouragement from my brother to “not give them the satisfaction” of knowing how upset I was, I slapped myself a few times, ran in place, thought of the eye of the tiger, and marched over to the backdoor, where I preceded to creep in with the hopes of not running into anyone. Of course fast-forward to sobbing in the mother-in-law’s embrace and then bolting when I realized the crew had returned, having themselves been kicked out of the bar and calls to the police threatened. In mid sentence I darted off yelling that I had to “hide!!” And immersed my face in a sink full of ice cold water. I sauntered over to the stairs, feeling like I’d been beat up and had too much to drink (after only having had half a beer an hour earlier, I was wondering what happened to the rest of it. Was it still on the table at the bar or had it been flung at someone after, of course, being finished off first so as not to waste anything…)

I tried to sneak upstairs but was intercepted mid stair-climb. My man took one look at me and his glazed over expression of defeat transitioned into a moment of epiphany. Realizing I was full of shit and was most certainly bothered by the night’s events (I had previously assured him on the phone that I was fine and just tired), he marched over to the kitchen and bellowed to the family to meet him in the living room. I sat at the top of the stairs cuddled up with the family dog, both of us thankful to have one another to lean on as it was quite drafty up there. This usually respectful guy got his point across, most likely getting the desired effect due to the sheer volume of his voice and use of occasional profanity, and the parental units were more than cool about the situation, taking it upon themselves to speak for the family in that “from today onward, you won’t have any [passive aggressive emails, hints, or complaints] negativity from the family.” The ordeal was rounded off by an awkward but maybe even sincere group hug and we scattered.

It was strange since we went to bed, my man and I, feeling better about everything. We knew it was just a matter of time before things blew up–we just didn’t realize it would blow up that huge. That was probably the first time they seemed like family to me–although I’m sure I could have had that same feeling without the blowout…but maybe not.

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