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.
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.
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!