We decided to get married in Montana. We decided to only invite family and a very few handful of friends. More importantly, I decided to grow my bangs out. These decisions took HOURS. Hours of my life that I could’ve used to finish watching the 4th season of Sons of Anarchy. Instead, I’ve only made it to episode 5.
The worst part is I’m the biggest culprit. I eat, breathe, and sleep wedding with the intermittent thought thrown in there for good measure about the five graduate courses I’m currently taking. The Southerner can’t get a word in without me asking him what he would think if I handmade our invitations so they looked like airline tickets (FAIL). Yeah, let’s send the guests an invitation that reminds them of how much it’s actually costing to attend the wedding.
When I was little, I never dreamed of being a bride. I didn’t play with frilly dolls or envision white-picket fences. I was busy kicking Hordak’s ass in my She-ra Princess of Power castle. And let’s just get this out there since my mother takes every opportunity to remind me of it: Hello, my name is Queen Savage and I’ve been married before. I already have a very decent set of silverware and plates, or at least half a set of plates and silverware. Wouldn’t that be funny? If instead of registering (which I DO NOT want to do despite massive pressure on all fronts), I just asked people if they could perhaps replace the half of the silverware I lost in my first marriage? I think that would be a fucking riot. But airline ticket invitations once seemed like a great idea too.
This is the disclaimer part of this post where I explain how happy and full of very loving feelings I am about marrying the Southerner. That sometimes on my way to school I get this weird wet feeling in my left eye because I’ve been daydreaming about walking down an aisle toward the Southerner.That the Southerner has been AMAZING throughout this whole process and I am quite pleased about becoming his old lady. It’s just the planning I’m bitching about.
It feels like wedding planning is a test that you have to pass in order to get married. Are you really good at offending people and/or making fake happy noises as you open the hundredth set of champagne flutes you’ve received over the course of the last two hours? You pass! Do you know how to fit 30 guests into a ranch that only houses 20? DOUBLE-PASS! You are a wedding dominatrix! Your name will live on in the annals of Martha Stewart history from this day forward! WAY-TO-GO!
For right now, I’m focusing on the fun stuff: researching huckleberry cupcake recipes, making Brother J my man of honor, thinking of all the people the Southerner and I love being in one place for one weekend, and that weird wet substance in my left eye.