This week, my husband and I sat in a real estate agent’s office and put our first ever offer on an actual house on an actual piece of land that we would actually like to own.
“You guys are legally married, right?” the real estate agent asked. We said yes, we are.
“Do you have the same last name?” the real estate agent asked.
It’s a question I’ve become used to answering, and one of the first I tackled in the weeks after Patrick and I got drunk at the lake one hot September weekend and decided to get married. Keep reading »
What’s the kindest thing you can do for someone who’s getting married? Keep your mouth shut. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true. If you’re asked for advice? Give it, judiciously. If you’re not? Please, please, please for the love of cummerbunds, hold your tongue. That goes for anyone, whether we’re talking parents of the happy couple or third cousins or that drunk dude at the bar.
When Patrick and I planned our wedding, which I will always remember fondly as being one of the most stressful times in my life, we were blessed with hands-off families and beer-in-hand friends who took their roles as sounding boards very seriously. The strangers, really, were the ones who gave us the most grief — the guy at the pub who wanted to know when we were having kids, the florist who couldn’t imagine a world without corsages, the saleswoman who told me I wouldn’t feel like a princess in a tea-length wedding dress.
What I wish I’d had then, and what I’m giving y’all now, is a handy list of phrases to keep in your back pocket for those moments when you’re so floored by a suggestion or bit of (bad) advice that you’re tempted to take it just to shut someone up. They’re all wedding-focused, of course, but I like to think they’ll work for anyone on the receiving end of a busybody’s interest. Keep reading »
I’m standing in the kitchen in my underwear, crying over a carton of fat-free half and half. I’m about to do one of those dramatic Lifetime movie moments where the emotionally exhausted woman has just had too much and she crashes to the floor with dramatic flourish and beats her fists on the ground. But I feel crusty cat food and coffee grounds stuck to my heels and I can’t remember the last time I mopped. In fact I can’t even name a single time I’ve mopped this particular kitchen floor, which prompts me to remember that the person who mops the kitchen floor in our house is my husband, Patrick. And then I cry some more. Keep reading »
Andrea is taking a much needed week off from her Hitched column this week, after spending the last few days reporting live from the Texas State Legislature as they attempted to rid the state of nearly all its clinics that provide abortions. (Thanks to Senator Wendy Davis and the rest of the “feminist army,” they failed.) So this week, I’m rerunning one of Andrea’s first Hitched columns, originally published on November 2, 2011.
Wedding dress shopping. Here’s what happens to me: I walk into a bridal salon and tell the nice maternal saleswoman that I want a tea-length gown with no flowery accents. I am ushered into a dressing room where I am told that they have one tea length gown, it is covered in flowers, and did I want to try on, say, this $1,500 satin gown with a 14-foot train? For funsies? Repeat nine times. Nine. Nine.
“This is your one chance to be a princess!” one saleswoman told me. When I explained to her that my “princess” vision actually, like, seriously really did include a tea-length dress and she was just going to have to see if she could manage to wrap her mind around that, this total stranger looked at me like I had just shot her kitten point-blank in the face in the middle of the dress shop.
So, I went to the custom dressmaker. I told her what I wanted. She said she could totally do that, but she wouldn’t start the dress until next year, even though we’re getting married in April. Why?
“So you have time to get your weight where you want it.” Keep reading »
My father didn’t walk me down the aisle on my wedding day, but he did help me up some very steep stairs. That’s not a metaphor for the next iteration of my life as a married lady: there were actual stairs, my high heels were ridiculous, and I didn’t want to fall over as I climbed to greet my very-soon-to-be husband on the stage where he was waiting for me.
I love that moment. I’d never envisioned being “given away” by my dad. I always loved the idea of walking solo, down the aisle, toward my future. But at the end of the “aisle” — a treacherous brick walkway — at our venue, was a set of precarious stairs. When I reached them, I put one foot on a step and reached with my left hand toward my dad, who helped me balance before taking my place in front of Patrick.
In both the figurative, and the most literal, sense, my dad helped me arrive on that stage, standing with the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I was legitimately nervous I might fall down, but I also wanted that moment of connection with my dad during the ceremony, as a nod to what he and my mom and our family mean to me.
My dad? He was just legitimately nervous. Keep reading »