“Grooms get in free!”
That’s the generous offer from Austin Monthly, my local glossy society rag, for its “Couture, Cakes and Cufflinks,” uh, “Bridal Bash.” There’s nothing particularly unusual about this kind of shill party, and that’s what makes it particularly offensive. It’s every disgusting wedding narrative rolled into one day-long event that women are actually expected to pay to attend.
There’s so much to hate about mainstream wedding culture — the consumerism, the gender policing, the fucking consumerism, the body-shaming, did I mention the consumerism? — but perhaps the wedding-related narrative that pisses me off more than any other is the idea that men are incapable of being interested in weddings and must be coddled and babied so that their delicate wedding-hating sensibilities are not offended. Keep reading »
It’s almost Valentine’s Day, which makes us think of romance, relationships and engagements — and the sparkly glare of a diamond engagement ring. Yes, diamonds are pretty, precious, and these days, cost a zillion dollars. But it wasn’t always so — and you can thank a concerted effort on the part of diamond mines, the advertising industry and Hollywood for mercilessly inflating the price of these glittery gems. Here’s how a stone with little intrinsic value became the most important gem in the world.
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There were a lot of things I knew I’d have to think about when we decided to get married. I don’t just mean the lofty “What is marriage for?” questions. I mean the practical questions about the ceremony and party. What I’d be wearing underneath my dress for the big day wasn’t, however, one of the things on my mind.
That is until I watched an episode of “Say Yes to the Dress” in which a former beauty queen is lectured by her father about not wearing a thong to her dress fitting. “Thong” is not a word I would ever want to hear come out of my own father’s mouth, but I guess if that’s their relationship, who am I to judge? Prior to that, however, I wasn’t privy to the entire world that is bridal undergarments — a world wherein you’re not just expected to wear something stain-free and seamless, but sexy too. Indeed, “bridal underwear” is its own species in the genus of undergarments. Keep reading »
I’ve been putting off making the trip to the county clerk’s office to see about getting Patrick and I common-law married. In order for me to be enrolled on his health insurance, Patrick’s employers need some kind of governmentally sanctioned proof that we’re not just total liars. The process in Texas for proving you’re not a total liar is pretty simple: you tell the government that you’re not a total liar, sign a piece of paper, and they believe you. Suddenly, marriage!
This one little trip that I can’t seem to make is probably one of the most important things I could be doing just about now. And yet here I sit in my lacy black silk pajamas (Fancy Lady Obsessed With “Downton Abbey” So She Bought Some Nice Underthings Alert!), drinking coffee and fending off keyboard-fascinated cats instead of achieving the twofer of making my relationship more legitimate in the eyes of the government and ensuring that I have proper health coverage.
Though to be fair, I also buy extra underwear so that I can go a month without hitting the laundromat, so know that I am a world-class procrastinator of some renown. It’s not that I have apprehensions about becoming a wife.
Right? Keep reading »