When I let it slip to people that I sometimes regret taking my husband’s last name after we were married, a panicked look crosses their face. They’re expecting, I can only guess, a diatribe about a good-for-nothing bum of a husband. I’ll give you the good news now. We’re 12 years in and going strong.
It’s not the marriage I regret. It’s the name.
I never expected to be here. Twelve years ago, I was excited to dump my 10-letter mouthful of amaiden name for one that was half as long. I was ready to say goodbye to years of having to correct the spelling and the pronunciation of the very German name passed down through my father’s family for generations. Read more…
When Jamie Blanke married her new husband Eric Chandler, they did it in style — Disney style. The bride, who was raised by two Disney fanatics, really wanted to be Princess Ariel (you know, the mermaid from”A Little Mermaid”). But she didn’t stop at dyed red hair, a fish-netting veil and mermaid-style dress (all of which she had, natch). Oh no, Jamie enlisted all of her bridesmaids and groomsmen to dress as Disney characters, too. So now, these poor bridesmaids are stuck with the pinnacle of unwearable bridesmaids dresses — a Disney princess bridesmaid dress. I mean, I guess there’s always Halloween. [The Knot]
I mean, good on Jamie for doing what she wanted for her wedding. Still, I can’t help but feel that this pales a bit in comparison to… Keep reading »
In South Florida, one man’s romantic gesture to his wife has turned into a legal battle with the DMV and a moment to reflect on traditional gender roles. Keep reading »
The New York Times, ever concerned about the plight of the three people it takes to make a Style Section trend story, has identified a disturbing new tendency among women to … plan their weddings. But wait for it: they’re not just planning their weddings, they’re doing it on the Internet and they’re doing it while single.
The horrors, they are horrifying. Time to muster the judgment and disdain appropriate to the situation: these pathetic cases are wasting their sad-ass time, and their real human relationships are suffering for it, because using the Internet means shunning all human contact, only going outside once a week to get a gallon of milk and a bag of cat food. Keep reading »
“Are you going to grow your hair out for the wedding?”
Obviously my stylist needed to know, because she was standing there with scissors. But family members? Dress shop employees? After the hundredth time telling people “No,” it got a little tiresome.
The question, in and of itself, isn’t offensive or stupid. It’s probably just small talk. After all, it’s incredibly uncommon to see short-haired brides, especially represented in mainstream wedding-related media; it’s understandable why people ask.
But there are an awful lot of preconceived notions about weddings and femininity and the all-importantness of a one-day event packed into that deceptively innocent sentence. Keep reading »
Because the world is a mysterious place, they have given that dude who wrote Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus an advice column. Who are “they”? I don’t know. People who are reassured by “logic” that basically boils down to “Men be watchin’ football, bitches be shoppin’,” I guess.
And because I only deserve nice things part of the time, I read this advice column. The fact that anyone would ask this stooge for tips on how to unclog a garbage disposal, let alone how to fix one’s relationship, shocks me into a long, slow rubberneck practically every time. But one letter in particular has stuck with me since I read it. In this letter, “Kissless” in Colorado wonders why getting married didn’t magically make her husband want to kiss her all the time? Keep reading »
Deciding to get married — or to get engaged, or to generally not ever split up with your partner and make this preference publicly known — is an exciting and big life decision. It’s also, like a lot of life decisions (see also: parenting, graduate school, switching to hard liquor), one that your friends, family and closest total strangers have some opinions about. And it is extremely important that they share all of them with you, quickly, right now, if you just have 10 minutes or several hours.
I genuinely enjoy talking about marriage and weddings — hell, I’ve made a point of doing it almost every week for more than a year here at the Frisky. But because of the shifting nature of marriage and wedding culture, generally in a more positive, inclusive and less-materialistic direction, I’ve found that it’s dangerous to assume anything at all after one has heard (or read, on Facebook, occasionally to one’s horror) the words: “We’re engaged!” Keep reading »
When I first read what folks are calling Amelia Earhart’s “prenup,” I was sure it was too good to be true: here is, in 1931 or thereabouts, a woman telling her fiancé in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t necessarily intend to be faithful to him, that her career comes first and that she intends to keep a place where she can be alone, “now and then.”
But no, there it is at the Purdue University Library in a collection of the aviatrix’s papers.
Would that we all sent these letters to our partners before walking down the aisle. How much heartache could be avoided if people laid their hopes and intentions out plain for each other instead of assuming that a preacher and a piece of paper and an open bar would magically align life goals, personal preferences and financial habits? The answer is: a lot of heartache could be avoided. Keep reading »
My uncle Tommy’s hot sauce is the recipe by which I measure all hot sauces; it is the recipe I try to recreate to varying degrees of success every time I come home from the store with cilantro, peppers, lime, onion, garlic and tomatoes. But Tommy just knew, in some magical old-Texas-guy way, the way hot sauce was supposed to taste and look and feel.
“Tommy Baker Hot Sauce” was a staple at all my family’s holiday gatherings for years, sitting up there on my mom’s or my aunt’s counter, decimated by the time anyone got around to ham or turkey — which my uncle Tommy almost always had a hand in making, too. The man was a genius in the kitchen or on the grill.
He’s been gone for two years now, and I miss him for all kinds of reasons, but one of them is because he was a family man who owned the holidays. He didn’t just sit around and expect his wife to make him a plate and trim the tree. He wasn’t quite Clark Griswold, but he was real close. And there’s nothing I love more than a man who’ll fry a turkey, make a side dish, wash a roasting pan, and slap a wreath on the door. Keep reading »
I remember climbing into Patrick’s pick-up truck in a fog of glittering sparklers. I remember noting that there was a giant penis shoe-polished on to the passenger side window. I remember taking an Instagram of us driving the few blocks back to our hotel. I remember being very excited about getting my shoes off.
And I remember being so, so exhausted. After our wedding, as soon as we got back to the hotel, I put on my tent-iest, most shapeless dress and some comfy Toms, curled up on the couch and said an enthusiastic “Yes!” to my favorite question, which is: Do you want a beer?
We’d stocked up the suite’s fridge with beverages and invited anyone who wanted to after-party with us to stop by post-reception. In the weeks before the wedding, I thought we might have something of a post-wedding rager with all our out-of-town friends and really get to sit down and hang out and talk, the way you really can’t do at a wedding reception.
I was wrong. I was the tiredest, sleepiest person who had just made a lifetime commitment to the man of her dreams ever. I really wanted to see all my old (and new!) friends. I really wanted to hear all about how the second floor of our hotel appeared to be hosting an extremely snazzy dance party. But mainly, I wanted to go to sleep. Keep reading »