I think I just got away with telling my dad he won’t be giving me away at my wedding — and the world didn’t fall apart.
I’d been putting it off, the telling him, partly because I never know whether my dad is going to care. I know he cares a lot about high-quality French fries and Chevy sport utility vehicles that rolled off the line between 1996 and 1999 (must have tailgate and be black, red or white). But the emotional stuff is a total gamble.
There was the time he tried to keep one of my high school boyfriends from using our upstairs bathroom because “he might have VD,” which I now realize was code for “Andie, you are wasting your time on this guy.” He cried when I tried on my wedding dress for him, but not when he dropped me off at college halfway across the country.
So I had no idea how he would react if I told him that I don’t want to be given away on my wedding day. Maybe he would be fine with it. Or maybe it would genuinely hurt him. But there’s not much that hurts me more than being treated like a piece of property. 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 »
Yes, your wedding was adorable. Look at your adorable mason jar center pieces! And your adorable balloons and/or adorable take on adorable flower alternatives! And your adorable color palette! And your adorable adaptation of an adorable song!
Oh look, an adorable reference to an adorable pop culture institution, adorably personalized to suit your adorable relationship with an adorable person. Look how you adorably side-stepped tradition with an adorable and unique adorable thing that looks like all the other unique adorable things I have been looking at non-stop for months on adorable wedding blogs and ugh.
I am so tired of adorable shit. Adorable shit is making me hate my own adorable shit, and if I had to pick some favorite adorable shit, it would be my own. Keep reading »
I started having emotional breakdowns about a month into wedding planning. Sweaty palms, heart racing, knees weak, teary eyes, total immobilization. I would find myself staring at a web page filled with tiki torches or green bridesmaid dresses or centerpiece ideas, and I would just stop dead in my wedding tracks.
It became the worst when Patrick would ask me for ideas or advice. Two questions in a row about the wedding and I’d be a shaky, sweaty mess. All of a sudden, my mind was deluged with worst-case scenarios and paralyzing fear of judgment from others. How do you plan a party everyone has already been to before, but also make it the paragon of amazing loveness that super-embodies the perfect lovey-face of your wonderful and unique relationship?
Moreover, will our venue let us put party lights up and what if we don’t have party lights and we trigger Armageddon right then and there?!
Wedding planning is the worst. Keep reading »
Last month, my boyfriend Patrick and I drank a bottle of Jim Beam at the lake and decided to get married. When we peeled our faces off a sticky, half-deflated air mattress the next morning, we asked ourselves two questions: first, did we still want to get married, and second, how about some Taco Bell? Yes to both, thank you.
Eventually the time came for parental phone calls, and mine were excited and curious: where would our wedding be? When? Several minutes into the call, I heard my mom muse, almost absent-mindedly, “Andrea Hislastname ….” She didn’t ask if I would be changing my last name; she simply said what she believed my new name would be, just to see how it rolled off her tongue.
Patrick’s family did ask about changing my name, at least. And I told them: no, I’m not changing my name. For that matter, neither is Patrick. Of course, most folks would never think to ask if a guy might change his name upon marriage. It’s just not done in this country — and once I learned why, I became more sure than ever that I would never be anyone but Andrea Grimes. Keep reading »