I Got the Wedding Bell "Oohs" ...
... or, " Why Alex's fiance is NOT a 'Bridezilla' ..."
So. Before I get to the utter shitbomb that was last week (work-wise), a slight diversion onto the happier, but slightly-harried weekend-that-was.
On Saturday, Mom took Vicki to synagogue for Shabbes services. Pity poor Vicki, won't you? She was trapped in a service (in a borrowed outfit that admittedly looked hot on her), where the liturgy was two-thirds in Hebrew, trapped between my mother showing her off
like a new piece of jewelry ("Look! Isn't this a lovely daughter-in-law-to-be necklace?") and a fellow synagoguer who lives at right angles to reality.
(Me? I was home catching up on much-needed sleep. See "shitbomb of a week", above.)
But I'm proud of 'er: She didn't fall asleep, and was actually interested in parts of the service; a service which must have been mostly unintelligible to her. Yup; thass muh gurl.
Late Saturday night, after a very casual dinner with Mom and Dad and a quick visit to Vicki's friend Jane and her guy, it was back to Allentown. Sunday was the normal running-around day and Avon-work night, albeit punctuated by a Super Bowl. And in between, we talked wedding plans. Part of the running-around, you see, entailed picking up three of the bridesmaid dresses, and getting Vicki's dress to the seamstress--I was locked in the room while the dress was exfiltrated.
By the end of this month, we have to have all dinner choices (already decided), times (we're set for a two p.m. service with cocktail hour at three and the reception proper beginning at four--she's worried that the hour won't be enough time, what with photographs and whatnot), and choice of cake (we have to go to the hall, look through the book, and pick one) set.
And the wedding is coming up fast: With just 207 days to go, we have yet to meet with our officiant (a coworker whom we both love), write the vows, meet with the DJ, photographer, and videographer (we should have that done by Valentine's Day), buy her ring (already picked out), print and send out the invitations, do the favors, print up the programs on hand fans, figure out what we're doing flower-wise, buy the gifts for the bridesmaids (she already has them picked out) and the groomsmen (nary a flippin' clue), get the tuxes, get the marriage license--and, y'know, get married.
Now Vicki's worrying up a storm: For whatever reason, two of the bridesmaids have not yet ordered their gowns. And what's worse, the representative at the bridal shop says that since they've entered their busy season, it'll probably take twelve to sixteen weeks for any such gowns ordered to actually come in.
(Do the math: One hundred twelve days. Leaving just ninety-five days to have them sized, and fitted, and altered. Tick, tick, tick ...)
AND, what's worse ...-er, the bridal shop rep says that this is the time when they start discontinuing dresses.
So Vicki's in a bit of a worried tizzy. But it is both an understandable one and a justified one. "(Justified Tizzy"--that deserves to be a band name.)
And of course, there are ancillary issues with parts of her family: Who's coming, who'll be healthy enough to come, who refuses to come, who doesn't deserve to be invited, who insists on being invited ("... and you are ...?"), and who's on the outs with whom in the family. Yay drama!
Of course, I shouldn't make it sound like hers is the only side with this stuff: In addition to our own familial "who will be healthy enough to come" worry. I have drama as well: It's called "The Bill".
I've had to tell her straight out:
I don't want to marry her.
What I want instead is to BE married to her, forever and ever amen.
(Please; no facile "You should just elope" suggestions: There's far too much time, money, aggravation, planning, receding hairs, and anticipation invested in this thing.)
So. Before I get to the utter shitbomb that was last week (work-wise), a slight diversion onto the happier, but slightly-harried weekend-that-was.
On Saturday, Mom took Vicki to synagogue for Shabbes services. Pity poor Vicki, won't you? She was trapped in a service (in a borrowed outfit that admittedly looked hot on her), where the liturgy was two-thirds in Hebrew, trapped between my mother showing her off
like a new piece of jewelry ("Look! Isn't this a lovely daughter-in-law-to-be necklace?") and a fellow synagoguer who lives at right angles to reality.
(Me? I was home catching up on much-needed sleep. See "shitbomb of a week", above.)
But I'm proud of 'er: She didn't fall asleep, and was actually interested in parts of the service; a service which must have been mostly unintelligible to her. Yup; thass muh gurl.
Late Saturday night, after a very casual dinner with Mom and Dad and a quick visit to Vicki's friend Jane and her guy, it was back to Allentown. Sunday was the normal running-around day and Avon-work night, albeit punctuated by a Super Bowl. And in between, we talked wedding plans. Part of the running-around, you see, entailed picking up three of the bridesmaid dresses, and getting Vicki's dress to the seamstress--I was locked in the room while the dress was exfiltrated.
By the end of this month, we have to have all dinner choices (already decided), times (we're set for a two p.m. service with cocktail hour at three and the reception proper beginning at four--she's worried that the hour won't be enough time, what with photographs and whatnot), and choice of cake (we have to go to the hall, look through the book, and pick one) set.
And the wedding is coming up fast: With just 207 days to go, we have yet to meet with our officiant (a coworker whom we both love), write the vows, meet with the DJ, photographer, and videographer (we should have that done by Valentine's Day), buy her ring (already picked out), print and send out the invitations, do the favors, print up the programs on hand fans, figure out what we're doing flower-wise, buy the gifts for the bridesmaids (she already has them picked out) and the groomsmen (nary a flippin' clue), get the tuxes, get the marriage license--and, y'know, get married.
Now Vicki's worrying up a storm: For whatever reason, two of the bridesmaids have not yet ordered their gowns. And what's worse, the representative at the bridal shop says that since they've entered their busy season, it'll probably take twelve to sixteen weeks for any such gowns ordered to actually come in.
(Do the math: One hundred twelve days. Leaving just ninety-five days to have them sized, and fitted, and altered. Tick, tick, tick ...)
AND, what's worse ...-er, the bridal shop rep says that this is the time when they start discontinuing dresses.
So Vicki's in a bit of a worried tizzy. But it is both an understandable one and a justified one. "(Justified Tizzy"--that deserves to be a band name.)
And of course, there are ancillary issues with parts of her family: Who's coming, who'll be healthy enough to come, who refuses to come, who doesn't deserve to be invited, who insists on being invited ("... and you are ...?"), and who's on the outs with whom in the family. Yay drama!
Of course, I shouldn't make it sound like hers is the only side with this stuff: In addition to our own familial "who will be healthy enough to come" worry. I have drama as well: It's called "The Bill".
I've had to tell her straight out:
I don't want to marry her.
What I want instead is to BE married to her, forever and ever amen.
(Please; no facile "You should just elope" suggestions: There's far too much time, money, aggravation, planning, receding hairs, and anticipation invested in this thing.)