Mawwage. Mawwage is what bwings us together. Wove, twue wove... so tweasure your woves forever.

In the third grade, we learned in Family Life, that marriage happens when two people love
each other very much.

I met Mery in the first grade. I was an awkward and somewhat hairy little bugger, eager to impress my classmates and teachers. I wanted to be Claudia from the Baby-Sitters Club. So I told stories (lies) to anyone that wasn't nailed down about how rich my dad was, how I had a huge artistic family, I had a brother who looked like David Bowie, my mother was a gorgeous model, et cetera ad nauseum.

So I annoyed the royal piss out of everyone.

One day, this impossibly short girl with the longest hair you've ever seen, bounced up to me and asked me to sit with her. I was immediately grateful for a bit of attention. Out pours my verbal diarrhea. She told me to shut up. I blinked, totally offended.

She told me she had X amount of brothers and sisters (twenty-five years later, I'm STILL not clear on the exact number) and that she lived in the biggest house on Gautier Ave. She smiled at me, told me her name was Mery, stole the pencil I had been holding, and sat down in my seat.

My jaw hit the floor.

She got along well with EVERYONE. (In later years, we learned to describe her as a "tribe-walker". More on that later). She could bullshit the teacher with a finesse most of us were to young to understand. She marched right up to the cutest boy in our class and told him she thought he was cute. (Inconceivable.) She taught me the word "bitch" and used it to describe a scathingly perfect little girl that was fawned over by Mrs. Holcomb. (She also taught me the word "asshole" when the cutest boy denied her advances.)

One day, after bailing me out for not having my homework done (she surreptitiously swiped the paper off my desk and filled in the four blanks with the correct words IN MY HANDWRITING after seeing my panicked face) she asked me if I'd like to come over her house. I probably fell down trying to disguise my nonchalance at accepting.

Time couldn't pass fast enough. Obviously, this girl was everything I yearned to be, and I was excited to learn from her. In my head, I thought of her gigantic room, stuffed to the brim with all of the latest toys, and her young, sexy mother, who did all the things my own mother couldn't do because I had hidden the fact that she was really in a hospital bed somewhere where I could only see her once every two weeks, and then only after a two hour drive. "She must have bunk beds" I remember thinking. I desperately wanted a brother or sister to share a bunk bed with, and surely she would have her own.

The day ended finally, and we walked to her house. For sure, it was big, the biggest house on the block. An enormous, yellow three story with stone steps. She fished in her pocket for her key. When she didn't find it, she taught me another word.

"Shit. I left it in my desk. Oh well."

She inhaled, and let out the loudest noise I had ever heard come out of a little girl.

"DDDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYYYYYYYYYCCCCCCCEEEEEE!!!!!" she yelled.

My eyes watered at the sheer volume. A brown kid that had Mery's face poked out of a second story window.

"Go FUCK yourself!" said the brown kid that was maybe five years older than us.

(And so I learned another word)

Mery was nonplussed. "Get your ass down here and open the door Doyce! I forgot my key!"

Doyce sighed and closed his window. Minutes later, we heard a fumbling at the door and he opened it. I braced myself. Doyce looked me up and down as I walked in, and Mery hit him over his head. Doyce brushed her off and headed into the living room.

For sure, it was BIG. I trod carefully, not wanting to dirty their huge house. Mery kicked off her shoes into the corner and made her way into the kitchen. I followed her. Hilarious girl laughter was coming from upstairs. Mery rolled her eyes and piled rice for me out of this enormous pot onto a dish, as well as some chicken with sauce from a pan. She was allowed to use the stove??! I pretended this was normal as she sat me down with my plate and handed me some bread and butter with my meal. (To this day, she still calls me "Bread n' Butter") She eyed me carefully, eating her own food, when the upstairs exploded. A brown girl (also with Mery's face) came clamoring down the stairs, doubled over with laughter, followed by a blonde girl, also laughing. The girl with Mery's face saw that Mery was sitting in a particular seat and her face got serious. The girl with Mery's face started shreiking that Mery was in her chair. Doyce came in from the other room and joined in the taunting. Mery got up to punch Doyce in the mouth when another door banged open.

Silence.

The door that banged open was the basement door, and the woman that banged the door open was not in a good mood. She was inexplicably tiny, but she had the presence of a fucking bull.

Her eyes landed on the brown girl (Sherry), Doyce, Mery, and then me. I think I peed a little.

She inhaled, and let out the loudest noise I had ever heard come out of such a tiny woman.

"Agamemnon chorizo blanco rojo diablo fuegos chili!!!!!!!!!!" (You'd think I'd know Spanish at this point. I don't, and can't pretend to. Just pretend she said something really, really fierce.) Doyce scampered away. The little woman with the big mouth chased Sherry and her friend up the stairs. Mery sat calmly and ate some more chicken. She looked at me.

"I like you." she said. "You will be my best friend."

I sighed, relieved that she wasn't going to feed me to that awfully loud woman (who became my own true other-mother) and accepted. Half out of fear of the crazy little woman, sure, but half out of my admiration and immediate love for this spunky little girl who was everything I had ever wanted to be. I was on cloud nine. She then told me which bus would take me home, and that her family would be having rice and beans tomorrow.

After that, we were inseparable.

Which brings me to the point I was trying to make. Two years later, in the third grade, we learned that marriage was between two people who loved each other very much. After school, and on my way to my second home (the big yellow house with Mery and Sherry and Doyce and unlimited tasty chicken and a Mom who wouldn't put up with shit {I learned a lot of words that year}) I asked Mery if she would marry me. Mery stopped walking, slung her bookbag over her shoulder, and smiled. She told me that she would, but she had promised her heart to the cutest boy from the first grade class. She also told me that no matter what, the two of us would be best friends forever. I grinned, and told her I was okay with that. And two third graders walked home to their home on Gautier ave.


We have been the best of friends throughout elementary school, high school, and beyond. We have been through every heartache, every loss, we have rejoiced in new life, and laughed our heads off at every inconvenience. Her mother is my mother, and my father is her father. Her family is mine, and through her I have a family I am so proud of.

Twenty two years later, I called her and asked her to be my maid of honor, and she accepted with tears of joy and long-distance hugs, because she's five states away with her own husband and four unimaginably, unequivocally perfect baby boys. I know she's proud of me for finding my own brown boy to make my own family with, and I'm proud that I've lived up to her expectations of me: to live happily ever after.






Babygirl, you're irreplaceable. You have hopped on a train to save me from impending doom and I have  travelled cross-country to make sure you were safe. We have been rich, poor, extravagant, hungry, charitable and cold. We have been conniving bitches and generous friends. You tried to play a prank on me and I almost peed in your bed. You kissed Steven Aponte and I didn't kill you. I stole your solo in the Christmas play and you didn't kill me. We have mended each others broken hearts and have championed against each others rivals.  We have blown money on Christmas presents, and we have blown on our hands to keep warm. We have cried together, and we have laughed together. You taught me curse words, which bus will take me into Bayonne, to never lie about myself, and to treasure what I've got.

I love you, Mery Luren Waddell Reed. 



P.S. As for me wanting to get married in the third grade? Don't worry. That night, I got home and asked my dad to marry me. He laughingly accepted, and we were married by a poinsettia plant with a court of My Little Ponies, Glo-Friends, and my stuftie Max.

I even got to keep my last name. 

Brawnee Inn was our next prospect.

We walked in. There was a very long line extending through the lobby that we practically had to play "Red Rover" with in order to get through to the front desk. The girl at the counter came around and asked us what we wanted to see. Rob joked that he wanted to see what everyone was in line for. She smiled wanly, and told us to follow her. She walked us about three feet, and into the "Grand Ballroom". Danielle was the first one in, and she spun on her heel and tried to shove me out before I even set foot in the thing. I poked my head over her shoulder. It was as big as a living room, and designed by IKEA. There was a faded sea-foam green carpet that stank like cigars. Plus, it stank like cigars. Rob, having not one gracious bone in his body made the negative "uh-uh" noise and stormed out. Danielle, Tom, and I followed meekly. On the way out, we passed the line again. Rob tried to cut in front of someone with the excuse that he had to pee, and this must be the line for the bathroom. Uh-uh. 

It was a line for a wake.

Yes, it is truly possible, that if you get married in their stinky living room (with French doors that open up to a garage) that in the next room over, they could be holding a dead body and everyone that wants to look at it. 

I'm not THAT goth. Sheesh.  

So there we were, driving on 80 west with the Millers, less than a week later.  Tom and Rob were in the front cracking jokes and Danielle had her laptop on my knees and was showing me the difference between a hydrangea and a mum. Or something to that effect. I had to keep looking out the window because something was making me nauseous when we finally arrived at ::dramatic pause:: Pennsylvania's answer to Buckingham Palace.

Tom parked, and they got out of the car. I opened my door as my head swum, tumbled out of the backseat as I swallowed all the spit that had accumulated in my mouth and landed forehead first into the side of a Mercedes. Tom rescued the Starbucks iced coffee cup from my hands without missing a beat before I had a chance to puke on it and he took a sip. I shot him a dirty look as I lay by the Mercedes tire.

Me: I needed that.
Tom: You're laying on the ground with a bump on your head and ejecta running out of your mouth after falling out of my car. This coffee is the last thing you need. ::ssips::

Danielle helped me up. I made a face at Tom's back and asked Danielle what "ejecta" was. She told me to never marry a theater dork. Rob ran past us because he saw a suit of armor on the front lawn and performed Hamlet's soliloquy at its head. A fresh wad of spit harbored in my throat, and my body threatened to produce more "ejecta".

Rob: (to the suit of armor) Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come-
Me: Oh, I like that movie. Robin Williams was dead and he-

Danielle smacked me on the back of my head. Tom smacked me on the back of my head. Just as Laurel and Hardy were beating me up, the concierge walked out in a full evening suit (it was eleven-thirty in the morning).

Concierge: Sirs and ladies. Please feel free to hang your coats in our cloakroom and wait for your appointed liaison in our lobby.

He looked at Rob, who was giving the devil horns to the suit of armor because Tom was taking a picture, and at Danielle, who was helping me to not fall down and look clean. He abruptly turned on his heel and went inside.

I yelled at Rob to get over here and be respectable. Rob came to my side and told me I had ejecta on the side of my mouth. I smacked him on the back of his head. This was quickly turning into a Four Stooges routine. I wiped my mouth and we went inside.

The inside was jaw-dropping. Ornate carved wood everywhere. It was decorated for fall, and beautifully. A different concierge (possibly Mr. Boddy who had greeted us had found other duties to busy himself with) pranced up to us and bade us to sit on the couches while we waited for Guinevere the event planner (I don't remember what her name was, this is my story, and I'll do what I want to with it) who would be with us shortly. Tom and Rob wandered around. Danielle found an enormous album under one of the coffee tables, blew the dust off of it, and dumped it into my lap. Inside was a collection of truly bad eighties wedding photos taken at Skytop. We giggled at them as my stomach settled. I took a deep breath and cozied into the leather couch as we made fun of the floppy hats and ludicrous bridesmaid dresses for about a half hour until the concierge came back and told us that the event planner was running late, and to go down to the Grand Ballroom and have buffet lunch on Mountaintop while we waited.

We gathered ourselves and got in line to get a table. Rob looked around at the rest of the clientele in the dining room. Without any provocation from Commander Miller or I, he immediately turned to Tom and demanded that Tom take his sweater off and give it to him. Tom took his fleece off and handed it over. Danielle and I looked at each other, and around at the other tables. Everyone was wearing their Sunday best, and I don't mean Sunday best. I mean Sunday Best. The waiter showed up to take us to our table. Tom, in his polo shirt, Rob in his newfound fleece, Danielle in her turtleneck, and I in my sweater and eleven year old chucks followed him to our table.

We sat down, and we reflected. To make me uncomfortable and awkward is one thing, but to make Rob feel weirded out enough to demand another man's clothes because he thought his nice, clean button down shirt and dressy jeans was not presentable was another matter entirely. I felt funny, and not in a comedic way. I put my napkin in my lap, and Rob grabbed his plate and went off to get some food. A different waiter. kinda sweaty and nervous looking, came to our table and asked us what "he" was doing. I blinked, and shook my head.

Me: I'm sorry, who?
Waiter with clip-on tie: That man you were seated with. Where is he going?

If I had had my chops about me, I probably would have told the waiter that Rob was going to duel with the suit of armor out front, but my wits failed me, and I simply told him that Rob was going to get food.

Waiter with clip-on-tie: Oh, no! Did he take the plate from the table?
Me: (again, my smart-ass gland failing me) Yes, why?
Clip-on: Those plates are heirlooms, and are not to be eaten off of!
Danielle: (Whose wits never leave her) You do realize that this is a buffet lunch, and that these plates were on our table?
Clip-On: They are place settings! We never use them! Oh no oh no oh no! ::takes off::

I started chewing on my fingernails. Tom rolled his eyes, and Danielle got that look on her face that says that she's PISSED. Rob came back, and Danielle explained the situation. Rob looked mortified as Tom
brought back a simple white plate for Rob to slide his food onto and not irritate the Skytop gods.

Okay, pause.

I have never seen Robert Lascar uncomfortable. EVER. I have seen him annoyed, irritated, pissed, and all levels of displeased. I have even seen him downright furious. But I had never seen him in a position where he was made to feel irregular by the people around him. Rob takes the situation, whatever it may be, picks it up like a rug, and shakes everything off of it until it pleases him.I did not like watching Rob look almost embarrassed because he dared to eat off a plate that was not good enough for the likes of us according to some Simpsons-esque nerdy teenage boy. However, Rob being born a theater dork, he rose to the situation, brushed himself off, and acted the part.

I don't think I want to get married here.

 It wasn't as if we rolled up in the Beverly Hillbillies wagon to a castle with dirty shirts untucked, displaying five teeth among the four of us, a'hootin and a'hollerin with moonshine jugs at the ready. This was a place well within our budget, (or else we wouldn't have been there to audition it for our wedding), and I did not like being made to feel as though I had won an Oprah prize and was here as some pity-vacation. This place was already grating at my nerves when the event planner showed up.

Piss-poor event planner: ::sits down, graces each of us with a smile:: "I'm Evelyyyyyyyyn. And whooooo is getting marrrrrrrried?

(Ed's note: I cannot enunciate the way she did without making her sound like a ghost. The best way I can I can explain it to you, dear Reader, is to read her part in your head like a badly-cast, throaty, rich soap opera villain.)

Danielle kicked me under the table. I stood, as I was instructed by her hours ago, and offered my hand for Evelyyyyyyyyn to shake. Evelyyyyyyyn took my hand, held it at arms length, and her fingers were as
slack as a dead fish. I was almost tempted to kiss it by the way she proffered it to me. Fortunately, the amount of costume jewelry prevented me from making this mistake and I simply held her fingertips for
the allotted amount of time and then released her. Her gross hand wrapped itself around a binder and she sat down in the empty chair.

Evelyyyyyyyn: And where is the groom?
Tom: He went to go check out the female dog-sledding team. AAaaaahhhoooohh, I'm sorry, he went to the men's room.

Danielle looked triumphant after kicking Tom in his shin. Evelyyyyyyyn cleared her throat and asked us when "THE DATE" was. Danielle took over here. I sat back in my chair kept my mouth closed as Danielle went over our guest list.

Rob came back from the bathroom, and sat down next to Tom. Evelyyyyyyyn graced him with one of her withering smiles, reserved for people who were clearly wasting her time. Rob grimaced at her, rolled his eyes, and started talking to Tom.

I don't think Rob wants to get married here.

Lascar over here was clearly over the pretentiousness of this place when Evelyyyyyyyn took us for a tour. We saw the various ceremony areas, cocktail areas, reception areas. When we came upon the main ballroom, I feigned interest at Evelyyyyyyyn's story of the people that were married here last week.

Evelyyyyyyyn: Theeeeeeey were a gloooooorious couple, she was Indian and he was IIIIIIrish. Sheeeeeeeeeee painted her hands and the bridesmaids' hands in Hennaaaaaaaaa, do you know what that is? Of course you do, you're from Berrrrrrrgen County. Aaaaaaanyway, she came in on a hooooooorse, isn't that amaaaaaaaazing, she came in on a hooooooorse, and all the grooooooomsmen wore kilts, and it was just faaaaaaabulous. Aaaaaaand so IIIIIIIrish. Her paaaaaaarents came in on their helicopppppppter. Did you know that we have a helicopppppppter pad? We do, and it's open to you and your fammmmmmmilies.

I poked Rob in his ribs. "Look, baby, Daddddddddy can get some use out of the old whirly-bird. How nice."

Rob didn't miss a beat.

Rob: "She said helicopppppppter, not Taun-taun"

Tom thought out loud here and mentioned that we had two other places to look at today, and that we should get moving. At that, Evelyyyyyyyn sneered at us, and after unloading a metric shit-ton of paperwork into Danielle's arms, commented that there's no place like Skytop, and that we'd be back.

Danielle dumped the metric shit-ton of paperwork into the nearest recycling bin, and we headed out the front door. The door didn't even hit us in the ass on the way out.

We know where we're getting married.

Okay kids. I know most of you are married, or have been married. For that I extend my hat to you, because being either the bride, groom, partner, or unassuming national monument (yes, I am referring to the lady who married the Eiffel Tower) the fact of the matter is you married somebody and the two of you had to pick a place and plan a wedding. I am good at neither picking or planning (see my post: "I can't plan a trip to the bathroom with four people and a map") and on top of that, I happen to be marrying an OCD-riddled brain with fabulously muscular legs whose opinions have given me apoplectic attacks.

If it were up to me, I probably would have settled for the Holiday Inn on route 4, simply because I didn't know my options, and was completely loathe to researching. Upon finding out the building I had chosen for our nuptials (hehehe that word looks like "nipples"), Rob would have given me one of his trademark withering looks, rolled his eyes, stormed off into the parking lot, and put my engagement ring up for bid on eBay on his godforsaken iPhone.

Enter my Bridal Battalion, led (in the planning stages) by Commander Miller and General Waters.

Danielle and Amanda sat me down on the porch of Ye Olde Waters Mansion (Much as they did, under the instruction of Rob months ago to covertly find out what kind of engagement ring I wanted), and asked me where I wanted to get married.

Me: I don't know. I want someplace wintery.
Amanda and Danielle: ... (they look at each other)
Me: I dunno... Medieval Times? Are they open in the winter?
Amanda and Danielle: ... (they look at me)
Me: Fine. You guys are so smart, YOU pick the place.
Amanda and Danielle looked at each other.

That weekend, Danielle and Tom whisked us off to Skytop.  

The engagement party went off without a hitch. Julie and Alan had decorated their backyard with pictures of us over the years, had bought beautiful fall centerpieces for the tables, and Rob and I showed up in time to help set up the chairs. It wasn't until the Market Basket eighteen-wheeler showed up with the food that I realized that I forgot the color-coordinated tablecloths and matching napkins, plates, forks, etc. So here's me, sweating like a freak, stealing Rob's car keys and heading down J&A's seven-mile long driveway, with Julie yelling after me to pick up balloons, coffee, coffee cups, an extra case of beer, and the dessert, which I had also forgotten. Le sigh.

Forty-five minutes later, I show up with the goods, and instruct poor Alan and Rob to cart the shit out of the truck while I went to go wash up. I'm fairly certain I looked like ALICE COOPER at this point with my eyeliner running down my face in two uber-gawth trickles. Julie ran about like my fairy godmother, making sure everything was in place for my family, his family, our family (the Waterses) and our bridal party, while I guzzled a Miller Lite in the bathroom to calm my nerves.

But really, like I said, everything went off without a hitch, everyone mingled well, enjoyed the food, and enjoyed meeting each other. Steve (our best man) gave a small speech (because Rob and I are half Irish, half German, and half Chickenshit) which really was moving and sweet.

Soon enough, my family decided it was time to hit the trail, and amongst the hugs and kisses, well wishes, and about forty plates of leftover take-home food, they took off. Dyra and Bill (Rob's mom and step-father) and Big D and Steve-O (Steve's mom and dad) stuck around long after. Alan lit the firepit and we sat around until about 10pm laughing and joking, drinking wine and making S'mores.

I really cannot thank Julie and Alan enough for hosting our party at their new house. Actually I tried. We went out to the Office a few weeks later and I told them that it really was so gracious of them, not knowing either of our families, to open up their home to us. Julie commented that she knew that we didn't have any crazy family members, and that it was their pleasure. Little does she know. Let's see what the next year brings. :)

So I met Julie Simon (one of Rob's best friends and another event planner that we're blessed to have) at Party Box to help me pick out invitations for the engagement party that we're holding in her backyard. She found me wandering among the halloween section because I couldn't find the appropriate part of the store. She grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and hauled me away from the Lady Gaga-In-Drag costumes. I now know that the invitation section is in the back of Party Box.

The back of Party Box is a freakin' nightmare. 

Basically, they have thousands of invitations hung up all over the place. You can choose the font of one, the colors of another, the decor of yet a third, and on and on and on in a frenzy that would give any bride-to-be (or gay male interior decorator) orgasmic convulsions.

I sat down on the floor. 

Julie: Get up, jackass, come on, this is gonna be fun!
Me: No, no, that's okay. You pick. I'll be in the parking lot.
Julie: But I don't know what you want!
Me: Just put "You're invited to a party", and when and where. Our friends won't care for what. Steve gets dressed up for the opening of a soda can. 

She picked me up off the floor and shoved me toward the wall that was threatening to give me anorexia. Wait, no. What is that thing they warn you about at the beginning of all video games and Pokemon? Epilepsy.
It was threatening to give me epilepsy with all the ribbons and bows and lace and colors so obscene I'm pretty sure they've been excommunicated by the Pope.

But alright. I can do this. I read the first one:

"You are invited to Jimmy's first lost tooth party! Grandma and Grandma's house, Sunday 1pm. RSVP."

Huh. When I lost my first tooth, I got a dollar. This kid demands reservations to his party. Okay, okay, I don't wanna be that old fart who ruins everyone else's fun with my boring stories of childhood. Whatever, maybe this lost tooth means more than I think it means. On to the next.

"Bill is retiring! Come say goodbye to the old fart! Saturday at the Waterlogged Inn"

I briefly kicked around the idea of having the invitations say "Come see Shannon and her waterlogged old fart of a fiancee!" Then I realized that I'm still scared of his sister, who almost beat me up in high school. Shit.

Then there was a hot-pink piece of paper, bedazzled (and I don't mean enamored, I mean literally, cheap plastic jewels were stapled to it) and gaudy. It said: "Diamonds are a girl's best friend! Help us send off Mary in style!" There was a picture of a grinning bride and a sad-faced man in a tux with his empty pockets turned out. I had resumed my place on the floor when U.U. came over to me. Yeah, it said U.U. on her nametag.

U.U.: There are vending machines in the front of the store if you're hungry, but I'm sorry, you can't sit here.
Julie: (helping me up) Yeah, no, sorry, she's just a little overwhelmed. She just got engaged and we need a little... assistance.
U.U. (doubtfully) Well, I can show you a book of invitations if you-
Me: Yeah, um, the rest of these aren't helping me. I'm not good at this, can you show me something more along the lines of "Engagement Party"?

She pointed to a binder on a shelf and went off to sit behind a computer. Julie and I pored over the book and finally (after an hour) found a color, font, and the wording we wanted. Unhelpful Ugly (yes, that's the name I gave her in my head) gave me a sheet of paper and told me to write down my name, my guy's name, the address, etc etc... and handed it to her. She asked us if we wanted the font to be in all lowercase. I looked at Julie. At this point, my brain was so scrambled that I forgot what the word "lowercase" meant. Julie nodded, and Unhelpful Ugly printed out the proof. Only now, Rob's last name was "Iascar" (pronounced I-ee-as-car?). I would have left it, honestly I would have, and only Tammy (Rob's sister who is wonderful and gorgeous and smart and altruistic and who I am scared of) would have known, but Julie pointed out the error. Unhelpful Ugly groaned and went back behind the computer monitor. Finally, she printed out a very pretty invite, in a nice fall brown, with a simple font, everything spelled right, and some fall leaves for decorations. I placed the order, and sat back, contented. Invitations: CHECK! Julie gave me a hug, told me she was proud of me and asked me where we were going to place the catering order.

...

...

FOOD?! I have to FEED these people? Oh crap. "Oh yeah," says Julie "and we have to find a place for you to rent chairs and tables and, of God, you're gonna need liquor, I know the PERFECT place to get centerpieces, hey do you wanna print out pics of you and Rob as kids? We can hang them around the backyard, and oh it"ll be so much fun!!!"


I sat back down on the floor.

Someone come over and plan my wedding, please.

We're only three weeks in, and already I'm disastrously overwhelmed. The rotten part of it is that I haven't even done anything yet.

Okay, let's start at the beginning, when Fairy Marriedmother (and bridesmaid) Danielle Miller swooped down to help organize. Simultaneous event planner and general good-idea haver, she came armed with a huge folder of pictures torn out of magazines, an arsenal of wedding websites, and a vast knowledge of what needs to be done. She sat me down in my desk (in her living room), broke out the chalkboard, and sang a song Mary Poppins-worthy song akin to "a Spoonful of Sugar" all while she was dancing around the room. I dutifully sat and asked stupid questions. Eight hours later, after visiting Starbucks (no, we can't get married there, I asked), a bridal shop, and 49572 websites, we found an ideal place to get married. I called Rob, who was having burgers and watching the Giants game with Tom Miller. He told me that whatever I decided would be fine, his job is just to smile, nod, and hand me his credit card. So. Venue was picked, colors were picked, bridal party was picked. I was sent home with a suitcase full of information, good wishes, and a pat on the head.

Then I got home.

I showed Rob the venue, the colors we had picked, the decor, etc... He didn't like any of it.

Rob: Those colors won't match the kilts.
Me: Whose kilts? 
Rob: OUR kilts. You know, me and my groomsbridesmaid thingies. The dudes.
Me: Your groomsmaids?
Rob: Yeah, them. We're wearing the colors of whichever tribes in Ireland we hail from.
Me: Your Bestmaidsman isn't Irish. You also have a half-Korean and a South African in there.
Rob: They can wear my colors.

(after a quick Google search)

Me: Your county kilt colors are an unfortunate purple and pee yellow.
Rob: Hurray! Purple and Pee Yellow it is!

Before I even tried combining those colors on David's Bridal's "Dress Your Wedding", I showed Rob the place.

Rob: It looks like the hotel in "The Shining". 
Me: Well, I tried to book the gas station by our house, but they're booked solid.
Rob: Eeeeehhhhhhh.I don't like it.
Me: (dragging out the old adage) You can't veto something without having a replacement idea.
Rob: ::plays Darksiders::
Me: Hello?
Rob: ::plays Darksiders::

::sigh::