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.
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