are you there, me? it’s me, me

Dear me,

Your wedding is not a blog post. OK? Got that? I know you already know that, but I think you needed a reminder, because you were seriously having a little meltdown there for a while. Hell, you still are. That’s why you are (er, I am) writing this right now.

You were freaking out that your wedding wasn’t going to be as pretty and as fun as the ones you see on the internet. And not even those impeccably styled ones, where it looks like no one ever sits down at the table or touches the silverware. You’re agonized by the real ones, with real people.

Well, that’s a silly thing if I ever heard one.

See, you think you’ve got this wedding thing sussed. You’ve said all the right things about how you’re planning for the marriage, not just the wedding day. About how you’re focusing on the sentiment and not the material items. About how you want to eff the pretty and the perfect and just be present, prepared, and joyful. You’re making a mental list, you’re checking it forty-five times (a day), you’re crossing off what you can (and not nearly quickly enough, I might add).

But then you saw a wedding recap and yes, it was pretty and fun in ways you were worried yours won’t be (which is still silly and YOU KNOW THIS), but what struck you most while reading it was the realization that there is this one day? Where you ACTUALLY GET MARRIED. It will be a day — not unlike other days — when you wake up, you go about your business, you go to sleep. Sunrise to sunset, and on to the next.

This should not be an earth-shattering revelation, yet somehow it is.

You know, logically, that you will get married. You know what the venue looks like, you know what vendors you’ve hired, you know more or less who is going to be there. You know there will be flowers in vases, you know there will be a ceremony, you know you will party hard afterward. You’ve walked through the entire thing in your head. You have seen it unfold in your mind’s eye. You have plugged in variables X, Y, and Z, and spit out the calculation: Wedding Day.

Your head has known all along that you’re getting married. But now, suddenly, your heart knows it, too.

So right now you’re grappling with both a shock and a stumbling block. And you know that if I had the capacity to solve all of your problems in one fell swoop, I would. As it were, all I can do is offer some suggestions.

  1. Forget about unattainable levels of coolness. Remember that the blogsphere is but a narrow window into the worlds of others. Refer to this post whenever you need a jolt of truth. Know that for every beautiful wedding blog moment, there is a metaphorical cluttered desk just three feet to the right.* Actually, you should just go ahead and bookmark that page right now.
  2. And as for the matter of your newly-minted heart: Hold on tight and enjoy the ride.



* (thanks, Kimmie)

this is your face on wedding terror. any questions?

I’m willing to bet that you’ve been to a wedding before — once or twice, perhaps. Well, since you’re the expert here, I want to know: Have you ever spotted Wedding Terror Face?

Wedding Terror Face (which from this point forward shall be cleverly truncated as WTF), was a phenomenon I witnessed at one of the very first weddings I attended with the beau. I hunted the internet in vain for a photograph that unquestionably demonstrated this spectacle in all its awful glory, then finally gave up and drew this illustration:

This. This is the face of wedding terror. Note that the mouth is frozen in a wide, toothy smile, but the eyes are vacant, pained, and soulless; focusing not on a particular individual or activity but fixating, as it seems, on some imaginary middle distance. Absolutely overwhelmed, this bride operates wholly on autopilot. Somebody ought to sit the poor woman down and give her a drink. And a strong one at that.

Sadly, WTF was not a one-time occurrence. No. I would go on to observe it at nearly every wedding I attended. It soon became painfully clear to me that a wedding could easily overpower a person. So many guests, so many obligations, such a big day, such a life-changing event. No time to process anything, always moving from one moment to the next until the entire event becomes one brief, confusing blur.* Where exactly did these ladies go wrong?

Then it hit me: I, too, am at risk of becoming a victim of WTF.

I am more petrified of contracting WTF at my wedding than I am of backne, or cancer, or Sarah Palin.** If it could happen to all the others, it could surely happen to me, right? I mean, I’m sure no bride has ever intended to end up with a wedding album full of photos where it appears as if she’s on the verge of screaming, “Oh my fucking fuck, what the fuck is going on?!?” before melting into a puddle. Or punching someone in the face. But somehow it happens.

I mean, LOOK at this. Here, let’s zoom in real quick:

See? SEE? If this poor woman isn’t in dire need of help, I don’t know who is. She also clearly needs some time in the sun. Either that or somebody felt too lazy to bother adding more color.*** Sorry man, I never promised you a rose garden,  and I never claimed to be a professional cartoonist, either.****

Since WTF seems to be entirely outside of a person’s control, I didn’t want to be caught unprepared. I needed to know how to save myself. So I Googled “how to prevent wedding terror face” and came up with hit after hit on Star Trek episodes, terrorists, and veils. Nothing on how to avoid being trampled by your very own wedding. Why? Why?

Then I fell asleep and had a dream.***** I dreamt I was at my wedding. It was held high on a mountain in a gilded meadow. The reception space was scattered with hundreds of flowers in vintage vases on top of antique sewing tables. All my friends were highly attractive people with asymmetrical haircuts and plastic 80’s neon sunglasses. We were all just sitting around the campfire on Victorian couches and hay bales, laughing, feeding ourselves bundt cake, while the late afternoon light painted us in yellow and orange. The Flashdance was slowly, masterfully spinning some soulful grooves. Time moved at a crawl. The happy hours stretched out into blissful days. Our wedding was just like that one Journey song where it goes on, and on, and on, and oo-oo-oooon.

I woke up and I felt at peace. I knew then that everything was going to be OK. Until I remembered that my wedding is not on a rural mountainside, there will be no campfire or antique furniture or bundt cake, The Flashdance is not my vendor,****** and my friends are actually normal-looking people with regular haircuts who look like assholes when they wear neon sunglasses.

Then I was overcome with fear again. So I drank. Copiously. But that’s beside the point. I am still working on figuring out what’s in front of and behind the point. I’ll let you know if anything conclusive comes of it.

But then, without warning, a realization ran up and karate-chopped me in the gut: Nothing can save me from WTF except myself.

The naysayers tell me I cannot prevent my wedding from passing me by at the speed of light. So I will do my best to go about slowing it down. I will carve from the schedule every tradition and commitment that does not resonate with me. I will refrain from chasing down every guest and trying to squeeze a meaningful half-hour conversation from each one. I will sit down. I will breathe. I will look around. I will dance. I will go back for seconds. I will refill my cup, again. I will make time.

I will not pledge to be perfect, but I will pledge to be present. Just be present. And moreover, just be.

And if any of you who are reading this end up at my wedding and see even just a glimmer of WTF appear, please. Take me aside, splash some cold water in my face, stick your tongue out at me, and make me take some shots.

Together, we can find the cure for this horrid affliction.


* Not unlike college.

** Actually, I take it back, Palin wins the fear challenge and advances to the final round.

*** Oopses, that would be me.

**** I also never promised that this blog would be, you know, good, or even necessarily make sense, but this is the danger you tempt when you roam the wilds of the internet.

***** This dream actually never happened.

****** Booooooooo.

our wedding role model

For most of my life I assumed that if I got married, certain things would happen a certain way. I assumed I’d get married in a church. I assumed I wouldn’t see my partner on the wedding day before the ceremony. I also assumed my partner wouldn’t see my dress until the moment I walked down the aisle. I assumed I wouldn’t talk to our guests before the ceremony. I held all these assumptions because I’d never seen a wedding done any differently.

Then, a year before we got engaged, the beau and I went to the wedding of two old friends. It was held in the backyard of an uncle’s house. Our friends hung out in the yard with us before the ceremony. There was a root beer float table. During the ceremony, us guests all held aloft our wine and champagne glasses, whooping and hollering our support. The catered dinner was all vegetarian, and it was one of the most delicious meals I had that year. During dinner there was an open mic, and people — in various states of drunkenness — wandered up to deliver spontaneous, teary speeches of love. After dinner there was tiramisu, lovingly made by an aunt, and a mariachi band played and we danced until our feet fell off. After we shut the backyard down, we hobbled (and wobbled) to a nearby bar and continued celebrating deep into the night.

Yeah. This was my wedding blog inspiration before I even knew there were wedding blogs.

But it wasn’t the little details that got me about this wedding, because I can’t even recall how it was decorated. And it wasn’t their deviance from wedding tradition that made it cool and fun. It was just them. Our friends managed to remain true to themselves, and that was reflected throughout the entire day. They felt comfortable and relaxed, so we felt comfortable and relaxed. If I squeeze my eyes shut and think really hard, I can recall that there were challenges that day — the disruption of the ceremony by a squalling child, the overbearing heat that made sweat trickle down my back, the raining ash from a nearby wildfire.* But when I think of their wedding, I don’t think of any of that. I just remember all the love.

The beau and I still remark to each other that that was the best wedding we’ve ever been too. The experience was like a lightbulb flickering on. It was a rebuttal to my assumptions about how to go about my wedding. It was a challenge to validate my reasoning for keeping or ditching certain traditions. And most importantly, it was a permission slip to do things the way that felt right to me, even if I’d never seen them done at a wedding before. It was permission to just be us, whatever that involved.

Since we got engaged, this has been the wedding we return to every time we’re trying to clarify our goals. This is the wedding we reference every time we’re trying to find the words to describe a specific feeling. And I feel so fortunate that we have our friends’ wedding to look up to as we go through the planning process — we’d feel adrift without it.

Do you have a wedding role model?


* YES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? What a nightmare.

various and sundry

A few of us were hanging out on the porch on Saturday, sipping cocktails. The topic of bridal showers came up and someone wondered aloud what a guy’s equivalent of a bridal shower would be. “A groom’s bath,” the beau said. “It would be called a groom’s bath and it would involve taking shots.”

Here is where I make the lame joke about how he’s already been participating in the groom’s bath regularly since freshman year of college, ba-dum-ching, thank you folks, I’ll be here all week.


I decided to open an Amazon wedding registry for us. I am very proud of this, because it only took two minutes, yet it feels like a Serious Accomplishment. Afterwards I found out that you can see which items are the most registered for in the United States by region. Apparently, the number one item that the Pacific, Rocky Mountain, Alaska, and Hawaii regions are lusting after a nonstick silicone baking mat. The Southwest is dreaming of a Pyrex 10-piece storage set. And the Southeast is all about the nonstick 6-piece bakeware set. But the Midwest and Northeast? They don’t care about boring kitchen stuff. No, all they want is a Wii.


The best thing I ever bought for somebody off of a wedding registry: A tent.


While poking around the interwebs, looking at registry-type items, I kept running into something called a charger plate. I asked the beau what a charger plate was, and his best guess was a commemorative plate about the San Diego Chargers. So I Googled “what the hell is a charger plate” and I found out that it’s basically a decorative plate that you put under the “real” dinner plate.

I know it’s supposed to look pretty, but dude. We already have enough dishes to wash. I am not about to invite more into my life.



We were folding clothes when I tossed out a question. “What should I wear to work tomorrow?” Before he could answer, I rephrased the question like the absurd person I am: “What would Jesus wear to work?”

“Jesus would call in sick,” he said.

I collapsed on the laundry and died.

a small eureka! moment

Confession: I have been avoiding creating a bridal shower registry. Like it’s some kind of wedding plague.

Here I’ve been racking my brain, trying to think of suitable solution — and quick, because this shower is now a mere month away. I just wasn’t feeling the department store registries, and Etsy still has yet to build a registry function.* So I dithered and dallied and dallied and dithered and maybe started to get just a wee bit panicky because oh hello, crippling indecision! Would you like to stay in my spare room for a while? Here is a clean towel. You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen except the vodka.**

But then, the other day, I wrote at great length about the shower deal, and in the comments we got to talking a little about registries. Nina mentioned a fantastic idea: A “book shower” where everyone gifts you with a new or used book. And Sarah of My San Francisco Budget Wedding chimed in with her own plan for her wedding registry: Donations to one of her favorite charities.

Well, I must say you ladies inspired me. Some of your good idea juju rubbed off on me. Because suddenly, last night, while eating peanut butter and jelly on toasted pita bread,*** IT CAME TO ME.

Vases. Yes!

Should my shower guests inquire with my brigadier about gifts, I’m going to have her tell them to bring a vase, bottle, or jar of their choosing. We’re picking up our own flowers from a local farmer the day before the wedding, and my plan all along has been to collect a variety of different old containers to arrange the flowers in for the centerpieces. Why not let my friends and family chip in?

I love that my shower guests will be able to contribute something that will end up being a part of our wedding. And I love that a little of their individual personality and flair will be injected into the reception.

And I really love that I finally got that issue crossed off my list.

What was your answer to the shower/wedding registry question?


* Yes, I am one of those Etsy whores. Mock me as you wish.


*** We don’t tend to keep bread around, for lo, I WILL EAT IT. MUCHLY. Yet we do keep pitas around, because every Sunday we make little pita pizzas for dinner. Also: The beau is the official cook of the family. When he is traveling for work, as he is this week, I eat only what can be baked in the toaster oven or eaten straight out of the container.

writing’s on the wall

I told a friend that I had finally found a couple of dresses I really liked. Would she like to see what they look like online?

Her eyes went wide in terror. “No!”

“Buh?” I stammered, a bit bewildered. Usually people at least, you know. Play along.

“Nobody can see what your dress looks like before your wedding day!” she exclaimed. Underneath that smile, she was dead serious. “The only people who saw my dress before my wedding were my mom and my maid of honor. It has to be a secret. It has to stay a surprise until you walk down the aisle. Or else it’ll be bad.”

“Oh,” I said, letting this information simmer in my brain for a little while. “Well, that’s not going to work for me. I’ve already shown the pictures to my fiance.”

She did a facepalm.

“So we’re screwed, huh?” I asked.

“You guys are totally getting a divorce,” she replied.


Do you have any wedding superstitions?

wedding wars

When the beau and I decided to get hitched, I got nervous about the state of my relationship. With my mother.

Even before I got engaged, I bore witness to mountains of drama between brides-to-be and their parental units. Serious tales of mothers run amok. My own friends and coworkers were having teary knock-down, drag-out fights with their moms over everything from what to serve for dinner to how inappropriate the venue was to how the bride’s hair should be done for the big day.

I wanted to believe my own mother wouldn’t be like that, but I didn’t know. Maybe the very news of our engagement would spark a series of genetic mutations inside of her that had theretofore lain dormant, and before I could mumble “I don’t think I wanna wear a veil,” MonsterMom would stagger up from the swampy depths and rear her ugly head. I just didn’t know, right? So I held my breath. And waited.

After several months of our engagement had gone by, I was finally ready to exhale. My mom has been an absolute gem about the wedding. Sure, I could say that living on the opposite coast helps — actually, I will say it. I’ll shout it from the rooftops, even: THE DISTANCE FROM THE FAMILY. IT HELPS WITH THE PLANNING OF THE WEDDING. BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT, YOU KNOW. ALL UP IN YOUR GRILL 24/7.* Still. She deserves credit for keeping it mellow throughout the entire planning process.

Well, yeah. I threw her for a bit of a loop when I told her we weren’t getting married in the Catholic church,** but she recovered nicely. Since then, I’ve kept her informed of anything and everything that we’ve considered for the wedding: an asian-fusion menu***, farmers’ market flowers, a colored wedding dress, no favors. And on all of these matters, she has poured forth nothing but encouragement. I once marveled on her open-mindedness and she said to me: “Honey, I’ll give you my opinion if you want it, but it’s your wedding. You need to do what’s right for you.”

This is every bride’s wet dream, right?

Well, if you’re familiar with the use of foreshadowing as a literary device, then you know that this is where the plot suddenly takes a long slow fall off of a tall cliff. Because: OH HELLO, BRIDAL SHOWER, I DIDN’T SEE YOU LURKING OVER THERE.

My mom was the one who convinced me to have a bridal shower in the first place. It would be fun, she said. It didn’t have to be about games or gifts, she said. Maybe some of my aunts could even make it, and it would be nice and fun. Sure, I replied. I like fun. Sign me up.

She volunteered to help me, along with one of my brigadiers, plan and organize it. And that’s when the shit got wild, yo. Every week, sometimes more than once, she calls me up and proceeds to confound me with a new, urgent issue. So far, we have covered the following:

  1. Who must be invited so there will be No Hurt Feelings.
  2. What kind of invitations I want.
  3. Nevermind, the invitations have been purchased, and they are Very Cute.
  4. How I need to create a shower registry, even though I never wanted this “fun party” to look like a gift grab.
  5. Whether my shower registry should be the same as my wedding registry, or separate, and if they are separate whether that is rude and/or weird.
  6. What colors my bridal shower should be.
  7. Whether I’m really, truly sure that I don’t want to pick any colors for my bridal shower.
  8. What kind of tableware we need to purchase for this function.
  9. What do I mean, “What is tableware?”
  10. What food we want to serve. We must decide on the food so that we can obtain the appropriate tableware. We do not want the plates bending or folding under the weight of the food, after all.
  12. How I need to prepare favors to give to my guests.
  13. Potential favor themes, including but not limited to a “Santa Barbara” theme; and whether or not the “Santa Barbara” theme should involve cheese.****
  14. What kind of bags I want to put the favors in.
  15. Nevermind. The favor bags have been purchased. They are black and white, and Very Cute.
  16. Custom ribbon printed with the wedding date, and how awesome it would be to use it on, like, everything.
  17. Whether my brigadier has decided to make red velvet cupcakes for dessert or not, and if so, how adorable it would be to use red as the accent color.

For the record, I don’t really mind that she’s taken over the “details” part of the shower. I can let that go because it doesn’t matter so much to me, and it makes her happy to boot. But I am just a bit shell shocked by the stridency of it all. It’s like my mom and I are enacting a wedding battle in miniature, here. All I can say is: Thank god it’s not the real thing.

Your mothers: Have they driven you crazy at any point during the planning process? Or what?


* Oops. Sorry! The caps lock, she gets stuck sometimes.

** She asked me twice: Are you sure you can’t have a Catholic wedding outdoors?

*** Ah, those crazy days when we thought we had a bigger budget. Wipes tear, pours a little liquor on the curb in remembrance of the Benjamins that were lost in Ye Olde Federal Taxe Clusterfucke ’10.

**** Me: “Dude, Mom, cheese needs to be refrigerated! What are we gonna do, keep the favor bags in a cooler all afternoon?”

by jove, i may have found it

Stop. Cactus time.

So, a couple weeks before I found out that Saja bridal had come to Los Angeles, I made plans to tag along with the beau’s rugby team the weekend they played Las Vegas.*

That was this past weekend.

Vegas has a, how should I put this. A reputation.** Mention you’re going to Vegas and people regard you with a knowing grin. Yeah, Vegas. Sleaze and excess. I know where you’re going to be at 7:00am this Saturday, and it’s not going to be pretty.

This was not one of those weekends.

To be fair, we did visit the strip. We did stay out a little late on Friday night (1:30 a.m.-ish?). I did, technically, gamble (one dollar lost to the slot machines!). But we only stayed one night. At a Hampton Inn south of the airport. The Vegas “experience” it was not.

Which is fine with me, because I was happy just to wander around with my cameras taking pictures. I was equally delighted to be reminded of what I like most about Vegas:

  1. You can walk down the street while drinking booze.
  2. The booze. You can drink it in the street.
The booze. I has it.

So in the midst of the walking around and drinking and watching rugby, I had an appointment to try on dresses. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but to me, it seems like driving six hours just to check out a particular line of dresses should pretty much guarantee your absolute failure. Especially since I’d already tried on some light and airy Saja-esque dresses at Jenny Yoo, and they’d hated me. I was fully expecting to walk out of this store disappointed.

Turns out I was pleasantly surprised.

By the end of the first round, I had narrowed my favorites*** down to a mix of five Saja and Alix & Kelly dresses. By the end of the second round, I’d narrowed it down to two.

I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of myself wearing the two dresses in question. This wasn’t so much a store policy as it was a Saja policy. Which: Dear Saja, boooooo. So instead, here are some pictures from the Saja Wedding website of a dewy, stick-thin, Precious-Moments-eyes chick who does not remotely look like me wearing the dresses:

This was the one I’d liked the best before I even got inside the store. Love the v-shaped front and back. Can’t believe it actually worked on me.

Proof positive of why you should try on anything and everything: I pretty much ignored this dress online, thinking that the front was too boring and the back was too weird. Then I put it on, and it was awesome.

I really liked these dresses. I actually walked around the store looking in each mirror. And smiling. No, it wasn’t love, or a teary recognition of my dress destiny. But these are the first dresses I could actually see myself wearing. Here’s the thing, though. They are each $790. Which makes them:

  1. That much harder to choose between.
  2. Expensive as shit.

However! I love it when there’s a however. The first dress up there? Is available in a bridesmaid version. For about half the cost, and in way more color options. Now, since the Las Vegas store doesn’t currently carry Saja bridesmaid dresses, I couldn’t try it on. So here’s what I need to figure out:

  1. What kind of material the bridesmaid dresses are made of (it’s gotta be made out of a heavier, scratchier stuff than the chiffon of the bridal line).
  2. Whether that material is a dealbreaker.
  3. What drink I should have next.
  4. Whether I am relying on lists for humorous effect entirely too much in this post.

The part of me that’s tempted to throw money at problems to make them go away wants to just buy one of these dresses and be done with it. But the part of me that’s like AUGH BUDGET is busy tying the other part to a chair and duct-taping her mouth. Since it takes only four weeks for a Saja order to be fulfilled, time is on my side. I’m going to take that time and poke around some more. See how I really feel about it all.

Regardless of what happens, I feel a happy ending coming on.


* Before Saja came to the Bella Bridesmaid in L.A., the closest stores that carried it were in the Bay Area and Las Vegas. Which… awesome. I get to choose between a five hour drive and a six hour drive!

** I understand this news will come as a surprise, but just hear me out.

*** I never even had favorites before! How exciting!

phoning it in

Oh, the questions. So many are running rampant through my head today.

  1. Why did I finally cave in and buy the skinny jeans with the tapered ankles? The kind I hadn’t worn since 7th grade? The kind I’ve mocked relentlessly since they became popular again? Yeah, OK, so they make you look sleek and trim. If you’re a size 2. On me? My thighs resemble two sausage links in a stretch denim casing. And not even the good kind of sausage. I’m talking the industrial-grade gray logs found languishing in many a school and corrections facility cafeteria. You want some canned gravy with that?
  2. What the heck does our caterer have against our guests drinking booze during the ceremony? Ah yes, he thinks it will make things get out of control and it will be difficult to corral them and make them sit down. That’s right, because it’s not like the courtyard is an enclosed space or anything, and furthermore it’s safe to assume that upon taking that very first sip of alcohol they will completely lose their minds, strip the tablecloths from the reception tables, and set off down the street in a spontaneous toga party parade, very likely setting small fires along the way. You know, I’ve seen booze successfully consumed at two wedding ceremonies thus far, and I like the casual-community-gathering feel it imbues — I want our guests to be able to laugh and relax and toast us. On the flip side, serving alcohol during the ceremony — even if it is just pre-poured glasses of cheap wine — amounts to buying more alcohol, which amounts to spending more money. Should I fight for this one, or just throw in the towel?
  3. Can one develop a meaningful relationship with cheese? If so, I am having a dizzying fling with Trader Joe’s sharp cheddar pub cheese. Do they actually serve this at real pubs? Is it OK to pretend that I’m at a pub when I eat it? Even though I am not at a pub, I am standing in my kitchen at home, and I am desperately seeking out something salty and cheesy to distract me from the fact that HOLY CRAP, THE GOVERNMENT IS TAKING ALL MY MONEY?*
  4. Can we please ban Queen’s “We Will Rock You” and Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll (Part 2)” from all sports arenas? Because seriously. Just seriously.**
  5. How are you supposed to go about finding somebody to marry you when a) you don’t really identify with a particular religion, and b) you don’t really know a suitable friend or family member? I downloaded the list of local officiants from the county clerk, and maybe 1/5 of them have websites listed. Roughly half of them even have email addresses. So do I just pick a name at random, call them up, and be like: Yo, spin me a sample of ur ceremonial beatz? I dunno. Maybe I can at least narrow down the options via the list’s helpful “notes” column that details such important information as which officiant is a “Christian Spiritualist,” which can do “Incarcerated ceremonies,” which is the “Former Lompoc Mayor,” and which is a “Sea Captain.” Sea captain? Sold!
  6. Miller Lite commercials can go to hell. They can go to hell and die.***
  7. Oh, that’s not really a question. Hmm.
  8. Should I be alarmed at the beau’s eagerness to try a KFC Double Down sandwich? Would you try a Double Down sandwich? I totally would… if it wasn’t from KFC.
  9. I hate money.
  10. Oh shit, that’s not a question either.
  11. Gah. I give up.


* Estimated tax payments for the self-employed are due 4/15, 6/15, 9/15, and 1/15. Which means I have to make THREE tax payments in the coming five months, while I’m trying to save for the wedding. FML.

** Oh, but I do enjoy when they get creative. Like during a hockey game, when a player from the home team gets sent to the penalty box, and they play Weezer’s “Say it Ain’t So?” Relative obscurity FTW!

*** In that order.


This is actually my grandparents. In a serious liplock. Like it isn’t even the 1950s.

There’s a special thrill in getting into someone’s pants for the first time. It’s like going to a wild ‘n crazy party every single night: For a while it’s a blast, but then you gradually come to realize that the exact same people are there each time and that they’re just drunk and wearing funny hats.*

You know, they say marriage kills and buries the romance dead. Maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s true if you don’t work at it. Yeah, romance is work. I said it. All good things require effort, after all.

Homework assignment: Find a person of your choice and make out with them like you mean it.**


* Yeah, I don’t know where I was going with that metaphor either.

** I cannot be held responsible if it goes any farther than this.