Monday, May 16, 2011

Pulling Teeth

Okay, so after a small chat with dad, the wedding is on.
That's almost a funny story. He screamed first, really loudly. The whole house probably heard. Then he hugged me. Then he asked me if I was sure. Like, hands on my shoulders, peering into my soul, "Are you sure?"
I told him, "Yeah, Dad. Gunnar's the guy. He's not gonna let some giant drown me in quicksand but he's not stupid enough to think he should let the world end for me either. He's the guy."

Anyway.
We picked the date, early June. Basically I went with just long enough to be able to actually pull it all together, give the kids a chance to rest and hopefully not go crazy.
I think, on that last one, I was being overly optimistic.
I've been doing the planning for about a month now and the novelty has worn off. There are too many decisions. Linens. Food. Photographer. Music. First dance song - that part was actually kinda easy. Wedding attendants. Bouquets. Boutonnieres. Centerpieces. Wedding Favors. Bridal cake design. Bridal cake flavor. Cake topper - I had one modified, and it is going to be fantastic. Groom's cake stuff - that part was actually a lot of fun, though judging from the look on the baker's face the words "ghost goat" constituted a unique request. Tuxedo decisions, since I don't think Gunnar is going to make any - and bowties ARE cool. Roles for the kids. Bridesmaids dresses. Something for Never to do. How to get Never to wear a tie. Schedule for the day. Hairstyle. Makeup. My dress.
And, for the record, I'd just as happily go back to Vegas and get married in jeans and a Rolling Stones shirt. But Gunnar wants the thing to happen in a church, so ok. Fine. Somehow I'm the one planning it all.
Now that I'm completely immersed in the process, I don't get all those wedding planning shows. I don't understand the appeal of dealing with the minutiae and the headaches.
He gets to go back to Chicago and work and I get to argue with a florist about shades of purple. And screw you, fabric companies and dressmakers. Aubergine is French for eggplant and they are the same fucking color.
I kinda hope Gunnar realizes that this is nowhere near my definition of fun.

Fuck this noise, I'm done with the fun part and hiring a wedding planner.