O.M.G. Love, Marriage, and Chairs

O.M.G. Love, Marriage, and Chairs

So according to trustworthy Blogger here, I've been gone for quite a few months! Eh what can I say. Time flies when you're having fun, and/or are super busy. For me, it's been a little bit of both with a pinch of neither. For those of you who weren't invited guests (a mere reflection of our budget, not of our lack of love for every person we've ever met) I got married at the end of July.

It's us, in love! :)

Which you probably remember me rambling about in the months leading up to the big day. If not, just click "Older posts" a few times, and you'll see. Anyway to summarize, it was amazing. It was the greatest day of my life. Not only because I married the man I love and my best friend, but because so many people came out to show their love for us and support us as we embarked on our newest adventure together. The months of planning paid off, the extended family had fun, the Conga Line happened. Yes, I did say the Conga Line.

Did I mention a family member and a groomsman engaged in a romantic tryst? And old friends became new flames? And the bathroom at the venue was defiled (not by the bride and groom, remember folks--we. are. classy!)

Did I mention a wedding toast that referenced sex and nudity?

Yes, it was that epic.

And now, what am I filling my hours with, if not planning the wedding of the decade?

Obsessing over a chair. From obsessing over 101 things from drinks to napkins, I have zeroed in on one thing.

The Bergere chair. A piece of Louis XV history. Not sure what it is? Check out the below right. Amazeballs. 

Awesome infographic from The Aestate, thank you!

This is what happens when you are an old married lady. You fantasize about chairs. Their sexy curves. Their pillowy bottoms. Their demand for money (Senor Bergere, why do you seem to average $800?)

This is what consumes the thoughts of an old married lady. Or maybe just this old married lady.

Either way, I couldn't be happier. :)

All the best things.

All the best things.

Left to Right: tulips, phone case, earrings, shoes,

I am paying you to know my name. . .

I am paying you to know my name. . .

 

This pic from here

Ah the joys of wedding planning. Have I harped on this subject enough yet?
Despite a perusal of many of my latest blog posts, which might say otherwise, I say--definitely not.

So I shall over-share with you my most recent adventure in planning.

It's a strange dichotomy this "your big day" thing. I'm constantly being told it's "my big day". Like, mine, personally. As though I did something particularly bright and shiny. Last time I checked I graduated from college four years ago, haven't accomplished my Oprah-Martha-HGTV-superstar status yet, and sometimes am a really huge cranky biatch beast.

Last time I checked we are no longer paying dowries. I am not a prized pony who was wily enough to trick a man of means into supporting me for the rest of my life. I am not a child bride from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (which I am not admitting to you that I have watched) who has to have a dress as big as a boat to impress my friends, and distract from the fact that after this day, I will basically live a life of indentured servitude to my husband and the children I will be expected to have. (Does anyone else not watch that show and not find it super depressing?)

Last time I checked it takes two to tango. You know, me and the man who are taking that big plunge and committing to a life together.

I thought it was supposed to be our big day.

But, alas I was wrong. It is not our big day, John and Rachel.

It is, according to various vendors, directed at us: Rachel & Travis, Rebecca & Michael, or Sarah & Bryan's big day.

WTF people. You are really bursting my feeling special bubble here.

Just when I was losing faith, we scheduled a meeting with a man of God. Our officiant. I knew he wouldn't fail us.

We went to meet him. He came towards us, a halo of light shinning down on him, I knew he'd do it, he'd save us from all the bad vendors who have let us down. . .

"Oh hello, you must be Irene! And is this your fiance Brennan?"

We're doomed.

Taking on a New Name

Taking on a New Name

So there are such idiosyncratic things about getting married. Things you probably never fantasized about as a little girl when you saw yourself in a big white dress, things your mind probably couldn't even comprehend at such an age.

Take for example, the name change. Such a romantic idea right? I will be folded into the arms of my new family, my first name soon to be cozied up against the surname their family has carried for millenia, marking me as part of their clan.

Which is true. And I'm waiting with great anticipation for this name cozying to occur.

On the other hand, I'm facing a bit of an identity crisis. On paper, I will not be the person I have been for the last 25 years. No matter how you slice it, hyphenate it, middle-name-your-maiden-name it, I won't be Rachel ____ ________ anymore. And it feels a little strange.

Guys, they pop out a ring, they put it on your hand, and then they sit back to taste some wedding cake and catering samples when asked (ok I'm being a bit dramatic, the bf has been amazing in all the planning, heart you bf!).They're still comfortably propped up by the name that has known them since birth, and so they contentedly snack away. Us girls, we are expected to do something only otherwise associated with a life of crime. That is, to become an AKA.

An AKA. It sounds so mysterious and exciting. And I am mysteriously excited about my new last name and all the meaning it brings with it. I just want to point out to all the girls out there, doodling in your notebooks. Writing his name, your name, both names. Circling these names and writing his last name, forever joining you in pink ink.

When you actually reach the stage when its real, your feelings can be more complicated than any doodles in a notebook could explain. Unless that is, you are a reaallly talented doodler.

Dramatic points aside, I found something that might ease this transition a bit. A simple thing that started this whole thought process in my mind.

A cute little clay pocket totem from HandyMaiden on Etsy. An object to be an emblem of our family ancestry (apparently that's one definition of a totem is according to my good friend Webster).

What? A little pocket Ocelot all my own to carry around with me?

Peace out last name, it's been nice knowing ya'

Mixology: What to Drink & Dance-to for the Holidays

Mixology: What to Drink & Dance-to for the Holidays

Right now I'm sitting on my couch, semi-coherently listening to Brazilian Girls and downing a nice Vodka (Diet) Coke, and I love blame the internet.

Let me begin with a little cautionary tale of how I ended up here. . .

It's almost the holidays and I'm engaged.
This can mean only one thing:

I'm exhausted.

Actually being engaged is pretty comparable to celebrating a big holiday like Thanksgiving or Christmas.
For one, it's fun! It makes you inherently happier in the morning when you wake up, you find yourself smiling for no particular reason, you hum a few more tunes than usual.
You get dressed up! You have celebratory dinners, you get your engagement pictures taken, you commemorate things left and right.

You toast life more than you ever have before. You make fun decisions on things like outfits, and rentals, small-bites and the bigger ones too. Color schemes and china and

. . .

 I have absolutely no room left for the normal decisions in life. Like what to cook for Thanksgiving. Or the solutions to the varied conundrums that inevitably interfere with my Norman Rockwell holiday fantasies.

So when I saw this website on Design Crush that tells you what tasty adult beverage to serve up with specific tunes, I about died. Music = Yes. Drinking = Yes. ONE LESS DECISION TO MAKE?

Amazeballs.

P.S. Apparently Billy Joel is synonymous with Miller High Life beer. PRICELESS lol