5: parties, invitations and babies! oh my!

Throwing an Engagement Party is like having a mini wedding. We’ve invited almost all of the same people who are on our guest list, we have spent quite a bit of money on invitations, I’ve had three meetings with my mother about color schemes, fabrics and décor and we are checking out caterers. Suddenly I am feeling more well equipped to continue planning The Main Event.

We chose very cute Engagement Party Invitations. They feature a cartoon man hoisting up a diamond ring the size of the invitation. They are very DIY invites and came with a feature that allows us to print our own text on them so that they are extra personalized.

So here’s The Scene: Ryan and I determining what to write on our Engagement Party Invitations
The Setting: My home office, 10:00PM at night

Ryan and I have just spent two hours rearranging the furniture in my home office so that it is “perfect” for me to work from home and make us millions of dollars for this wedding. We are sweaty and I have just completed a mini-spaz about the wires on the back of my computer being “a mess”. Ryan has helped me rectify this situation with twist ties.

Rhian: OK, so lets do these invitations
Ryan: right

He sits in Patrick, our chair from Ikea that came with its own name, and I sit on my rolling office chair across from him.

Rhian: Write something clever…
Ryan: (writing) Please join us as we celebrate the engagement of Rhian White and Ryan Lockard…
Rhian: (reading from upside down) That isn’t clever? You’re copying that directly from the samples!
Ryan: This is my method. This is how I brainstorm. This is how I do it.
Rhian: OK, OK, I just didn’t want you to think that that was I meant by clever.
Ryan: Thank you, I know.

A few minutes pass. I have spent those minutes looking up love and romance quotes.

The phone rings and it is one of my sisters. She is nine months pregnant so I answer the phone by asking her if she’s going into labor. She laughs and says she isn’t. She then proceeds to inform me that she will not be in attendance at my engagement party because she “already knows” that The Baby will be needing her every moment between the hours of 6:00 and 10:00 PM on September 15th, 2007.

I am then enlightened with a detailed conversation about breast feeding and pumping and for another time I reconsider this marriage route (I’m totally kidding). I laugh it off and tell her I understand but I know there is a twinge of unrest in my voice because I can feel it in my chest. I just would’ve liked for my sister to be there, but it’s ok. I’ll be engaged for a year, so I’m sure we can celebrate more another time.

After I hang up the phone, Ryan triumphantly announces that he has come up with a clever beginning. I ask him to share it with me and he reads proudly:

“Rhian and Ryan: it could only be better if our names were spelled the same.”

And that, my friends is how we ended up going with a romantic quote on our invitations.

(although in Ryans defense, it WAS really clever)

Love and I have another Dress Shopping appointment tonight,

Rhian

4: Progress = Printed Engagement Party Invites!

Stop the presses, hold onto your hats, do other cliché things that indicate something big has happened: Ryan and I have made some measurable progress with this wedding thing!

So we haven’t found our venue, I have not found a dress, I still do not know what my colors will be or who any of our vendors are BUT

1. We have each asked almost all of our bridal/groom parties
2. We have scheduled our engagement portraits
3. AND
4. We have scheduled our Engagement Party!

This, my friends, is progress.

We have yet to ask my brother and sister in law into our party but after that, I think we’ve managed to accumulate attendants! Oh wait, actually, Ryan still has to find an 8th person (yes, I said 8th…this ain’t no smalltime affair, kids). We joked about posting an ad on craigslist inviting interested parties to apply. I'll keep you updated.

I have also come to the conclusion that The Engagement Party satiates my need for a wedding in general. Earlier today, I suggested with a sugary laugh that we should just bring an officiator, I should wear white and we should just do it there, while all are assembled. It would be like a surprise party. “Surprise! We’re actually getting married now! You’ve been punked! Fork over some additional money as a gift and have another drink on me!”

Not that I am in that much of a hurry. Occasionally, while flipping through Modern Bride or Elegant Bride or Sophisticated Bride or Philadelphia Bride or Freakout Bride magazine I’ll casually ask Ryan “Are we sure that we want to be married? Isn’t married just code word for “boring and unattractive”? Can I still dye my hair blonde on a whim if we’re married? Can I still go out dancing with Cindy? Can we still be wild and reckless and randomly hop a flight to wherever? Can Ryan still walk out of his jobs without giving notice? Can we still have throw down, drag out fights for no reason and then end up makingout furiously in the corner five minutes later?”

Ryan assures me that all of the above and more is still possible- "even if we're married". He has vowed that we will create our version of "Married" and that it will not be lame and boring. "Don't you remember how much you hated "Relationship" at first?" he'll ask me and I'll nod as I recall a conversation in the car when we first became "official" in which I asked the identical questions above only I used the word Relationship and not Marriage. Ryan calmed the storm of my fears then too by convincing me that relationship could be fun and exciting and that it did NOT have to mean tied down or boring.

Ryan says that our version of Married will not involve a manicured lawn, draperies that match the carpeting, scheduled date nights and long conversations about stocks. We are not planning to settle down in a house anywhere, we will not be getting a minivan or a fence. "Married", Ryan promises, is not a sentence to being ordinary and boredinary.

I believe him and it is only because I am able to trust him that I know that it will be OK. And trust him I do. He is in fact, the only person on this planet I could ever imagine marrying (which I guess is why it's good that I am?). In the words of my sister-in-law who didn't believe my brother was telling the truth when he told her I was engaged: "I always thought you would stay single forever!"

I did too. Which is why, incidently, marrying Ryan is the right thing.

I mean, it was less than a year ago that I was out at the bar in my short, tattered denim skirt, layer upon layer of necklaces and makeup with long curly blonde hair cascading down my back. I had perfected single and I loved it.

And then I met Ryan and as much as I tried to fight it, there was just something about him that made me actually fall in love. Suddenly, I stopped returning the calls of other guys, I stopped keeping my schedule open. I would commit to dinner with Ryan way in advance, I would be secretly sad if he didn't automatically assume we were seeing each other that night.

I tried to deny the truth, I tried to keep on pretending that I wasn't so smitten. I would force myself out without him and would then find myself texting him all night, creating elaborate schemes to "run into him" wherever I happened to be with my friends.

Sometimes I still look at him and wonder how it happened. Two days ago I woke up and realized I was in the suburbs and there was a ring on my finger. A year ago, that experience would have made me launch into a panic attack that was Emergency Room worthy. Now though I just wonder with amazement how all of these pieces fell into place. And I know that it is because of the fact that those thoughts dont send me into a hysterical panic that this is the right thing.

and hell, even if I do panic, there is no one else who would ever be able to calm my panic or let me have the biggest temper tantrum ever like Ryan would. That man, I swear, knows exactly how to handle me.

So anyway, all is well and we are taking this one day at a time. Ain’t nothing gonna break our stride, nobody’s gonna hold us down. Oh no.

Love and we’ve got to keep on movin,

Rhian

3: Love and French Fries

My maid of honor texted me this morning and told me that she had an incredibly vivid dream in which I ran away to Vegas and got married. Apparently I’m really putting that out into the atmosphere and it’s catching on.

I have calmed down in recent days however and haven’t been nearly as frantic or maniacal about these wedding plans. In fact, I’ve learned to embrace and love the wedding again. My sister called me from a train station in Jersey last night and suggested looking into the Spirit of Philadelphia as a possible venue. I am considering all options though I truly would like a space that is less that $100 per person for my 200 people party. Any thoughts?

Ryan and I had a conversation in the car this morning while I drove him to work about possible venue sites. It went something like this:

Rhian the Bride: I would like our reception site to be somewhere that really means something to us, or has some value to us or can embody our relationship overall somehow.
Groom Ryan: Yea, that makes sense
Rhian the Bride: I don’t want us to get married somewhere that we feel completely disconnected from. At least, not if we can avoid it.
Groom Ryan: OK
Rhian the Bride: Does that make sense?
Groom Ryan: Yea. It makes perfect sense, we don’t want it to be just anywhere.
Rhian the Bride: Right. Well, I mean, I guess it could be just any random place but if that happens then we have to spend time there making it our own by consciously spending time there cultivating memories of the place, or something.
Groom Ryan: Right.
Rhian the Bride: But ideally, I’d like us to get married somewhere that already has meaning. Do we have anywhere like that? Does anywhere matter to us? Where are our special places?
Groom Ryan: Um…

*time elapse*

Groom Ryan: OK well…the pretzel park in Manayunk? [referring to a dog park in Manayunk that is home to a giant statue of a pretzel. We once went for a walk there and only remember that walk because we took pictures while on it]
Rhian the Bride: it has to be inside. And big enough for 200 people.
Groom Ryan: Right, I’m just listing places that mean something to us.
Rhian the Bride: OK
Groom Ryan: Chick fil a?
Rhian the Bride: what?
Groom Ryan: the movie theater?
Rhian the Bride: Are you kidding me?
Groom Ryan: Umm…Penn State?
Rhian the Bride: we can’t have our wedding at Penn State, it’s in the middle of no where, no one would come.
Groom Ryan: they have satellite campuses.

So clearly, we have no idea where to have this deeply meaningful, intensely personal, always-will-be-memorable, wedding. We apparently have only one actual “special place” and it was at a crowded college campus in the middle of the state where we exchanged our first kiss. Either that or next to a big stone pretzel in the smoggy hills of Manayuonk or at the home of the original chicken sandwich. I am not enthusiastic.

If I had my way and the Wedding Gods smiled upon me they would wave the wand clutched in their perfectly manicured hands and grant me an art deco building with an awesome interior. Or maybe somewhere circular. I don’t know anymore. All I do know is that I just want somewhere that will look beautiful in the evening, is big enough, wont cost me more than four years at university and isn't tacky.

The fact that this request seems impossible causes frustration to bubble up within me. I want to fall to my knees in the middle of a stone, urban courtyard and yell towards the sky “is it too much to ask?!” while my anguished cries cause a dozen pigeons to flap away hurriedly and the camera pulls back to reveal that I am alone in a sea of careless people who are going about their regular lives without a second thought.

But, like I said, I am feeling better about all of this and so I keep my faculties about me, I drive calmly next to Ryan when he suggests we exchange our everlasting vows at the drive-thru of a fast food franchise and I allow myself to remember for a moment what everyone has been telling me: that what really matters is me and Ryan and our ardent love for one another.

That and having an open bar at the reception.

Love and thank god this ring is so big,

Rhian

2: to wed or not to wed

I have never found the concept of eloping to be so romantic before becoming engaged. Suddenly I can now understand and even see the logic in abandoning friends and loved ones, hopping a plane and taking off for Vegas to be married by a man in a powder blue, ruffled tux with Elvis and a fat prostitute as my witnesses. Nothing says lovin' like a good impulse wedding.

So far in my fiancee-ial career, I have been asked if I'm "sure" five times, have been asked why I would ever get married once, have had four dress fittings (one of which has ended in hysterical tears), have created two wedding websites, have had one awkward "parents of groom meet parents of bride" dinner, have spent over $250 on various "Bride" paraphernalia, have amassed a collection of 12 bridal magazines, 7 bridal books, 2 wedding planners, have been asked where I am having the reception seventeen and a half times and have called off the wedding twice.

I have been engaged for 37 days.

Saturday was the latest episode in my new Reality Series called Bride-to-Beast; the True Life Story of Rhian Goes Insane.

Saturday morning started off normally enough. I had an appointment at a fancy-schmancy boutique on the Main Line for 2:00 and was scheduled to meet my parents at their house beforehand.

I arrived at my parents house, laundry in tow and began to share with them saga of our dying car. Ryans car is unfortunately in a coma as of now and it will cost an $850 sacrifice to the AutoGods in order to revive it.

Upon imparting this tale, I happened to mention that I looked it up and, because of cost, I doubted that we would be able to have our reception in the locations that we wanted. I was in a snarky mood, I'll admit it. I may have mentioned offhandedly that we just weren’t going to be able to afford the wedding at all anymore. I also might have mentioned that I would not enjoy holding our reception in some random, inexpensive catering hall in Northeast Philadelphia (ok fine, it’s possible that I could have phrased it a little less friendly. The wording might have been closer to "I would rather slit my wrists and die than have my wedding at Joe-Schmo's Catering Hall with mirrored ceilings and DIY floor paneling." Not my finest moment, I'll admit).

So needless to say, this digressed into an argument during which I was told that I was arrogant and close-minded; accusations which in retrospect seem somewhat more fair than they did at the time. When they were being made, however, they were the biggest lies since the moon being made of cheese, Santa Clause and that my choice of college major didn't matter.

Because of this argument, I promptly cancelled our appointment at the boutique and then sat awkwardly in my parents house giving them the silent treatment while I waited for their washing machine to cleanse my clothes. Humbling, I assure you. Eventually however, I called the boutique back and was able to resecure the appointment after we decided to gloss things over and "not speak of unpleasant things anymore today".

We arrived at the salon a little over an hour later. I brought my list of designers that I like and my bag of shaky, raw emotions. Not only that but I am currently being visited by my Female Fairy to put it nicely and I felt like a blimp.

The attendant, a small woman named Sue was not very helpful. We were at this salon specifically because they carry dresses from Manuel Moto and the pronovias collection which are my favorites. We were sitting on the couch in the waiting room next to a pitcher of complimentary Mimosas and a tray of cakes when she asked me what our budget was. I glanced to my left at the Vera Wang Room and gave a wavering look towards my mother.

"We haven't determined that just yet." My mother informed Sue in her calm and matter-of-fact tone. If there had been an interpreter present, they would've translated that as: "Show us the damn dresses that my daughter wants to see...bitch."

Within a few minutes we had gathered some samples and I found myself in a dressing room with Sue.

For those of you who have never experienced a stint at a Bridal Salon as the Bride, I will try to share the awkwardness with you briefly. You are there, wearing virtually nothing but a used bra that they give so you can try on dresses (unless of course you bring your own but I don't own a strapless white bra just yet) and you are wearing your panties. Leg fat on display, you are then helped into a dress and are told to "dive in" (which by the way, I am so sick of hearing, they all say this as if it is a clever and unique catch phrase but it's NOT! They literally all say it). So you put your palms into the prayer position and raise them above your head as the attendant hoists a 10lb white lace frock over your head and fastens it to your body.


"Suck it in" you are occasionally told by one of these small and always unmarried women as she struggles with the zipper/corset/buttons in the back.

Most salons keep size 12 dresses on the racks. For those of you not in the know, a Bridal size 12 is the Christian God's way of punishing us nonbelievers. The secret truth is that bridal gowns are actually created, designed and manufactured by cranky spinster women who have weight and acne problems and never want anyone else to be happy. That's why you struggle for months to lose weight so you look beautiful in your gown and yet then you are forced to purchase a gown that is bigger than the size you originally wore when you were fat. Let me explain: a bridal 12 is a regular person 8. A bridal 10 is therefore a regular person 6. When I go to the store, even after a good week on Weight Watchers and after I've spent most of my waking hours in the bathroom peeing out all of the one-gallon-of-water-per-day that my book Bridal Bootcamp says I must consume to look beautiful, I still get to the fitting room where a woman like Sue gets to say "if only we had a bigger size" in reference to a size 12 dress when back before all of this torture I was a happy size 8.

But I digress.

So most bridal boutiques carry size 12 dresses on the racks. That's because this is neutral territory. It's normal ground. It's as close as anyone can get to one-size-fits-all. Well not here and not today because apparently fancy-schmancy women who shop at this fancy-schmancy boutique and who can afford Vera Wang are also very slim. Figures (get it?). All they kept on the rack at this boutique on the Main Line were size 10s.

Remember the conversion rate here though please. A size 10 bridal is a Regular girls starve-yourself-for-three-months-so-your-body-gets-past-that-phase-where-it-stores-everything-as-fat-and-then-begins-to-eat-itself. AND I had my period. And I am home to the most dangerous curves any body has seen this side of Jessica Rabbit.

Moral of this tangent: these dresses weren't fitting.

Sure, I could get them on, but could I shimmy down the underskirt? Nope. Sure, they could technically cover my body but could Sue get them done up? Not happening.

Another interesting tidbit of the Bridal Experience is that these women use office supplies to get you into these dresses. You know those black and metal things that look like triangles with snappy ends? They're of the paperclip family but they are certainly not paper clips? They're like black metal triangles with two silver metal arms i guess they must be called that snap together? They hold papers and reports together? Well anyway, these women in the Bridal Boutiques rely on those things, they depend on them as if they are the anchor to a ship or something else equally important but perhaps more clever.

Once you have a dress on your body, the attendant dives underneath your skirt and starts yanking on the underskirt to pull it down. This is especially necessary for me in the tighter dresses that I was trying on (sheath dresses are a bitch). She then stands up, goes behind you and figures out all places that the dress needs "clipping". Sometimes it needs to be pulled in tighter around your waist (like for every dress i try on), other times, she needs to clip them to the bra because the dress just simply won't do up so she has to make it appear as it would if it were able to close. Basically, in order to become a Bridal Salon Attendant they send you to Magician School and teach you how to do illusions with office supplies.

Except Sue, my four-eyed attendant missed that day in Snobby Salon 101. Sue didn't clip anything. She didn't clip, she didn't clamp, she didn't pull or straighten or even fluff. She just handed me a dress and told me to put it on. And when I had trouble, she didn't help me out.

All of this culminated at one singular point. I was standing in front of a mirror on a raised, carpeted stage, looking at myself in a dress that was too tight around my hips. too big around my waist and unable to do-up around my breasts and I had a horror-vision of myself showing up like this on my wedding day. Tears burst forth and I wailed in horror "oh my god I am going to be a fat bride!"

Sue and my mother stood agast. They had both just been making polite bridal chatter about how beautiful I was and how stunning the lace looked and how lovely it would all be in candle light.

I had had enough. I tore off my display-version-veil and ran crying into the fitting room where I struggled to get out of the dress and had to ask for help from a wide-eyed Sue who said in earnest "Honey, do you want a drink? We have mimosa's, let me get you one." I refused but thanked her. Out in the hallway I heard her say "She must have her period." and I hated her even more for that comment (and for being right).

And that, my dear reader, is why I called off the wedding the first time.

love and underskirts are the devil,

Rhian

Beginnings. or should I say, endeavors

I know that traditionally, I am supposed to take this opportunity to introduce myself and the intention of my blog here in this first post. Well, traditionally speaking, I am an nontraditional individual. As someone I used to know used to say "it's a crazy, crazy world" so who knows what could happen.

I have that paradoxical kind of personality where doing something by the books is a break in character for me so no matter what happens, I guess I always come out doing whatever the hell I want anyway ultimately. Not a bad break, if I do say so myself (which is a ridiculous phrase).

I will make one promise however, I will attempt to stop writing in such awkward vagaries and will do my utmost best to be clear, concise and descriptive within the virtual pages of my online musings (aka this blog).

Currently I have created this blog with the wide-eyed vision of keeping a record of my saga as a bride-to-be. That's right, I have recently become betrothed to a wonderful, green-eyed, long-haired, handsome and lucky man named Ryan. This means that I am now, from what I have read in many magazines and seen through the great people of TLC, a bridezilla in the making, a princess upon a pea, an insane and maniacal woman encased in lace who runs about screaming "I need more flowers" while taking a pair of scissors to my own hair and slicing it all off moments before walking down the aisle. And so on. (ok i saw that last piece on youtube...really, i did...search for crazy bride or something of that nature).

So that, for now, dear reader (which I shall leave in the singular form for this moment because I am certain of only one subscriber) will have to suffice by way of introduction and intention because I am all out of time and am being beckoned by my fiance himself to go eat reheated pizza for dinner and join him while we discuss an RPG and get ready to watch a dvd from redbox.

I look forward to more and I hope that you do as well.

love and first updates,

Rhian