One of the biggest problems with not keeping tabs on trends within the bridal industry is that I’m totally clueless to the fact my own ideas - which I think are super creative and non-traditional - have already been brainstormed, marketed, and copyrighted by some bridal magazine/web conglomerate.
My recent not-so-innovative idea came to me at the moment I noticed that my refrigerator looked like a file cabinet threw up on it. Truly, it embodies utter chaos - with various invites, family Christmas portraits, pink “final notice” bills, etc. smattered haphazardly about .
Part of the problem is that the magnet-to-invite ratio is all out of whack. I have like three magnets gallantly attempting to hold-up 15 different mail components…because, honestly, when does one have the time to buy magnets? Where does one buy magnets?
So I thought my Save the Date could be the magnet, serving as clutter-free reminder of my special day. That way, my guests wouldn’t be obliged to find a magnet to put the stinkin’ thing on their refrigerator AND the magnetizing benefits of my Save the Date could serve to hold-up other STDs and invites! Oh my gosh, I’m brilliant! And so thoughtful too. I picture my WeeBoo’s family opening up their STD envelope and saying, “This creative girl will carry our name!”
As you probably were aware, there’s like a zillion websites with Save the Date magnet templates.
Of course I used the template (like I would really create my own magnet), but I wanted the credit for this one! It was an honest to goodness light-bulb moment for me! And to top it off, my anti-wedding friends are taking my trendy STDs as a sign that I’m giving into the industry beast.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
$5k - Not OK!
A little more background on me…I am not a girly-girl. I never really could stand talking on the phone, I have less than 20 pairs of shoes, and I cannot see the logic spending as much on a handbag as would feed a small village in the Ukraine. Even in my early 30s, I’m little bit of a tomboy (albeit one who wears make-up and highlights her hair).
Unlike most girls, my childhood fantasies were never filled with images of my “big day”. In fact, when my kindergarten teacher asked the class to draw our future families…I sketched a series of three husbands. I believe they were all missing their torsos (I distinctively recall their arms and legs jutting out of oblong craniums like alien quad-pods) but in my mind the drawing served a pretty cool picture of what I my future beheld.
My girlfriends – on the other hand – are a bit more traditional. I had five college roommates, all who are still my greatest friends…and all of whom have been down the aisle already. Their weddings were practically turn-key. Seriously, they got the ring and flipped a switch. The Save the Dates (STDs, as I like to call them) were out the next weekend, the dress was fitted, and the planning was done by day six.
So my friends recently provided me with their wedding budget excel sheets (which they pulled out of their color-coded, three ring binders with built-in hole punchers) to get me prepared me for the financial hemorrhaging that was about to ensue.
It appears $5,000 is the magic number for every wedding vendor. Flowers = $5k; Photog = $5k; Caterer = $5k (not including staff, rentals, beverages, and appetizers). Um, do these people work 8 days a year or something?! I’m sure it doesn’t help that I live in the wedding capital of the nation, but pa-lease. I’d like to still be able to foot my mortgage bill once the big day is over…right?! Is this normal?
Unlike most girls, my childhood fantasies were never filled with images of my “big day”. In fact, when my kindergarten teacher asked the class to draw our future families…I sketched a series of three husbands. I believe they were all missing their torsos (I distinctively recall their arms and legs jutting out of oblong craniums like alien quad-pods) but in my mind the drawing served a pretty cool picture of what I my future beheld.
My girlfriends – on the other hand – are a bit more traditional. I had five college roommates, all who are still my greatest friends…and all of whom have been down the aisle already. Their weddings were practically turn-key. Seriously, they got the ring and flipped a switch. The Save the Dates (STDs, as I like to call them) were out the next weekend, the dress was fitted, and the planning was done by day six.
So my friends recently provided me with their wedding budget excel sheets (which they pulled out of their color-coded, three ring binders with built-in hole punchers) to get me prepared me for the financial hemorrhaging that was about to ensue.
It appears $5,000 is the magic number for every wedding vendor. Flowers = $5k; Photog = $5k; Caterer = $5k (not including staff, rentals, beverages, and appetizers). Um, do these people work 8 days a year or something?! I’m sure it doesn’t help that I live in the wedding capital of the nation, but pa-lease. I’d like to still be able to foot my mortgage bill once the big day is over…right?! Is this normal?
Friday, March 16, 2007
The "F" Word
I have nothing against the French. I refer to my potato wedges as “French fries”, as opposed to “freedom fries” (as if we Americans really want the symbol of democracy to be associated with a lumpy spud). And while my personal experience with Parisians left much to be desired, I didn’t let it color my view of an entire nation that gave us such things as champagne, brie, and…um…Gerard Depardieu.
But the term “fiancé” just does not work for me. I simply cannot bring myself to articulate the expression.
Perhaps if you knew my “f%$nce” you would understand. On this broad shouldered, 6’-4”, tattooed, truck-loving, red-blooded American boy, the sophisticated frenchy term just feels disingenuous. It’s like referring to a hammer as a “duvet”. Plus, embedded in the gum-smacking, American accent “f&*nce” turns any phrase into the linguistic equivalent of Britney Spears and Peppy Le Pew’s love child.
So, as part as my search for new terms, I started by exploring baseball analogies (muy Americana) and considered the acronym for “Groom On Deck”. As you probably figured out, “G.O.D” is already taken, and while my guy would love to have the term applied in the bedroom, I think it would be extremely inappropriate in open and public conversations.
Next, I went to the obvious source of verbal inspiration: Rap music. And here is where I stumbled upon the term “Boo”.
For you shorties out there who don’t know, this is a word generally applied to a “boyfriend”. And I’m thinking….what IS, a f&*nce really? Basically he’s your date at your wedding, right! It’s your wedding day boo. Wedding boo. WeBoo. Weboo! Eureka!
Think it will stick? Should I make a formal suggestion to the Grand Commissioner of Alls Things Wedding, aka Martha?
But the term “fiancé” just does not work for me. I simply cannot bring myself to articulate the expression.
Perhaps if you knew my “f%$nce” you would understand. On this broad shouldered, 6’-4”, tattooed, truck-loving, red-blooded American boy, the sophisticated frenchy term just feels disingenuous. It’s like referring to a hammer as a “duvet”. Plus, embedded in the gum-smacking, American accent “f&*nce” turns any phrase into the linguistic equivalent of Britney Spears and Peppy Le Pew’s love child.
So, as part as my search for new terms, I started by exploring baseball analogies (muy Americana) and considered the acronym for “Groom On Deck”. As you probably figured out, “G.O.D” is already taken, and while my guy would love to have the term applied in the bedroom, I think it would be extremely inappropriate in open and public conversations.
Next, I went to the obvious source of verbal inspiration: Rap music. And here is where I stumbled upon the term “Boo”.
For you shorties out there who don’t know, this is a word generally applied to a “boyfriend”. And I’m thinking….what IS, a f&*nce really? Basically he’s your date at your wedding, right! It’s your wedding day boo. Wedding boo. WeBoo. Weboo! Eureka!
Think it will stick? Should I make a formal suggestion to the Grand Commissioner of Alls Things Wedding, aka Martha?
Proposal Aftermath
As a thirty-something gal, who’s been with the same guy for 6 years and owns a closet chalk-full of dusty bridesmaids dresses, you’d think I would have put some thought into my own wedding day.
Well, no. So a couple months ago when my own boyfriend put my ring on my finger - and I finished my fit of hysterical laughter (sometimes my emotional wires get crossed) - the planning process came crashing in on me like a pile of pill bottles in a shallow medicine cabinet.
I know….I should have seen it coming. But my feelings about the institution of marriage were so uncertain, that I believe I cognitively avoided the wedding topic all together.
Plus, something about the bridal industry freaks me out. I think….it may actually be…. a cult. I picture Martha Stewart as its guru, and chipper cardigan-clad party planners as her minions….pushing candied almonds at vera wang trunk sales and turning us expectant brides into lack-jawed zombies who throw our money at the almighty wedding god.
So, I’ve got 6 months until the big day. And I am going to attempt to navigate this emotional minefield without becoming brainwashed, broke, or dumped.
Well, no. So a couple months ago when my own boyfriend put my ring on my finger - and I finished my fit of hysterical laughter (sometimes my emotional wires get crossed) - the planning process came crashing in on me like a pile of pill bottles in a shallow medicine cabinet.
I know….I should have seen it coming. But my feelings about the institution of marriage were so uncertain, that I believe I cognitively avoided the wedding topic all together.
Plus, something about the bridal industry freaks me out. I think….it may actually be…. a cult. I picture Martha Stewart as its guru, and chipper cardigan-clad party planners as her minions….pushing candied almonds at vera wang trunk sales and turning us expectant brides into lack-jawed zombies who throw our money at the almighty wedding god.
So, I’ve got 6 months until the big day. And I am going to attempt to navigate this emotional minefield without becoming brainwashed, broke, or dumped.
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