In a post-engagement flush and a flurry of wedding-inspired hyperactivity, I decided back in November that I would book EVERYTHING. Because then he'd have to marry me, right? There's nothing says commitment like a non-refundable deposit. It's kinda like how I gently encouraged him to call his brother at 2am after he'd proposed to me. Because if he told him, he'd have to marry me, right?
Not that it's ever been in doubt. He still asks me to marry him most days. I always say yes.
Anyway, I didn't actually book anything. I started spreadsheets and sprawling spidery plans, with columns detailing what was to be done and who was to do it. My name was in all of the right-hand columns. I emailed 13 different marquee suppliers for quotes and opened a league table for the figures, which ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thanked each of them politely for entertaining me; their quotes were nothing if not a fucking hoot. "I'll get back to you once we're ready to make a booking" I said to them all. I didn't, though, and now they're getting back to me. A fella rang about about a marquee just this morning. "Well" I told him "we, eh, we..." and I snotted, my hayfever getting the better of me. I heard a sharp intake of breath as he assumed the absolute worst. "I'm sorry" he said "I hope it all works out for the best". Not hiring a big bloody tent is working out well for us anyway, I wanted to say but didn't. I just mumbled what I hope was a convincingly sorrowful "thanks" and cut the line.
We've decided instead to have the wedding in Áras Chrónáin, an Irish cultural centre in old Clondalkin village, where I went to school. I've still a heap of lists and charts and bits and scraps and post-its to get through, but most if it involves asking other people do do things for me, so that's fine. My mam's making my dress. His dad's doing the service. Patrick Kelleher's doing some doo-wop. My aunties are baking cakes and mixing lemonade, our friends are mixing music, my 5th class teacher is managing the venue and his missus is doing the flowers. Some Cork fella's going to roast us a hog. Annie made us some beautiful invitations with pictures of our oldest and bestest friends, Bright Eyes and Beaver on them (they're up there in my header, you can guess which is which and whose is whose). It's going to be quite the party.
I'm reminding myself of all of this in advance of tomorrow morning's pre-marriage counselling session, which I've stupidly started to think of as a hurdle that needs to be hopped. The questionnaires we had to fill out independently of one another in preparation for the course have me worried that it will be like Mr. & Mrs. without cash prizes. Sing it with me now...
Not that it's ever been in doubt. He still asks me to marry him most days. I always say yes.
Anyway, I didn't actually book anything. I started spreadsheets and sprawling spidery plans, with columns detailing what was to be done and who was to do it. My name was in all of the right-hand columns. I emailed 13 different marquee suppliers for quotes and opened a league table for the figures, which ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thanked each of them politely for entertaining me; their quotes were nothing if not a fucking hoot. "I'll get back to you once we're ready to make a booking" I said to them all. I didn't, though, and now they're getting back to me. A fella rang about about a marquee just this morning. "Well" I told him "we, eh, we..." and I snotted, my hayfever getting the better of me. I heard a sharp intake of breath as he assumed the absolute worst. "I'm sorry" he said "I hope it all works out for the best". Not hiring a big bloody tent is working out well for us anyway, I wanted to say but didn't. I just mumbled what I hope was a convincingly sorrowful "thanks" and cut the line.
We've decided instead to have the wedding in Áras Chrónáin, an Irish cultural centre in old Clondalkin village, where I went to school. I've still a heap of lists and charts and bits and scraps and post-its to get through, but most if it involves asking other people do do things for me, so that's fine. My mam's making my dress. His dad's doing the service. Patrick Kelleher's doing some doo-wop. My aunties are baking cakes and mixing lemonade, our friends are mixing music, my 5th class teacher is managing the venue and his missus is doing the flowers. Some Cork fella's going to roast us a hog. Annie made us some beautiful invitations with pictures of our oldest and bestest friends, Bright Eyes and Beaver on them (they're up there in my header, you can guess which is which and whose is whose). It's going to be quite the party.
I'm reminding myself of all of this in advance of tomorrow morning's pre-marriage counselling session, which I've stupidly started to think of as a hurdle that needs to be hopped. The questionnaires we had to fill out independently of one another in preparation for the course have me worried that it will be like Mr. & Mrs. without cash prizes. Sing it with me now...
Mr & Mrs! Be nice to each other!If only I'd made it to Kate Kerrigan's Good Room at the Flat Lake Festival in time for Bring Your Girlfriend to Meet My Mother: Good Marriage Material certificates and medals for all successful candidates.
Mr & Mrs! We've gotta love one another!
Think of the future, and all you're hoping for.
Be nice to each other!
Mr & Mrs! Friends and lovers!
Mr & Mrs! Sharing each day for ever more!
