This post is for everyone arriving on this website looking for the information suggested on their wedding invite. If this is you. Read the following link - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Address_bar .
Now enter the URL on the invite into the address bar.
Ciao.
We just want to hire one of your bars, TROF. No, we just want to know if we can hire one of your bars. We’ve sent you emails (we said please and thank you!). We’ve used your form (it’s lovely!). We even ran into Ruth P (she strikes me as a lady of wit and integrity!) at the Mae Shi, and I’m certain that Matt was very communicative of our needs for some considerable time.
We’ve got a lot of procrastinating to fit in between now and September, you see, TROF - a lot of headpieces to consider and a lot of screaming of “BUT I’M BRIDEZILLAAA” at shop assistants while I beat them with my shoe, and if we could just cross “hire evening venue” off our long, long list marked “dumb shit we gotta do to get wed”, then that would make us both happy as clams on high level opiates.
TROF, if you can’t, that’s okay! We can still be friends. We’ll still come and see Deerhoof. We’ll still secretly want to decorate our house exactly like the Deaf Institute. We know you get three hundred emails a day. We appreciate that. We do. But, TROF, Matt gets several thousand emails a minute and you can’t shut the man up. Do we smell? Do you have no faith in our union? You can tell us. Please tell us, TROF. I’m BRIDEZILLAAAAA.
Thank you, TROF.
Your pal,
Rebetthew
I don’t think this needs a new post, but whatever. Look! Isn’t that pretty? Or is it a bit; dude, what do you have on your head? I think pretty.
I will now pad this entry with a dream I had about the V.Cs!
So, last night I dreamed the revelation that Joe had been unconsciously plagiarising all his songs from the Wombats. When Residual Energies came on the radio all twangy and Scouse, Matt burst into tears of genuine hysterical grief.
Then I had a dream about punching one of Matt’s exes square in the nose, and I do not have a hard-on for ex-hate, as a rule. SUBCONSCIOUS PLEASE TRY HARDER.
FIN.
I have had a Haircut. With a capital huh. I didn’t mean to, I needed a trim, but it happens every time - I go in, I sit down, I put on my “I do care about both Big Brother and your opinions related to it!” face, I go; “Just a tri-”, and kapow, it’s all “I am an artiste! I do not trim! I will layer fore, feather aft and put it in a box and set fire to it!” from Preston’s thwarted Nicky Clarke (and if you’re committing follicular homicide in a lighthouse in the foyer of a Morrissons, you know, that’s pretty comprehensively thwarted). I don’t know; I must have a kind face. So anyway, now I’m me circa 1984 by way of asymmetric Mr Spock, but I figure I can work it.
It’s a good job I’m pretty laid-back about my hair, right, because otherwise I imagine I’d spend a lot of time weeping and assaulting the wilful with flung tins of wax. I have had a ginger perm, okay, the worst has happened. Anyhow, this means that I’ll be a short-haired bride, and would you like to hear my opinions on that? Super.
Finger waves! Is that what they’re called? They’re very pretty. I bet I could get my hair to finger-waving length by September if I kept up my intake of brick-thick multivitamins and thunk positive thoughts. Also the veil is very nice (did I just express an opinion about a veil? I did! Another will be along shortly); it’s either that or a birdcage sort. Or neither; I don’t know.
Hair… Device! I like these, but I’m definitely going to get terrible consumer paralysis if I try to buy one. Have you seen the market saturation on Etsy? No, you haven’t, because you’ve got less ridiculous things to think about, but trust me that the amount of twinkly floral butterfly twig things that I can stick on my head is truly overwhelming.
This lady nails it, pretty much. I’d have to think very positive thoughts to get to that length, however. And Matt’s prohibited from wearing a hat, he’ll look like a vaudeville rapist.
Obviously I’m going to throw in another Offbeat Bride link now.
Alright, I’ve expressed my intention to adopt some sort of wedding aesthetic and said my beloved looks like a rapist. Tick box, tick box. Signing off!
Unprotected, because I’m infuriating like that;
Gosh, I don’t want to spend silly money on a wedding dress, but I can learn!
NB: Probably won’t buy anything from here, as a) I could buy a kitchen with that money, are you nuts!, and b) in the 1930s 5′10″ women were burned as witches.
Man, I’ve got to get me some bulk nuts. This office has one of those “Healthy” “Charity” “Snack” “Box” arrangements, and it’s ruining me.
I wonder what sort of exciting comment spam I’ll get for “bulk nuts”, or indeed “snack box”?
You guys! I’ve transplanted the courgettes. It’s a proud moment; the first plants Captain Brownthumb hasn’t rapidly offed (although I’m rather proud of having revived a cactus that the removal men helpfully bubblewrapped). What else? OH YEAH WEDDINGS. Now then. I’m not an unreasonable woman, so here’s a link to the marvellous Offbeat Bride, on which you may guess at dayglo granola bridal concepts that I may have embraced. Corset? Polaroids? Ring-bearing owl? I will not say!
No points for guessing “sequins”, that’s a given.
IN OTHER NEWS
Can I say how happy I am with my new Lush shampoo? It’s super. It’s a bit old-man smell but, you know, I’m down. Squeaky Green, for reference - I’ve never been one for Lush because a) the shops smell so strongly they actually make me heave a little bit, and b) they tend to be stuffed to the gills with crunchy poi types. Other crunchy poi types, fair point. But! The online shop is super, and the products come packed in popcorn, so I expect this is where I’ll be funneling the mortgage money this month. Hooray!
The only other thing that’s happened is Matt’s total smackdown by the nice lady at Asia Delight on our thrice-weekly indulgence of my filthy* spicy beancurd habit;
Purveyor of Crack-Like Spicy Beancurd: Oh, you lose so much weight! In your face. Been to gym?**
Shameful Beancurd Addict: Oh thank you! We’ve been running.
My Love: How about me?
Purveyor of Crack-Like Spicy Beancurd: HAHAHA!***
My Love, who has actually lost quite a bit of weight as well, it was a very bulky jacket okay: :\
* Oh, you thought “beancurd” was a healthful foodstuff? Ho! Not as a mere savoury vehicle for SALT and CHILLI and HALF A PINT OF HOT SPICY OIL per CUBIC INCH, and OM NOM NOM, it isn’t. It makes me come over all CAPSLOCK.
** So here I’m trying to avoid a Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s sort of vibe, but on the other hand maintain narrative accuracy in my very important report of the goings-on over the Thai style fishcakes? Is hinting at Engrish just wrong under any circumstance? Should I not have said “Engrish” just then? HELP ME ALAN RUSBRIDGER.
*** There may also have been pointing.
Or, In Which Rebecca Bangs on Unbecomingly About Matrimonial Items Which are Prohibited, vol i.
Item One: Meringues are for eating
Ground rules re. dress:
No, no, no and no. I want to look positively fist-bitingly radiant, don’t get me wrong, and there shouldn’t be any doubt as to who’s marrying whom, but you couldn’t scare me into something “bridal” with a big stick - this means seed pearls and filigree and anything bouffant and shiny is not on the menu *.
Item Two: SPEAKING OF MENUS
An absolute veto on anything “price per head”, because;
1. I don’t want to be glaring over the vol-au-vonts and thinking “I paid £34.70 for you to freebase that risotto, you bastard, and I don’t even like you that much”, and “Does [x] actually afford me £34.70 worth of personal fulfilment? Bring out my ongoing spreadsheet!”
2. Set menu pretentiousness is just so RUBBISH. Look, plebs, for breakfast this morning I had larks on toast and a kitten on a stick, I’m not going to swoon into my fondant potatoes because you and your catering City & Guilds made a little wigwam out of chives. Observe this particularly tepid top-end version from Holland Hall - table ribboning of my choice, mother? I’ll put a bow on the whippet.
Now, I love pretentiousness, I embrace pretentiousness - I would kiss it airily on both cheeks and lick it on the forehead but I’d rather express my appreciation through the medium of dance - and so in the culinary arena you can jolly well make an effort with some unicorn filet mignon or what have you, otherwise I’ll slumming it with an entire cheese, a vegetable garden and something hearty on a spit. Arigatou gozaimasu!
3. Under the tyranny of the set menu, “Special Dietary Requirements”, or even “Quietly appalled by the concept of the vegetable panache” is an impossibility, and I don’t care how many conciliatory noises you make about your witless cauliflower bake. I draw your attention to the time I went to a set-menu wedding as a vegan and got iceberg lettuce and olives in a soup bowl, as though they’d cast desperately around the kitchen for something green and stopped just short of serving the floral arrangement. I ate the placemat.
* (that said, I’ve some latent tendencies toward sequins and feathers that veer toward the “explosion at a drag queen convention” end of the taste spectrum, and I’m just fine with that - boas to eleven, you know. I just don’t want to pretend like I ever wanted to be a princess when I grew up. Thus: ZOMG).
THERE WILL BE MORE LATER.
