the scent of evil

Lizzy has been asking interesting questions lately. Some insightful, some just plain strange.
For instance, when Matt dared to go back to the barber that butchered him last time, Lizzy said, "I wonder if Daddy's going to like his haircut." "Great question," I responded. Matt seemed genial and pleased enough in the shop. After we walked out, I asked if he was indeed happy with it. "No," he said cheerfully. That's IT. I'm taking him to my hair guru, Cheryl, at Bubbles for his official wedding haircut. As Matt says, "The less hair you have, the better the haircut has to be." So, we'd better make sure it's VERY good, I guess. Hee!

Last night, Lizzy watched Aladdin while I went and worked out. After it was
over, she came bouncing into the kitchen, where I was trying to have some sort of adult conversation with Matt -- against all odds, we do try, sometimes. Something wedding-related, no doubt. Ah, yes -- must've been in regards to the second round of invitations (for the West Coast reception). Or the menu for it. Or something.

Lizzy says, "What does Jafar smell like?" I take great delight in responding to these crazy questions with the utmost seriousness. "Hm," I said thoughtfully. "What do YOU think he smells like?" This results in either a fascinating look into my 3-year-old's mind, or else she dissolves into tears and petulant sobs of, "No! I asked YOU!" This time, she said, "I don't know. What do you think?" I said, "Well, maybe -- I bet he smells kind of musty and moldy. Like a basement." She said, "Yeah. Like a moldy basement!" That seemed to work for her.

"Aladdin doesn't smell bad, though, right?" she said. "No," I said. "He's a good guy." Where this will lead, I shudder to think. Apparently, the evil that lives in a man's heart will emerge through body odors. Hey -- it makes sense, kinda. It sure would make things easier, wouldn't it? Kinda like those anti-smoking posters that say, "Would you smoke if it did to your face what it does to your lungs?" The art on those isn't very pretty.
I'll betcha if shoving past someone on the metro, or thinking a mean thought, or saying something mean behind someone's back made me literally stinky, I'd do it less. I hate, hate to be stinky. If sin appeared on us in literal form...

couch as couch can

I'm hoping to talk about the camping trip Lizzy and I just went on with some church friends as soon as I can get hold of a few photos I took before my camera battery died. A fact that I'm sure the friends we camped with are sick of hearing about, as I was constantly moaning about it. But, we had a great time, thanks in no small part to those who cooked over the ol' campfire and shared with all, and the friends with the warm, dry camper who took pity on us when our wee $17 tent was no match for an unexpected thunderstorm.

The couch! Remember the couch? The sign that we're really 'grown up,' etc.? Well, it's turned out to be a rather crappy one, after all. I don't think it's comfy - the top part sticks out too much, so sitting up straight in it is rather difficult. That part is too stiff. It's okay to lie down on, I suppose, but then I'm looking at the TV sideways, and that bugs me. Not that I get much time to be watching, anyway, so it's mostly a moot point. It DOES have a fold-out bed part, and that's key. But we suspect that the doofuses who reconstructed it in our basement (it wouldn't fit downstairs as-was, so they had to deconstruct/ reconstruct) didn't do it right. Both sections had a saggy end. Well, Matt hopped on it last week and heard a 'crack,' so we decided to actually call and see about getting it fixed, FINALLY. Matt, who stayed home from work sick this morning, just called me to let me know that it had a one-year warranty. The date we bought it was:

(drum roll)

August 28th.

Depending on how you look at that, we squeaked in a complaint under the wire, or we're SOL. Fortunately, the couch co. is going to honor the warranty.

WHEW. Someone's definitely looking out for us!!!

deaths

It's been quite a day.
First: Well, first I woke up and hit my snooze button. But you don't care about that mundane stuff. Though, I did shortly thereafter do some sit-ups! What does it say that I'm actually PROUD of that.

First, that's of relevance to this blog entry: As I walked into day care, and my meteor of a child streaked (in the 'fast' sense, not in the 'without clothes on' sense) past me down the hall toward her classroom, I noticed that the recently ailing rabbit in the day care lobby -- Sunshine -- was lying awfully still and stretched out. And her eyes were just a wee bit open ... Hm. I leaned down for a closer look, and when I stood up, one of the ladies said, "She's dead. But we don't want to have to tell the children." I thought, oookay. Which National Lampoon movie am I suddenly in?
So I walk down the hall, chuckling and shaking my head, for lack of a more appropriate response. This is the rabbit that my daughter stops to pet, every day, before she leaves. And -- holy crap. I just realized that she wanted to do it last night, but I said, no, we didn't have time, and she asked if she could do it tomorrow, and I said, sure ... Oh man. I am a horrible parent. Time to figure out what lesson on death we need to impart this evening. Ugh. Lizzy seems okay with this stuff, so far. Disney characters kick the bucket right and left, and we discuss that at length. We haven't concocted a Disney heaven for them all or anything (some parents might say it would be more like hell), but she's pretty matter-of-fact about the concept. Maybe we'll be okay.

As I walked back down the hall a couple of minutes later, on my way out, the day care director was just starting to carefully fold Sunshine into her blanket. The bunny hearse -- a pet carrier -- sat on the top of the hutch, door ajar, awaiting transport. Andrea, the director, was sniffling and wiping tears from her eyes. Suddenly, I felt really evil for having chuckled. But, again -- it's quite funny, from my first not-so-appropriate impression. When I stopped to consider that this animal was essentially Andrea's pet, and had greeted children coming to day care there for longer than Lizzy and I have been coming, I felt a bit more sober about it all.
Rest In Peace, Sunshine. May greener pastures, and fewer grubby hands, await you. We loved you.

In other deaths: I'm going from sad to mad here. You're telling me that PLUTO IS NO LONGER A PLANET!?? Next thing you know, we'll be discovering that the world is actually flat. Peanut butter is bad for us again. We're converting to the metric system. "Under God" is being removed from the Pledge of Allegiance! I have to tell you, accurate or not, Constitutional or not, I cannot deal with these sorts of changes. Please -- enough things change. Can we just, at least, agree to still have nine planets?! I have enough to deal with right now.
And if we can't do that, then why not roll in the other three planets instead of cutting one out? Can we include, instead of being exclusionary? Can't we all just get along? Besides -- I really liked the idea of having a planet in our solar system named "Xena." There's always room for a Xena at any party! (unless the ceilings are low.)
My boss joked that if Xena had a moon, it could be named Gabriella -- HAR. (a little lame Warrior Princess humor for ya.)

a-camping we will go

I just Googled camping to get a visual aid for today, and the photo at right came up. Oookay. It was too cool to resist, though, don't you think? Only in Germany, man. Only in Germany. But only in southern Germany, where the Germans still occasionally retain a sense of humor.

I've been told by the parties in question (my family) that they're somewhat leery of what I might post on the blog here. Not because they have any embarrassing secrets, or anything -- I suspect my perspective, and/or memory, is being called into question. Which has led me to wonder just how funky a version of events my brain has recorded, especially when it comes to the childhood memories. The only things I can compare my versions to are someone else's versions, though I suppose I can grant that someone who was an adult at the time might have a slight edge in credibility where strict facts are concerned. Maybe.

This story, however, cannot possibly be a fabrication. It just can't. So, I'm going to stop waiting for Dad to get back to me with permission to tell it -- sorry, Dad! -- and seize the moment I have before me.

As I recall, we camped a fair amount when I was a kid. A time or two a year, anyway. Maybe that doesn't sound like a lot, but I remember it as a lot, okay? I don't know that I've camped at all as an adult, which is why I'm excited to go this weekend with some church folks. I have some trepidation, but it concerns the three-year-old participant. In my mind, I visualize her dropping off to sleep in our tent shortly after dusk -- an even which NEVER happens at home, but I'm hoping that being away from the artificially-lit house will confuse her -- and the adults gathering 'round the old campfire, hoisting ciders and beer and telling tall tales. Perhaps whilst roasting s'mores makings! What a mental picture it is. The reality will be quite something ... else, no doubt. Still, I will allow myself these romantic musings for now.

But -- back to the past. We lived in Oregon at this golden time of childhood camping. Those of you who know anything -- ANYTHING -- about (western) Oregon are now thinking, uh-HUH. You must've had fun sitting out in a mud puddle. And, as I recall, that's about how it usually played out. Just thinking about the dull pitter-patter of rain on canvas a few feet above my head brings it back. Slapping at the mosquitoes that found their way unbidden into the tent. Wondering why we had to buy a tent that was such a LIGHT color -- it got light at about 2:45 a.m., seemed like. It's weird now to think about sleeping in such close quarters with my family. Something we never do any more. Then again, I live about 4,321 miles from my parents (according to Mapquest. Hey! It would take only 74 hours to drive there! Interesting), so that might at least partially account for that fact. I bet it would be scenic!

My favorite place that we went tent camping was Fort Stevens, but it was rather far away (again, as I recall) from where we lived, which was just outside of Portland. We took our bikes and whizzed around on the extensive bike trail network. I'd take a notebook and try to map them out. We saw deer, rode through apple orchards, and visited the shipwreck of the Peter Iredale (which I remember being a whole lot bigger than it looks in that photo) on the beach. In general, it was really neat.

I don't remember where else we camped, or where we were on this particular occasion. I also don't remember how I got my shoes sopping wet. Jumping in mud puddles? I doubt it. Probably just sloshing around in lots of rain. Or maybe on the beach. In any case, my father -- who is generally a very bright, innovative, dependable sort of person (an engineer, what can you say) -- assured me he would take them and dry them on the fire. They'd be all set when I woke up.

Well. I woke up to find two shoes in various states of charredness. Dad was clearly embarrassed that he'd let them catch fire. He'd tried to whittle away the worst parts. One looked like a slipper, and one was mostly intact, but scratchy around the edges. I believe it was my only pair of footwear on that trip. Whoops. I remember standing in line at the campsite bathroom, inviting long looks and laughter from the women there. Ugh.

(feel free to e-mail me your own "Sunil Srettil" account, Dad -- How It Really Happened -- and I'll post it to set the record straight. Or balance the memory scales. Or whatever.)

By the way, as to prove the point: I just mapquested the distance from Warrenton, Ore., (Fort Stevens) to Beaverton, Ore. 1 hour, 44 minutes. What a wimpy kid I was. I remember it as being something like five hours in the car. Sheesh.

expiration date

(thanks for the sweet visual aid, Brickdude!)

Last night, Lizzy was whining a lot. Need I say more about that? As we were preparing for bed, I said something about her sounding spoiled. I can't recall exactly what I said. But the word 'spoiled' sent her into a tearful fit. "I'm not spoiled!" she sobbed. "Spoiled is a bad word!" Funny thing was, when she said this, it reminded me of an almost identical reaction I had to my parents saying that to me. I suspect I was older than 3, though, because -- how can this child know what spoiled really means? I don't think she does. To my childhood self, spoiled meant that I was no longer any good. I had been good, but now I was ... rotten? Irredeemable? Something like that. I wonder what Lizzy was imagining in her fertile little mind. Of course, that's not what my parents had meant, either. But that's how I took it, and maybe Lizzy did, too.

I said, "Who told you that spoiled is a bad word?" The sources of information are few: Daddy, Mommy, Grandma Connie or a teacher or classmate at day care. In this case, it was Sean, her omnicient friend whose power over Lizzy has been demonstrated by the addition of "Sean'sfavoritecolor" to the word "purple."
"Sean said it was a bad word!" she said.
"But, Lizzy," I tried to explain. "It's not a very nice word, true; but it's not a BAD word." I'm trying to differentiate between things that I want her to never, ever say, and things that are merely describing a negative behavior or thing. I don't need to tell you how literally kids take things -- I think we all know that -- so I'm trying my best to introduce subtleties where they can be useful. Hey -- I can try, right?

"It is TOO a bad word. Sean said so," Lizzy insisted.
"Honey, Sean doesn't know everything. He's only 4!" I pointed out.
"He's not FOUR! He's THREE," she said. "Hmph."

Well. She got me there.
I think we finally established that spoiled isn't actually a bad word. It all makes me wonder what gems of misshapen wisdom other kids are carting home to inform their parents of, fresh from Lizzy's mouth. It's a pint-sized game of telephone.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz

I have one of those yukky head cold things today. It's mostly a battle to stay awake here at my desk. I find I don't want coffee when I'm sick, which is probably an indication that it's no good for me. As usual, I'll ignore the suggestion once I feel well again.

I can't taste my food today, either. What fun is that? Seriously. When food ceases to be a pleasure, take me out and shoot me. I was never in danger of being a teen-aged anorexic, that's for sure.

This weekend, Matt and I got an incredible, unexpected gift. We felt like dancing around in front of our house, singing "HALLLELUJAH!" at the top of our lungs. But we didn't. But we sure wanted to.
I can't recall if I've complained about the neighbors across the street. (and keep in mind that, in a townhouse community, 'across the street' means 12 paces across the blacktop.) They are by far the most obnoxious in the neighborhood, as far as I can tell. Matt and I have been fantasizing about them selling the place or moving away for quite some time now. Usually, problems are not solved quite this simply, but Saturday, the owner of the place came by and asked us some questions about them -- she'd just booted them, and they left a whole bunch of stuff behind, including a fish tank (full of fish) and a DOG, for heaven's sake. Matt and I assumed they were drug dealers, from the frequency and variation of traffic in and our of the place (and our parking spots). Then there was the late-night noise. And the loud cursing to each other as often as not when we pulled up and disembarked on our way home from work. And the kids playing in the street, despite the presence of a lovely playground and park on the other side of the house. Etc. Etc.

Normally, I feel bad about exulting in another's misfortune, but it's just too glorious -- and unexpected -- to have them GONE. Praise GOD. Praise God, Praise God. And have mercy on those poor kids, who will have a hard time in this world with sterling parenting examples like those. It suddenly feels like we live in an entirely new neighborhood, and we're pretty thrilled about it. I know I sound like some sort of snobby elitist. And, I'm sorry for that. But since I haven't been able to control the situation one way or the other, please allow me to be happy when it tips in my favor.

Today's weight-loss plan

1. Go to Ollie's Trolley for lunch. (now, bear with me...)

2. Consume small fries on return to office. Feel full.

3. Self-righteously refuse birthday cake at monthly office 'birthday party.'

4. Two hours after fry consumption, open cheeseburger. Take bite.

5. Realize, with dismay, that I forgot to ask for any sauce, whatsoever, on burger. Feel bummed.

6. One second later, realize that what the burger DOES have, instead of sauce, is one short black hair. Definitely not my own.

7. Fling burger in trash.

8. Have small piece of birthday cake after all.

9. (for rest of day) Try to avoid heebie-jeebie feeling of seeing hair in burger.

True love

... is accompanying your fiancee to a Michael McDonald concert. On a Sunday night. And not minding when she bellows along to the hits.

Then, knowing her love for margaritas, buying her a $12 margarita from the concession stand. Even though it's well known that Nissan Pavilion margaritas are neither alcoholic, nor edible.

Matt's a sweet one, all right.

psych!

Hey! The 200th blog post. Too bad it's just another humdrum one. :)

I realized the other day -- when I asked someone -- that I've never told y'all, or in this format, at least, what Lizzy and I are doing with GWU. Not that I really know, myself. But I'll be happy to tell you the little that I do know.

When she was born, despite the fact that we didn't go to a hospital -- oh! maybe it was those wacky folks at Kaiser P! -- we were put on some mass-mailing list that no new parent can escape. You've got a baby? Well, how 'bout 50 offers for Gerber life insurance? Or 279 opportunities to buy a few ounces of our overpriced baby formula, so you'll get hooked? That sort of thing.

One of our fabulous opportunities came from GWU -- would we be interested in helping them out on a study, someday? A study involving infants, or perhaps small children? I said, eh, sure. I'm all about helping out. And it sounded interesting. (Matt was none too eager, for the record. But I allowed him to have perhaps less say than he should've at this point in Lizzy's life.) So I mailed in my affirmative, and, after thinking they'd forgotten all about me, I received a call saying that someone from the -- I dunno, sociology, or mental health, or somesuch department -- was doing a long-term study on the effects of stress on children. STRESS ON CHILDREN. Perhaps that should have been my first clue that -- hey! -- they will probably be putting my child under some form of duress, should I choose to participate. But I thought, what can they do, ethically, really? Not much, right? So -- sure. Take my child. Put her under stress. Observe her. Learn. Improve humanity.

So we've been taking part in a long-term stress study. This has taken the form of three visits to GWU, of two or three hours each, and a few lengthy -- and I do mean, LENGTHY -- surveys. Part of the "fun" of it for me has been second-guessing what they're trying to get at with both the visit, and the survey, portion. You know how some surveys are mind-numbingly redundant? They're 100 questions long, but only because they ask you the same 20 or so questions four or five times, in different ways (are you often happy? Are you rarely in a good mood? That sort of thing), I suppose to catch you in some sort of lie. To yourself? To them? Who knows. I don't really care enough to backtrack and catch myself in inconsistencies. It takes too much time, as it is.

But back to the interesting part -- the actual visits. So they try to hook Lizzy up to all this equipment, allegedly to "monitor" her reactions to things. A cord around her belly, to measure her breathing; stickers under her shirt, to measure her heart rate; stickers under her eyes, to monitor her blinking. And they're (possibly) taping, and watching, from another room, as well. The most ridiculous of these has to be the space hat they have her wear. They stick this rubber, form-fitting thing over her head -- or, as in the case of yesterday's visit, they try to, but she flat-out refused, and bawled until we could calm her down, hatless -- and stick a lot of gel into certain points of it, supposedly so they can read certain brain waves or something at key parts? I don't know. I am highly skeptical of all this, especially the Space Hat. My theory is that they are secretly measuring either -- or all -- of her reactions to these things, or her and my interaction at these times, or my reaction to it all. That it's some sort of blind study. (because they've never mentioned this might be the case -- of course, because it would bias my reactions.) Someone at work said that maybe even the assistants who do the testing don't know. It's in the hands of some all-knowing psych prof. I think I can find out the results of the study after it's all over. Or maybe we'll never know.

So, after the hat/belt/patches are, or are not (as yesterday), administered, they do a saliva test -- have Lizzy chew on a piece of cotton, then extract some spit -- then they do some weird games with her. Such as, do some calming activities, then have a loud, staticky burst of noise come through the speaker. The activities are so repetitive that I wondered yesterday whether they were trying to goad her to impatience, and gauge the stress that way. But she didn't get impatient. Last time we were there -- when she was about 2 1/3 years old -- they had her doing puzzles that were a bit beyond her ability. But here's the thing -- they have me in the room at all times with her (a liability thing, someone else suggested? But it's still part of what makes me wonder if I, myself, am part of the study), and they told me not to help her. So I wonder if they're just testing how much I'll try to follow their commands, before I bend enough to help my obviously frustrated child complete a task that, ever before, I had totally helped her with. This time around -- yesterday's visit - I'm proud to say that she either could do everything they presented, or she just tried patiently and didn't get frustrated.

They also throw a couple of freaky fear elements in. In one case, they have a (normally) scary thing that I'm supposed to convince Lizzy to touch -- a gorilla mask head, for instance, or (yesterday) a really realistic motorized toy dinosaur -- or, they'll have one of the assistants dress up as a slightly weird, menacing character -- a clown the first time, and yesterday a pirate, complete with sword that she was waving around -- and I have to get Lizzy to try to say 'hello' to her, and touch something on her person. (the parrot on her wrist, for example.) Lizzy's not wild about those. But she's never a huge fan of adult strangers.

Lizzy and I do so much talking and explaining of things before and after any experience that it was weird to not really know what to say about this one, either before or after. Before, I simply said that we were going to play some games with some ladies who needed our help. After, I asked her if she thought it was fun. "Yes," she said. "I knew all the answers!" (there was a flash card portion that involved some stretches in thinking, such as, "Point to the photo that best describes 'decorated.' ") So I guess it couldn't have been TOO traumatic. The only part that had her stressed and crying, actually, was trying to put the monitoring equipment on.

It's rather mind-blowing to think that they have hundreds and hundreds of kids that they're following, over a five-year period. That hundreds and hundreds of parents are going along with this. I'm not the only nutty one! (we're subject No. 599.)
Fortunately, we have just one 'event' left -- a home visit when she's five. I'm thinking a home visit can't be TOO bad.

SoaP

Sorry, Maggie. I can't give this the tagline for which it begs.
Alas.

I'll have to let The Man do the talking for himself.

eight days until ...

What? Any guesses?

losing it

I am having a bad moment. And blogging about it probably isn't the most positive thing to do, but on the chance it might make me feel a wee bit better and relieved of tension, I am going to do so. So -- if you don't want a dose of negativity, you should maybe skip this.

I am tired of my mother-in-law's insanity, and her complete denial of it.
I am tired of hearing from Matt about how ALL OF his friends say we are nuts we are to invite kids to our wedding reception. I am tired, in fact, of people trying to make it about how THEY think a wedding reception should be. (perhaps not so surprisingly, only Matt's friends have done this.)
I am tired of certain reception details not being valid ideas to Matt until he hears them from someone else other than me.
I am tired -- literally -- of staying up until 1 a.m. to work on ridiculous wedding invitations that, frankly, aren't that special anyway. They're fine. I don't need them to be special. It's just a freekin' piece of paper to tell people where to go, and when, should they want to. So why does it take so LONG to do? So much blasted time that I never have to myself, anyway?
I am tired of my office being 60 degrees.
I am tired of being the only person in my department not on vacation for a good chunk of July or August. I do not like D.C. much at the best of times, and I come closest to hating it this time of year.
And most of all, I am tired of hearing the dance/rave/mariachi beat of whatever is going on upstairs. I hear the National Press Building, in all its wisdom, has put some sort of sound studio directly above our office. Directly above my corner of the office. For what purpose? I have no earthly idea.
I am also tired of stressing about the fact that Matt and I have many friends whom we are, in effect, telling that they are not really that important by not inviting them to this ridiculous shindig (because of space). Really, that might be the biggest one. But the music above my head is right up there.

I had a little reality check yesterday when someone in the office -- someone who is not invited to the wedding, naturally -- asked me how the preparations were coming along. I rolled my eyes and winced. She looked surprised at my reaction.
Later that day, I called a friend looking for her new address. She asked me, "Are you excited about the wedding? Looking forward to it?" And I realized, I am not. I know it will be wonderful when I get there. But I just don't care enough, you know? Lots of time between me and this wedding has been a luxury. I get more tense the closer it gets.
This is not the be all/end all day of my life. It will be another day. A day immortalized by 13,000 photos, of course. But another day nonetheless. Matt and I agree that we just want it to be over with.

Yay!!!!!

Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.
Matt got the promotion.

Okay, you get the point. :)

We just went to a little celebratory lunch, where we talked about this and that. He tells me that one of his friends, upon hearing that the wedding reception is beer and wine "only," is already planning to bring her mini bottles of liquor. I shouldn't even mention this, really, because it just makes me mad. Also, Matt's been told about eight times by those he works with, and his friends, that we're nuts to be inviting other people's kids to our wedding/reception. (These are people who didn't invite kids to their own reception, despite the fact that they had two kids.) Because it's not about kids! It's apparently about getting loaded on someone else's dime. (yes, I know, if she brings minis, it's not on our dime. Just at our reception. Argghhh). Then again, if Matt's friends don't want to bring their kids, hooray! But I do hope that my friends do. It's about sharing this moment with our friends, and we're all about the kids for us at this point in our lives. I just can't believe that other people are aghast that we're inviting kids. I'm not against the adults-only 'do; I suppose I'm just annoyed at people imposing their ideas about what a reception should be on us. Go have a party on your own time. This is our one chance to do what we want to do, and we want you there, too. But go easy on something as basic as us wanting kids there.

Matt and I nervously drove out to the reception site on Saturday to meet with the guy who's now default in charge of receptions and events. Poor guy! He referred to himself as the owner at one point, so I guess that's what he is. Anyhoo, we arrived about 20 minutes late, and he was about 22 minutes late. That was a good sign. All went quite well. Then, at the end of the discussion, as we were wrapping things up, I said, "Oh -- one more thing! Matt and I wanted to confirm one thing that the previous planner said -- that, if we 'went dark' that night (rented the whole facility), you waive the $2,000 event fee. Is that true?" His eyes widened only slightly, and he said, "Uhhh ... Sure." Oops. Not true. But he's going to honor that initial agreement. I guess this all works in our favor. I feel a little bit bad about it, but as Matt said -- they're getting plenty of money from this event. Their mistake, their problem. I shan't be volunteering the money, in any case.

you know you have bad penmanship when ...

Your (male) fiance offers to do the calligraphy on the wedding invitations. Instead of you. And – you gratefully accept.

(of course, this means the invitations will likely be even further delayed. But you are still happy to make that tradeoff.)

-----------------------------

Questions for post-wedding men and women alike:

Ladies first! What song did you walk down the aisle to at your wedding? And – if you don’t mind elaborating – why did you choose it? Did it turn out to work the way you wanted? What I’m getting at here is, what elements of a song are you looking for in that moment? Because the traditional “Here Comes The Bride” moves at a bit of a clip. It’s not a slow, sweet-sounding song, really. So – if you, as just about every other bride I’ve seen in the past dozen years, chose something other than that – what? And, why?

(as a friend of mine said, when asked this question: "Heck, I don't remember! And neither will you, in three years." ahhh, how true... and yet, we have to do SOMETHING. I guess I did attend a friend's wedding in which there was no music at all. But that will not be mine.)

For the menfolk among us: In regards to wedding photos.

But first, an aside. We all know (all we women, anyway) that part of the “fun” of going to a wedding, before you’re married yourself, is to see how the couple handled certain aspects of the wedding. So we can steal ideas. And that sort of thing. It’s not a catty thing; just a reflection of the fact that there are a thousand (or many more) ways of doing wedding-y things.

Two of the things I have long vowed to do, when/if my turn came, are:

1) Have the wedding and reception at the same place. Or at least, next door. No driving necessary to get from one to the other. I realize this is not possible for some. No criticism intended for any who did differently. It’s just something I want.
2) Don’t take a jillion pictures of the wedding party after the wedding itself, holding up operations at the reception. I suppose if, as we’re doing, the reception starts itself without you for awhile, this is the less stringent of the resolutions I’m making. Still, I just don’t see why those dang photos have to take forever.

This brings me to the question for the guys: Assuming that you did the traditional thing of waiting ‘til after your ceremony to take photos, ensuring that you would see your lovely bride for the first time when she’s all gussied up and walking down the aisle toward you, was that a real “moment not to be missed”? We’re considering taking all photos beforehand. A friend of Matt's strongly suggested that we shouldn't. What do you suggest? I suppose the options are:

1) A few photos beforehand – the ones that Matt and I are not in together. Then, the rest (which is probably most, anyway) after the ceremony.
2) All photos, family and wedding party, beforehand.
3) No photos beforehand.

Also complicating the business: Matt is looking to me for what is “usually done” on a lot of these matters. As relates to the usual staged family photos, I’m not sure. I’ve never been a huge fan of those photos, to be honest. I suppose they have their purpose. For him, though … his parents are divorced, and not amicably. His mom’s family doesn’t speak to various factions of itself, as well. And (Please! Please! For numbers’ sake) might not show at all. So, who’s in photos? I suppose I could (and will) Google all this. If anyone has any comments to any of the above, do tell. Especially if your name is Ross or Pete.