Having been led by example...

My parents have been married for 48 years today. They fight sometimes. I know that they drive each other completely crazy as often as not. They each have a few habits that make the other want to commit acts of violence. But, not once in my life have I doubted that they each married their best friend. They have made it through extremely difficult times, and times that seemed easy. They have lived apart for years at a time, not because they wanted to, but because the situation demanded it, and come through it on the other side, a little rough for the wear, but no less loving. They raised 6 kids, each of whom has become successful in his or her own way.

I hadn't really though much of wedding vows til recently. They seemed just rote phrases that every couple spewed on their nuptial day. But Mom and Dad have proved them. They have loved, honored, and cherished for richer and poorer, through sickness and health, for all the days of their lives. I don't know if these are the exact vows my parents took when they eloped nearly half a century ago, but they have spend all the time since living them.

I hope that my marriage will live up to the high standard that my parents have set. I have chosen a partner who is my favourite person and my best friend. I know that we won't always see eye to eye. I know we will drive each other crazy. But I believe that there are no insurmountable difficulties ahead for us. Mom and Dad have proved that, together, all things are possible.

I cannot thank them enough.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. I love you.

Sticks and stones may break my bones...

I have begun to struggle with my name. Well, not MY name, but my name as it might become. If you have been reading up to this point, you are aware that I pride myself on my independence. Part of that independence came with my name. I was not one of four girls in my twenty-four-person second grade class named Jennifer. I am not one of the many Sarahs with whom I graduated. I have been and still am the only Helen in each of my social circles. I am named for my mom, so at our house, I am "Helen A" or "Little Helen" for the sake of differentiation, but mine is not a common name. My last name, too, is perfect for me.  I am not a Smith or Jones, certainly, but I have a last name that everyone can pronounce and spell correctly, and that suits me just fine. I recognize that my given name will not change, but my last name is part of my name, part of who I am. Some of my friends use my first and last name together--something like a nickname. The idea of becoming someone else freaks me out. A lot.

I know, you will argue that I don't BECOME someone else by virtue of having a different name, but I think that names speak volumes about personality. Our name is the first thing someone knows about us. Before you are asked to a job interview, a potential employer looks over your resume, which has your name in bold print right at the top. If you join a book group, the first thing you do is put your name on the list a the front of the room. Your name identifies you. Changing it is a big deal. A massive deal. I would argue that the name question is the biggest decision that has to be made between now and the day I get hitched.

I thought I had made a decision. If I change my name to his, I loose part of myself, my initals become HAG, and my name sounds like a shrivelled old lady name. If I keep my maiden name alone, I would feel like I didn't enter into this thing for real. But, if I tack on my future husband's family name with a hyphen, then badabing, I have honored him, and kept myself intact. Being a creature of immediate gratification, I was satisfied, and didn't think about it further until I went to mark a new book.

I have a monogram that I use on all my personal property: Books and CDs, dishware that gets loaned out, even all my hand tools are monogrammed with my special little mark. It probably seems trivial, but I love that little mark. When I discovered it in high school, it delighted me, and I wrote it and reworked it til I had it just right.

When I realized that my simple little monogram would have to change if I add to my name, I called my sister, who is an excellent artist, and really good at visual puzzles. I asked her to try to find a way to incorporate the "G" that would be my new initial into the monogram in a way that didn't mess with its simplicity. This led to a conversation about the impression given by a hyphenated name.

I hadn't thought of the initial impression given by a hyphenated name, partly because I have a niece and nephew whose names have been hyphenated from birth, and partly because I don't know many women who chose to hyphenate. I know several women who kept their maiden names, many who took their husbands' names, and even one who reverted back to her maiden name after her second marriage (which seemed to me to be a really cool work-around). I can't remember having been presented with a hyphenated name before meeting the person to whom it is attached.

However, when my sister and I began to discuss it, she told me that the minute she sees a hyphenated name on a woman's paperwork, she assumes that woman is a bitch who was unwilling to immerse herself completely in her marriage. I tried to argue, but if that's the impression she gets, then that's the impression she gets, and surely she's not the only one who thinks that. So, I called another sister to get an opposing view. I just asked "What do you think when you see a married woman's hyphenated name?" Her first impression is "that woman is a feminist" (it shifted to femi-nazi later in the conversation). This was NOT the way I had hoped the conversation would go. We talked about it further, and she admitted that her impression of other women's hyphenated names is part of the reason that she didn't hyphenate hers. She also has a friend who initially opted to hyphenate, but for the sake of simplicity, has since dropped her maiden name entirely. CRAP. Of course I turned to other friends to ask, each with his or her own opinions about name changes. And I read articles on wedding websites and blogs; some of which added the entirely new choice of changing both our names entirely to something that doesn't belong to either of us. HA! All this did was get me even more fired up.

I would like to state here that I am not a feminist. I am a confident, selfish woman, who wants everything to be the way I want it. The more I read, and the more I talked, the more irritated I got that I have to be the one to make this choice while my husband-to-be just gets to stay who he is, and noone questions why HE didn't decide to change his identity, why HE isn't having babies, why isn't HE wearing white, why HE isn't ordering flowers, why HE... I digress, but you catch my drift. I feel like Favourite Person has virtually no decisions put on him, while I have the motherload. I'm the one who didn't care to get married in the first place, remember?

It all comes to this: I know the choice of name is a decision only I can make. I know that everyone is going to have an opinion one way or another, and that I have to take into account or disregard those opinions as I see fit. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have a year to decide, and it will probably take all of that year, and I'm sure that whatever I decide it will be the right choice for me. I hope.


...but names will never hurt me.

A Note on Perspective

I have been engaged to be married for exactly one month today. I have been alternately stressed and excited about the prospects of all the things that need to be accomplished over the next fifteen months. I have been deliberating over things like what color paper to use for invitations, whether I really need to buy a specific "wedding planner," whether flowers are really necessary to having a wedding, what is the exact protocol for a rehearsal dinner, and is it really necessary? And on and on the list goes. And while each of these things matters in its own insignificant way, ultimately, none of these things matters much after the wedding day is over.

I will continue to plan, and, no doubt, stress over these details. It's in my nature to fret over details. But occasionally the Universe has a way of dropping reminders to concentrate on the things that are really important: family, friends, home, health, and way of life; being happy with the things that are, and not borrowing trouble from things that may or may not be. I hope that I am able to remember this lesson when next I am confronted with the simple choices of table settings and caterers. Otherwise, I'm afraid the universe will drop more reminders, and, honestly, a tablecloth is just not worth that.

One down. Ninety-nine to go.

My apologies for the mental vomit that occurred in yesterday's post. I had too many things in the caucus race going on in my brain, and if I didn't purge, I was going to lose it. (Apologies, again, for the mixed metaphor). Since those of you who are following this blog seem interested in the thought process, I thought I'd enlighten you. Surprisingly, that haphazard list actually seems to have helped. I am much more calm today than I was at this time yesterday.

At lunch (the time when I seem to always ambush him with wedding stuff), FP and I had a brief, but enlightening conversation about some of the issues of rentals, and how blasted expensive everything is! Those of you who might not know: it can cost $3 and more to rent a single chair for a single day. That seems preposterous to me. So I went back to an idea I had right at the very beginning of this adventure: to spend the next year collecting mismatched chairs and tables from anywhere I can find them for really, really cheap.

And, as seems to happen, once a decision has been made, it is either validated, or invalidated almost immediately. While on our way from school today, the boys and I spotted a perfectly servicable dining room chair sitting on the curb. Never one to take what doesn't belong to me, I went about some errand and returned. That chair was still waiting for me, now buried under some other stuff that was clearly set out for garbage. I unburied it, flipped it into my car, and have now officially begun the collection. This particular chair has a screw sticking out the bottom, and paint splotches of several colors on the back and the seat, but a little sandpaper, a can of spray paint, and an hour of time, and I've got a lovely chair that matches absolutely nothing. It's perfect.

One down, ninety-nine to go.

Pinwheels, Rainbows, and Rings

Pinwheels, Flowers, Flagstones, Concrete, Steps, Kennels, Grey chiffon, Rainbows, Colorful spines, Shirtsleeves, Extreme Bocce, Pizza, Blue Hat, Flat shoes, Poker, Cheese tray, Lemonade, Rain delay, Parking, Chipotle, Beer, Wine, Booze, Dog poo, Picnics, Veggies, Chickens, Kitchen, Toilets, Paint, Shelves, Freezer, Pepsi, Bilbo Baggins, Rings, Tents, Favors, Bowing out, Music, Elves, Umbrellas, Tableclothes, Chairs, Fonts, Stamps, Sanding, Citronella, Chiggers, Mosquitos, Parents, Hotels, Honeymoon, Passports, Bonfire, S'mores, Hot dogs, Printers, Steps, Dancing, String bands, Mad-libs, Scrabble, Dishes, Officiant, Stain, Friends, Candy, Jam, Ring Bears, Programs, Flower girls, Help, Money, Marriage, Love, Life, Lists.

Being in Love with Love

Only... I'm not. In love with love, that is. Love is infuriating, and maddening, and totally insane. It makes one do things that in any other situation one would avoid. It causes a total breakdown of "life as we know it." It robs one of independence. It takes no interest in things like reason and logic. Like any good adversary, love is sneaky. It finds the weakest points in any fiercely independent woman's armor, and sits, waiting for the right time to strike. And when it does, it catches her completely off guard. Suddenly, she is standing in the shower, or having a slice of 'za, or falling asleep, and those words just fall out of her mouth before she can stop them, and there it is -- Love -- sitting there, all mushy and awkward, putting a puddle of sentimentality between this formerly solitary individual and the rest of the world. Dammit.

Those words come out, and, since they are now out in the universe, must be assessed. Enter the miles and months-long questionaire: Is this guy fun to be around? Does he get along with my family? How about my friends? Do we get along when we are alone? Does he make me want to rip out my hair? Does he make me want to rip off his clothes? Is he willing to watch the kind of movies I like, or at least leave me alone long enough to watch them? Do I like him? ...and on it goes. Of, course, it would be better to have done all of this assessment BEFORE those fateful words slipped out, but sometimes, since love is a sneaky little bastard, we haven't got around to it yet. Usually, no matter how one loves another, there is a fatal flaw; Perhaps the wrong answer to one of the questions listed above, or sometimes just a dawning realization that this is not the guy with whom you want to spend forever. Then comes the inevitable break-up, and sometimes the break-down that tags along.

Love is much like the lottery: it's a tax on people who can't do math. A vast majority of the time, the person with whom one falls in love is the wrong person, it's the wrong time, or there is some other insuperable barrier to the relationship working. But, very, very occasionally, the person with whom one falls in love is the right person, in the right time, and with just the right circumstances.

Being a creature of reason, it floors me to realize that I may have beaten the statistical odds and actually found "Mr. Right."
 
I have been with  "Mr. Appropriate," "Mr. Super-duper,"and "Mr. If-only-it-were-another-time," each of whom is wonderful in his own right, and some of whom are still dear friends to me. But, to have found the person who compliments me right now, in all ways, is astounding. It makes love--the ultimate impracticality--practical, logical, and perfectly reasonable. Woo-hoo! Go me!

................. I guess that's why I'm getting married .................

The time has come...

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


Nearly every day since Favourite Person popped the question, I have had this bit of poetry run through my mind. There are so many things that must be considered, discussed, and decided. I am a person who is generally capable of juggling tasks, and keeping things organized when necessary, and yet, I am daunted by the idea of throwing a wedding. I have attempted to think of it as just an overgrown party, but what party requires two fully prepared venues within a couple hours? So, then I pull out my stage manager hat, and attempt to view it as a giant theatrical production. But the stage manager gets to farm out most of the visual decision-making, and just get down to the making it happen, and a bride seems not to get that luxury. So, I have decided just to put on my big-girl panties and dig in, intimidation be damned.

FP thinks that because I never thought I'd get married, and so didn't have a "dream wedding" in mind, that it should be relatively simple to put an event together. I argue that because I haven't had a "dream wedding" in mind, I am starting from scratch, and that takes much more effort. Perhaps it is a boy-girl perception issue. I think that FP hears "I didn't have planned" as "I don't really care" which, of course, couldn't be farther from the truth. Since we are getting married, and elopement is off the table, I now plan to have a delightful, fun, and beautiful day to show off to my nearest and dearest. I just have to figure out how to make that happen.

Contrary to what seems like the norm, I am trying to incorporate as many of Favourite Person's ideas as possible. It is his day at least as much as mine, and maybe more, since he's been thinking about it longer. Because I don't have a picture already set in my head, when he throws out an idea, however unusual or crazy it may seem, it fills in some of the gaps. The image that is shaping up is turning out to be equal parts him and me, and since a wedding is supposed to be a ceremony of joining two people into one life, that seems appropriate.