Why I don't work at Hallmark.

I've been writing thank-you notes for wedding gifts. As one lady working the bridal registry at a big-box retailer pointed out to me, "You have to write thank yous after your wedding or nobody will give you baby gifts!"

Ugh.

I'm a writer. And I am a huge fan of the hand-written thank-you note. So, this should be easy for me. However, it's getting really old. I've written about 40 notes. I have 21 to go ... not that I'm counting. And My Guy? He's written 4.

I refuse to write the cards to his family. Just on general principle.

Writing so many thank yous has me getting a bit slap happy. While there are certain people who will appreciate receiving a note with a touch of delirium in it, most of these cards need to be fairly straight.

I've started fantasizing about what I'd really like to say.

Oh, yeah.

Dear My Friend's Lunatic Boyfriend,

We had a nice wedding even though you were there. However, we will never understand why you refused to leave your gift at the gift table and instead insisted on interrupting My Guy moments before the ceremony to hand him the gift personally. Considering the gift was a photo of us standing in a parking lot? We are not impressed.

I'm glad my friend is happy but, for a myriad of reasons, the girls kind of wish you'd drop dead.

Love,
Cha Cha

Whoo! That felt good!

Dear Cheap-Ass Coworker,

It's totally a cute idea to give cake pans and a cake mix together as a gift. And your handmade card had a cake on it, too. Cute! But considering that the cake mix is for two cake rounds and you only gave us one round cake pan that was not at all expensive? Now, I just think you suck.

Love,
Cha Cha

Totally on a roll ...

Dear My Guy's Aunt and Uncle,

You gave us paper mache orbs that have sayings on them like "Peace" and "Harmony." I'm so glad you were able to take advantage of that clearance sale at Kirklands. My Guy and I refer to your gift as "Jesus Bocce Ball."

Love,
Cha Cha

Whew. Like a refreshing sorbet, that totally just cleansed my palate.

A grouchy bride by any other name ...

So. I did not change my name when I got married. No new last name. No hyphen. Still the same old Cha Cha.

My last name is super, super common, so it wasn't about keeping the name alive. It was more about keeping me alive. Everything is changing ... my name didn't need to.

My Guy? Not super thrilled. But supportive. I can dig that.

My parents? A bit befuddled. They asked me a few weeks after the wedding if I'd really kept my name. When I answered yes? Complete and total silence.

Umm ... thanks?

But for the most part? It's been no big deal. The worst of it?

Let's say you're a huge big-box retailer who makes a pretty penny on bridal registries. You were already on my list because you sent me an e-mail at 4 p.m. the day of my wedding, telling me to hurry up and buy stuff from my registry that wasn't purchased for us. The day of the wedding!

But I digress.

So, let's say you throw a gigantic Fulfill Your Registry You Crazy Bridal Bitches Event. And the store is closed and only brides and their bored husbands can get in.

As a very generous gift to my husband, I attended this insanity alone. I checked in so I could trade in my nasty, dog-molested comforter. The guy at the door smiled at me. "What's your married name?"

So I told him. And then I ... umm ... got what is for me a little snotty, but for normal humans is probably still insanely polite. "I didn't change my name."

He couldn't find me. The other lady walked over. She couldn't find me, either. They asked My Guy's name. They looked for him ... and found him.

They'd filed my registration - for which I had RSVPed, with my name - under my husband's name.

Bed Bath and Beyond? While I'm thrilled you replaced the comforter that my dogs destroyed? I sort of hate your guts for being so fucking stupid. It's 2011. I am not the first woman who kept her name. And if I personally RSVP for your stupid event? The name I give you is probably the name I'm going to give you again when I show up. Just a heads-up.

You make millions of dollars every year from weddings, which are an etiquette minefield. You might consider brushing up on your Emily Post.

The royal wedding: a primer.

Kate? You and I have a lot in common, both being April brides and all. Honestly? I’m really glad that it’s been more than two weeks since my wedding. It’s only fair that the hubbub around my day has worn off a bit so that you can have your own day in the sun. I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous, but I thought I’d share what I learned during my wedding. You know, so you can make the most of your big day.

Wear flats. Seriously. I wore these Borns and my feet felt happy all night.
Take a nap. I snoozed for about an hour before I started getting my hair and make-up done. It was cool. Otherwise? My parents and I would just have been sitting around looking at each other and being nervous. While I slept, my dad watched Indiana Jones and The Raiders of the Lost Ark. Everybody wins.

Try to talk to everyone. They got dressed up and got babysitters and bought a gift for you.

Try to thank everyone, especially the waitstaff and DJ and all those other folks that often get overlooked but are critical to a successful wedding. One of the best hugs I got all night was from the woman who waited on us during dinner. I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her home.

Make peace with the crazy. I don’t mean to make assumptions about your family or the royal clan, buuuuuut … let’s say you’re me. And a fair number of your extended family has outed themselves as batshit crazy in the last, oh, 10 years. These people will be at your wedding. And batshit crazy generally doesn’t take a holiday, even for important events like weddings. Leave it be. Smile graciously in the face of the batshit crazy, and know that you will have lots to laugh about later with your groom.

Be prepared for the bridal suite. No, I’m not talking about sexytime. I’m talking about snacks and slippers and utensils. Because you will be starving. And even if you’ve been wearing flats, you’ll be delighted to be reunited with your slippers.

Admit defeat early. Know that you cannot host a freakin’ brunch the day after the wedding. Luckily, many wise women advised me that I was smoking crack if I attempted such a thing, and they were right. The day after the wedding, My Guy and I lounged about in the hotel room, eating wedding cake and watching Major League on cable TV. It was perfect. And I had zero desire to see anyone or talk to anyone or smile at anyone except my new husband.

Have fun. When everybody says it goes so fast? Dude. They are so, so right. So be in the moment. And make it fun. We made our grand entrance to Neil Diamond’s “America.” And one of my favorite moments was hearing the low intro build and build … and then hearing my brother cackle in recognition and approval. Was it perfect by magazine standards? Hell no. Was it perfect for us?

Well, my auntie drew an X on my ring finger with a ballpoint pen so that My Guy would know which finger the ring went on.

My Guy flubbed his vows, and so tagged on that he promised to trip over words during important public speeches.

I held my dad’s hand so tightly that he’s just now regaining feeling.

Our sweet officiant got emotional and lost his place in the ceremony.

We were absolutely overwhelmed by the love and support and joy of the people who came out to support us.
So, yes. Yes, it was perfect for us.
Kate? May you also be so lucky.

Deer caught in headlights.

Don't tell me you don't see the resemblance.

Photographic evidence to follow, I promise!

You know that scene from A Christmas Story when Ralphie's dad goes to the basement to battle the furnace? And you hear a bunch of profanity, and the voiceover says, "Some men work in oils or clay. My old man's medium was profanity?"

So, that sort of describes my dad, too. My brother and I were exposed to colorful vocabulary from a young age. This probably explains why BFF remembers me as being the very first person she ever knew to drop the f-bomb. Seventh grade, baby.

All of this just provides background for why I cussed walking down the aisle at my wedding.

So, I was dressed. And my dad drove me to the venue, and we sat in the car from a few blocks away so we could watch people going in and gauge when was a good time to make our grand entrance.

We parked the car. We got out of the car. And then we stood in the entryway.

The staff at the venue was all lined up, smiling at us. I had my arm draped in the crook of my dad's arm, and my hand holding his. I guess really, really holding his. Like, cutting off the circulation. He asked if he wanted to hold my hand like that while we walked down the aisle.

I heard the beginning of The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows," the official Seating of the Mamas song, and I felt a strange, emotional twinge. I told my dad that yes, I did want to hold his hand.

I felt calm about marrying My Guy, but I also had this weird anxiety.

Then the processional started. Of course, it was "Don't Stop Believin'."

We started walking.

My Guy and I got married in the round, so all the guests were in a U-shape, facing me as I walked in. The first person I saw was BFF, who promptly put her hand over her mouth and got teary. Then I saw My Guy. Then I realized that allllll these people were loooooooking at meeeee.

I turned to my dad. "Oh, SHIT!"

But we kept walking. And I started crying.

At one point, I started to move my bouquet to hide my face, but then decided that no, that was a bad idea. I was crying for the whole world to see. Maybe my makeup was running. Maybe my fake eyelashes were now stuck to my chin. I had no way of knowing, and nowhere to hide. It was like that dream where you realize you're naked. Except I was wearing a 20-pound wedding dress.

But then we got married and it turns out that my makeup didn't run at all and instead of looking like a giant goob, I just looked like a bride who was happy and in love.

And about the cussing? My dad's comment after the fact was the best.

"Well, you ARE MY daughter."

And then?

And ... we got married!

And there's so much to write about that I don't even know where to begin. Here's the Cliff Notes version:

• I cussed while walking down the aisle. Yes, I'm classy like that.
• The ceremony was absolutely incredible.
• Lots of people traveled a long, long way to be with us.
• Some stuff was funny.
• Some family was insane.
• We've been hiding from the world for a week.
• We moved all of the furniture out of my house and have been unpacking our new house.
• I wouldn't necessarily recommend moving as a honeymoon activity, but it works.

I'll post stories and details. But for now? Here's one of my favorite photos, with a caption courtesy of My Guy.
Cha Cha 5 minutes after the wedding. Letting herself go in record time.*

*For the record? My Guy brought my beloved slippers to the hotel. He obviously knows my idea of luxury.

The final countdown!

T-minus 44 hours!

The parents are here. The last-minute details are being addressed. And holy crap, we're getting married on Saturday.

Yippee!

We aren't having any attendants - I figured it was a gift I could give my friends. However, I think there will be one rogue attendant.

Most people think of this when they hear the term "flower frog."

But I think at our wedding, the term will conjure something more like this.

!Viva la Krampus!

Non-Krampus image courtesy of replacements.com, which is an awesome site if you love some vintage tableware. Seriously.

Know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em.

In the last few days, My Guy and I have been finalizing the music for our wedding. The best part? The groom's dance with his mama.

My Guy asked his mom what song she'd like to dance to. She thought on it. And then she decided: "You Light up my Life" by Debby Boone.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know the song, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

"You light up my days and fill my nights with song."

Umm?

My Guy called his mom back, and she answered the phone by proclaiming, "We can't dance to that song! I looked up the lyrics!"

But she had a back-up: "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof.

Whatever makes Mama happy. That's fine.

Except that My Guy didn't really know that song either, so he YouTubed it and looked up the lyrics.

And then he felt like slitting his wrists.

Now, he's trying to convince his mom that a little Kenny Rogers is more appropriate and less suicide-inducing. He's pushing "Through the Years."

Personally? I'm holding out for "The Gambler." But whatever makes Mama happy.

In which I laugh hysterically.

Like a rabid hyena.

So ... my future father-in-law is randomly inviting people to the rehearsal dinner. The rehearsal dinner that he's not hosting and is in no way involved, except as a guest. A probable guest, as we had received no confirmation that he was actually attending.

Bwah ha! Ha ha ha!

My Guy set him straight and told me, "I'm starting to think my family is mentally deficient."

Har har har! Bwah ha ha ha ha!

I am so ready for this wedding business to be over.

That's the news for now.

I have not been blogging. Instead, I'm getting married in less than two weeks. Two weeks from today, I will be a married woman, and may commence Letting Myself Go. Woo-hoo!

I initially pictured blogging leading up to the big day as a way to commemorate all the little details and record for posterity the joy of being engaged. Instead? I've been not blogging as a way to take one thing off my to-do list in hopes of salvaging what little sanity I have left.

I think I'm over the hump, though. My mom came to visit this weekend and we talked through the ever-troublesome guest book table, picture display, post-reception clean-up, and, of course, the RSVPs. I believe there's a light at the end of the nuptial tunnel. I feel so much better. And, better yet? We got our new bed delivered. When My Guy rolls over 27 times in the night, I no longer get flung across the room. Words cannot describe what this has done for my outlook.

Now that I'm well-rested, I can see the humor in my future father-in-law e-mailing less than two weeks before the wedding, asking what he's supposed to wear and complaining that the hotel wouldn't give him the promotional rate even though he had heart surgery three weeks ago ... surgery we didn't know about and might not have actually occurred. And My Guy's cousins who RSVPed with their kids, who weren't invited? Yeah, they're sort of funny now, too. Sort of. I guess I have a little perspective. Here's what I know so far:

• Once you've booked your vendors and bought your dress? Looking at bridal magazines and wedding porn Web sites does nothing but stress you out. Stop. It.


• One of the key duties of parenthood - second only to potty training - is to teach your offspring to RSVP. Entire tribes of our families didn't RSVP - telling me that the ability to RSVP starts at home. Mamas? Heed my warning. Teach 'em young, lest you incur the wrath of a future bride, who will send you a cheerful e-mail enquiring about wedding attendance, but really? She will have voodoo dolls of you and your kin.


• The bridal freak-out is not rational. Case in point? I had a minor mental breakdown in the frame section of Joann: Experience the Creativity! yesterday. Standing in a 20-person line to get some fabric cut didn't faze me. But having to choose a picture frame in which to display adorable photos of myself and My Guy through the years? Overwhelming! People will judge me and our wedding and my ability to be an even marginally acceptable wife if I choose inappropriate frames! And I knew I was being crazy. I did. But it happened anyway.

And ... that's about it. So far. Hopefully, I'll learn more stuff in the next 13 days. I'll keep you posted.

It's the final countdown!

My Guy and I are getting married one month from today. Hurray!

I believe he is most excited because it means a hopeful end to my complete and total bitchitude. I ain't gonna lie - I don't think I'm a terribly fun person to live with at the moment. Not that I'm totally off my rocker ... but it's like having a maybe kinda sorta cold. You're just not quite right.

However, I think it's important to learn from each other. So, here's what I've learned.

1. People are crazy.

1a. As part of this crazy, people are completely ill-equipped to deal with the demands of the RSVP responsibility. They are also blind to the concept of only the people whose names are on the envelope are the people who are invited. I could write a month's worth of posts on this particular topic and how it has made me want to cause physical harm to various folks. But I will just keep it to this one paragraph lest I have an aneurysm.

1b. As part of this crazy, people also forget that as the bride and groom, you are on a need-to-know basis and are suffering information overload. We don't need to know the full medical report on a family friend and her tumor. Right now? Right now, we just need to know whether she's coming or not. No report with mention of mucus, any ladyparts, or medical billing is necessary.

1c. As part of this crazy, people also forget the opposite side of the need-to-know-basis coin. That side is called If You're the Parent of the Bride or Groom and You a) Need a Hysterectomy and b) Schedule That Hysterectomy for Three Days After the Wedding, You Should Tell Us, and Not Via E-mail at the Bottom of a Long Message About RSVPs, Like Getting Your Ladyparts Removed is an Afterthought.

I know this is tricky, especially with the rule in 1b about ladyparts. This is an exception to the ladyparts rule. Future MIL? I'm lookin' at you.

1d. As part of this crazy, people also start sending you gifts. My Guy and I? We didn't do shit, man. But we're getting dishes! And today we opened the most gorgeous Le Creuset tea kettle. I almost wet myself.

Tea has never tasted so good. It makes me look a tad more kindly to data points 1a - 1c.

Image courtesy of Amazon. Perhaps you've heard of it.

Why I started taking Ativan again.

We're five weeks out and the wedding planning has shifted into high gear. This is the easy answer to why I haven't been writing lately. The perhaps more honest, definitely uglier reason is that I only have stressed out, borderline-Bridezilla things to write.

The good: I had the final fitting for my dress. It is amazing. I also had a run-through for my hair, and it, too, is amazing.

The bad: I am still coming to terms with the fact that maybe I shouldn't attempt to host a day-after brunch for out-of-town family since we're still living in a hobo camp with no real furniture. Or if I do, I need to accept that it will mean seating people in the garage, and cleaning out the garage might be more than I can handle right now.

The ugly: The RSVPs.

Oh, sistah.

My Guy's aunt can't come because one of her grandsons has a guitar solo in a junior high band concert the night of the wedding. She's really torn up about it, but the junior high concert won out.

But the first RSVP my mom opened? Was from that aunt's son. It was an RSVP for himself, his wife, and their three children. Three children whose names were not on the envelope because they aren't invited because at $50 a head, we're not inviting kids. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you can perform at a junior high band concert and attend a wedding simultaneously.

I told My Guy he needed to address the situation. He looked at me and said he couldn't think about it right now, but maybe we should have been clearer on the invitations. This suggestion had me dousing our house in gasoline, lighting a cigarette, tossing the match, and then walking away all slow like, just like in the movies.

Umm, also? I think I might have said that only white trash don't know that the names listed on the envelope are the only people invited. Which might mean that I inadvertently referred to his kin as white trash.

Sigh.

Help me. Tell me something besides "calm the fuck down." Tell me it's worth it, tell me what got you through this insanity. Don't tell me to elope. Because much like rewording the invites*? That ship has sailed.

* Also? What sort of invitation wording would that be, anyway? "We request the honor of your presence - but just you, not your damned kids - as we vow our undying love to each other - but just to each other, definitely not to your damned kids."

Yes, I do have a future as a wedding planner.

My Guy and I are getting married in less than two months. And I'm pretty sure I haven't turned into Bridezilla - yet.

Tonight, we spent about five minutes trying to figure out why we missed 30 Rock last week. What in the world were we doing that we missed Liz breaking up with Matt Damon? What could possibly be that important?

Oh, right. We were buying wedding bands.

Late. Because eight weeks might not be enough when you have a freakishly small finger and have to have your ring not sized, but custom-made.

Oh well. If it isn't done in time, the lady promised they'd give us a loaner ring.

And yesterday, when I went to the post office to buy stamps for the invitations?

Well, I figured I'd buy the LOVE stamps. But funny thing - you can't really buy LOVE stamps on Valentine's Day - they were sold out. Color me surprised.

Now, I don't know about your post office, but my post office is staffed entirely by Tired Black Ladies Who Have Had Enough. They are generally intimidating as they look over their glasses at you, like they just know that you've got both liquids AND perishables in that box, and don't even try to pretend otherwise, missy.

But yesterday? TBLWHHE #1 suggested I go for the wedding band stamps in lieu of the LOVE stamps. There was no one else in the post office, so she wasn't quite as tired and over it as usual.

Wedding ring stamps? Could I be so stereotypical?

Yeah, whatever. They're stamps. Big deal.

Except ... TBLWHHE #1 didn't have enough stamps - she needed Tired Black Lady Who Has Had Enough #2 to come off break to get more out of the safe, and TBLWHHE #2 wasn't done with her break yet, thank you.

Now, pretty much everything you read about wedding planning says not to sweat the small stuff. So I tried it yesterday.

"Well, maybe I could go halvsies with the rescue animal stamps."

TBLWHHE #1 looked at me over her glasses. "Are you kidding me?"

"Umm, well, I like animals ..."

At this point, TBLWHHE #1 lost her shit, and called out to TBLWHHE #2. "Girl, are you kidding me? She wants shelter animals on her wedding invitations. Wedding invitations!"

At this point, TBLWHHE #2 had to come off her break early to join in. "What? Are you serious?"

TBLWHHE #1 was serious as a heart attack. "Uh-hmm."

At this point, I could feel myself turning beet red. But at least I was laughing as TBLWHHE #2 came back from the safe with the wedding ring stamps. "Honey, you put shelter animals on your wedding invites, ain't nobody gonna open 'em." Then, she turned to her co-worker. "Shelter animals? On wedding invitations? Woo-wee!"

I thanked the ladies for keeping me on the right track. And then I sat in my car and wondered how a bride could be so inept.

Later, though, I was reminded yet again that I am marrying totally the right man. I regaled My Guy with the tale of the stamps. His reaction?

"They're fucking stamps! Nobody gives a shit!"

Which I thought was hilarious and grounding and wonderful. Maybe when this is all over, we can start our own wedding planning business and call it Nobody Gives a Shit Weddings. Because as long as you're hitched, the food doesn't suck, and the drinks are free? Nobody gives a shit.

AmIright?

Gettin' ready to get all married.

My wedding dress came in. Six weeks early. Crazy, huh?

So, Saturday morning, my friend A. and I trekked to the bridal salon, where I put on The Dress. Since I ordered it in August, I'd started to have ... not second thoughts, but doubts. Was it really the right dress? Did I really look OK in it?

Well, rest assured - all is well. I look good.

My veil was in, too, so I tried on the whole ensemble, and we played a bit with jewelry. I feel confident that I'm going to look like me, but me on a really, really good hair day.

My entire look will be pretty, umm, classic, even with my own funky touches. Of course, I'm basing this "classic" judgment on my most recent addiction: Married to Rock.

Yeah, they're married to rock stars. Yeah, one of 'em just had a fancy wedding, where she entered the ceremony via a giant tulle-swathed swing from the roof of a nearby building. And yeah, her bridesmaids did wear large, Hello Kitty pendant necklaces.

Like I said? My wedding will be soooo booooooring.

But Married to Rock? Well, I've been a little disappointed in Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It. His kids are just too messed up for me to fully lose myself in the show. But Married to Rock? It's nothing but sweet, sweet collagen lips and pretty decent - if disproportionate - boob jobs. And I don't feel a need to find any of the families portrayed a good child psychologist.

Thanks to Married to Rock, I've learned about rocker post-tour depression, and the special burdens of being a rock wife. I've also learned that a proactive way to keep groupies at bay is to FedEx your husband a life-sized doll in your likeness.

Well, it would have worked had FedEx not lost the doll. But it's still a valuable pointer that I'll carry with me in my marriage.

Image courtesy of eonline.com

Where are they now: Cha Cha's hair edition.

Long-time readers might recall the ongoing struggles with my luscious tresses. Growing out a pixie into a bob? It's not for the faint of heart.

It seemed to be stuck in a 70s Marcia Wallace phase for a long, long time.

And then when it started to grow out? I looked like I was livin' on a prayer. Total 90s Jon Bon Jovi.

Then? I got a haircut that instead of being a trim ended up being more of a maintenance cut. And it looked like 70s Marcia Wallace. Again.

I was going for the Linda Evangelista. Instead, I ended up with more of a Shaun Cassidy.

For a while, I got high on my heady hair-growing prospects. I wanted Cher Hair! I was going to have hair down to my butt! It was going to be glorious!

And then I remembered that my hair is freakishly thick and the one time in my life when I actually had Cher Hair, it took an hour to blow dry.

I do not have that sort of time. So I changed my focus instead to more of a Louise Brooks bob.

I believe I am finally - finally! - growing out the pesky layers that make the right side of my hair flip into origami shapes. Which is good, because as my Crazy Stylist says? I no longer have hair. I have Engaged Hair.

No, I'm not getting extensions so I can have some craptastic up-do at the wedding. But each haircut now seems to have greater weight. One false move and my Engaged Hair could go horribly wrong! And I could end up with Bad Wedding Hair.

It's a lot of responsibility.

My sacred haircut today turned out to be super interesting. Now, Crazy Stylist (you know, the one who blew off all conversation about the presidential election with a breezy, "Oh, honey, I can't vote - I'm a felon!")? She was talking to somebody when I got to the salon.

Somebody with really, really bad hair - like, two inches of dark roots and a bad home blond dye job. Somebody who ... uh ... wouldn't leave.

Yes. My hair salon was overtaken by a crack whore who wanted to use the bathroom, then wouldn't leave, then was convinced that her ride a) wouldn't know where to pick her up; and b) didn't have her phone number.

So, she kept calling the ride, asking the guy if he had her phone number, and verifying that he would be there to pick her up at 5:43. Not 5:45, not 5:40. But 5:43. And then she'd hang up, then start asking the folks in the salon where she was, because she didn't know if her ride had her phone number, then calling him to ask if he had her phone number and if he was going to pick her up at 5:43 because, and I quote, "I just got my hair done." Then she'd wonder if he had her number.

Finally, everybody in the salon was like, "He's got your fucking number!"

And then she was asked to wait outside. Then she was asked to wait outside not blocking the door of the salon. And then a car pulled up and she tried to get in - only to find that it was the husband of one of the stylists, picking his wife up from work. With their baby. And a crack whore tried to get in the car.

Forget Nancy Reagan. Forget "This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs." You want an effective anti-drug campaign? Spend some time with a woman who is so strung out she thinks she just got her hair done because she took a dump in a salon bathroom.

But my hair looks good. Still on track for Wedding (read: non-sucky) Hair. Over and out.

I really need my own show on HGTV.

Last week, in the midst of my real estate meltdown, it occurred to me that when all this home selling and home buying is done, I should become a hoarder. It's like the opposite of having your house staged - you have lots of stuff, and you see all of it all the time! Win-win!

Flawed planning? Perhaps.

But now? Now, I realize that it's not that I love tons of stuff. It's that I like to see the beauty in the real, in the flawed.

Yeah, I got your flea market finds and your stray dogs right here.

And having a staged house is not about being real or flawed. It's about living a lie, pretending that I am one of Those People who makes their bed every morning and never leaves dishes in the sink.

Secret admission? Sometimes? When I leave dishes in the sink? I think, "Yay! This is my house, and I can leave the dishes in the sink if I want to. Bwah-ha!" And there's beauty in that, too.

My Guy and I saw a house yesterday that is a) for sale; b) way, way, way within our budget; and c) old and tiny and lovely. I'm seeing the beauty - the huge backyard, the possibilities for adding another garage, the amazing, original architectural details. I'm thinking about making due with the teensy ugly kitchen until we could remodel. I'm focusing on the beauty, not necessarily the functionality and the practicality.

But is that so bad?

When I can't find my shoes because our stuff is distributed amongst four tiny closets? Yeah, it might be bad. But isn't starting married life together all about seeing the beauty and the potential?

And no, neither of our houses have sold, so no, we couldn't make an offer on Old and Tiny and Lovely House tomorrow. But, it's good to be prepared. Right?

Sailing into the sunset in my gravy boat.

Thank you all for the bridal registry suggestions - they have been suuuuper helpful! I love hearing what makes people happy. And if you want more awesome suggestions, hop over to Sweet Tea and Sunshine - Sherilee's readers had some great ideas, too. I would be hating life if I forgot to register for an ice cream maker, and Sherilee saved me. Thank you!

The whole china / no china debate is interesting. I love china, mostly because it's pretty - not because I have a china-using debutante lifestyle. However, the big reason why I'm not registering for china is because I have my grandma's set.

When my grandparents were moving out of the home they'd lived in for 40 years and into an assisted living facility, my grandma had a few things she was very particular about. And one of those things was that I would get her china.

I was 26 and shacking up with Ex-Ex at the time. Maybe Grandma knew he was a loser who would never marry me. Or maybe she knew that I was the one person in the family who would truly treasure the china. At any rate, it became mine.

The pattern has tiny pink and pale green flowers on it. As a youngun', I used to think it was sort of weird to have pink plates. But, then Grandma had a pink bathroom, too.

But the really weird thing? I started collecting vintage kitchen items - in pink. And my kitchen? I painted it a pale green. Without intending such a thing, I designed my kitchen around my grandma's china - the plates that she used all the time because she loved to feed her family.

I figured out in about fifth grade that the secret to eating at Grandma's was to take freakishly small portions so that you would always have room for seconds. Otherwise, both of my grandparents would assume that the food wasn't to your liking, or that you were sick. If my grandpa was serving, you had to tell him "when" early, knowing that he'd put an extra dollop on your plate.

My family still jokes, "More beans? I can heat up some more rolls. How about another piece of pie?" at pretty much every meal. It's endearing to us that these two people were so focused on nurturing the people they loved. It's even more meaningful when you think that they started their married life during the Depression, on a farm in western Kansas - my 19-year-old grandma, her groom ... and his three teen-aged brothers.

So, when I tell you that she could stretch some bread crumbs and a can of peaches into a feast? You know I'm telling you the truth.

And that's why I, personally, am not registering for china. I already have the most precious set imaginable.

Decision 2010.

It's election night and the results are pouring in. This is the perfect opportunity to have an intellectual conversation about the two-party system in America, what truly impacts voter turn-out, and the role of the media in our governmental system.

But that's for somebody else's blog.

Here? Here, I need your input on Decision 2010. And by Decision 2010, I mean figuring out my bridal registry.

Now, I had a few friends who were all, "Are you even going to register? Do you need stuff?"

The gracious Cha Cha responds to this with a friendly hug and an explanation that every bride wants to set up a beautiful household for her new husband.

The deranged spinster Cha Cha cackles and notes that she's typically been spending all of her extra cash on cat food and housecoats, not on platters and other servingware, so yeah, she's gonna register.

And bitter but popular Cha Cha? She recounts all of the bridal shower gifts, bachelorette gifts, wedding gifts, baby shower gifts, and baby gifts that she has lavished upon her friends. And she cackles with delight and thinks, "You owe me, bitches! And I'm registering for some nice shit, too!"

I'm a nice person. Really, I am.

But it's time to register. And I'm at a bit of a loss.

We aren't registering for china. And I know we'll register for The Object of My Desire, aka a KitchenAid stand mixer. But other than that? Umm?

So, spill it. What kitchen or household item has been the most awesome item in your arsenal? What cookware do you recommend? And what did you think you couldn't live without ... only to find that, dude, you totally don't need it at all?

I need a new turkey baster. But I think that I will probably need to register for more stuff besides a mixer and a turkey baster. Just sayin'.

Help a girl out. What do you love?

Gratuitous photo Friday.

Cute, isn't he? I think I'll marry him.

Also? My Guy gets triple points for moving tables, organizing wayward relatives, and generally kicking ass and taking names at Poochie's wedding. What a gift.

Plus? He's so cute!

Because the people demand satisfaction!

So ... Poochie's wedding.

Was lovely. Obviously.

The day was warm and sunny. Everybody was happy. I did a pretty OK job of officiating. I got sunburned, which was awesome since my dress had an asymmetrical neckline. I now have one pink boob and one pale boob.

And now I understand why so many wedding blogs are mostly pictures with very little text. It's hard to explain the hubbub of the day. Our sweet neighbors - who are kind of like grandparents to me and Poochie - were there, smiling and laughing. The rowing club held oars up for the happy couple - who met rowing - to walk through. We enjoyed Dutch letters - yummy pastries filled with almond paste - in lieu of cake.

And Poochie? Was so, so happy. Which made me happy.

You can see more photos here. If you need a photographer in central Iowa, call Allison. She was wonderful. Obviously.

Photo #1 courtesy of the tourists who snapped a pic with Poochie's iPhone. Photo #2 courtesy of Allison Marie Photography.