The year before Andy and I got married, we went to nine weddings. Some were my friends, some were his friends, and some were mutual friends. My Chinese-American fiancé attended something like seven bachelor parties. Three were his closest friends: Salad, Pumpkin, and String Bean. Andy was String Bean’s best man, and he did String Bean’s party right – a boy’s night on the town, complete with pimp hat, handcuffs, and feather boa for the groom. Continue reading Alas for the Bachelor…Party (#60)
I grew up on football. Sunday dinners at my mom’s house consisted of popcorn and ice-cream when Washington, the Broncos, or the Giants were playing. (The only thing that united various parental units was a universal hatred of the Dallas Cowboys.) There are two good things about having a mass of siblings: 1) Increased likelihood of another sibling being blamed for your crimes, and 2) Enough family members for 6 v. 6 football.
Andy’s parents were not invited to the wedding. Hallelujah!
My parents weren’t the ones getting married. Double Hallelujah!
There would be dancing at the wedding, and I had a partner. I was, for once, Team Wedding. Continue reading Hair-curling Tales of the Red Envelope (#5)