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.
When Andy took me to Hawaii for a friend’s wedding, I figured the wedding would be the worst part. I am not a fan of weddings. And then I met Andy’s parents (see posts 2, 3, and 4).
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)