The Friday wedding spesh: the gory details
Okay, so obviously as usual I have to maintain the mystique which means you don’t get to see ALL the shots (email me if you want any more), but I’ve picked out the best moments of our day for you to see. From the top, then:
Mable the Merc gets a pink moustache (thanks Moon!):
Moon and Ali being very silly, part 1. It took me about 14 increasingly cross texts to get them out of the pub, too:
The boogie down the aisle (thanks to my adorable niece Lu for these pics). For some reason I seem to have ‘the claw’ with me again. And corr I could seriously ‘out’ some anonymous bloggers with these photos… you know who you are!!!:
The beautiful cake, forever to be known as the ’6am cake’, as that’s the time she finished making it on the day. ‘One day, the full story of that bloody cake will come out’, said Jen’s other half. Oh, do tell! But seriously, how gorgeous is it? God job, Jen, good job (and there’s that claw again):
Our first dance:
Mad Uncle Ali whirling me around the dance floor (you know it’ll end in tears):
…’erm Alg, you’re going a bit fast…’:
The moment it all went horribly wrong (look at his face, he’s going ‘Sis, what are you doing down there?!’):
Two really ugly gatecrashers. Oh no, hang on, it’s Moon and Mad Uncle Alg being very silly, part deux. Moon later decided that to ensure his lift home didn’t leave without him he would steal Mrs Lovely’s shoes. Every time I saw him after that he was guarding the shoes zealously. It worked, though, they got him home, where me Ma was exasperated with the giggly silly buggering about. Kids, eh?:
And here I am wearing my wedding present from Disney. I couldn’t persuade Hubby to wear his top hat mickey ears, sadly:
Well, it wouldn’t have been the perfect day without a little Disney magic, now would it:
Reader, I married him.
So finally, the weekend of our wedding arrived. Through the last year of planning and plotting, I couldn’t have hoped for a more perfect time. We’ve mulled and reminisced and remembered and honestly, there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t go perfectly.
Here, then, for your viewing pleasure, are my top ten moments from the weekend:
- Friday evening. The arrival of a whole bunch of our friends and family from the UK who crowded into our house to eat, drink, catch up and basically be very silly. My two lovely mates from England, Clare and Rebecca with their other halves, along with my Ma, my big bruv, IJ the Cocktail King and his family, and Hubby’s family (who had to go and find a pub to have something to eat when the food ran out, bless ‘em), and the wonderful Moon (Usher/Driver/Photographer extraordinaire) made me laugh until I nearly died.
- THAT dance (email me if you want a link to the You Tube video). I did wonder, as I was waiting outside the church for my big entrance, whether I had, in fact, turned completely mental. There I was, a 39 year old Mum of two, dressed in sparkly lilac and tulle, standing waiting to dance down the aisle in front of my nearest and dearest and the (soon to be very bemused) locals. Luckily, it went down a storm.
- Craig’s amazing service. The wonderful Rambling Rural Rector did us proud. He just perfectly understood that we wanted a celebration of everything we hold dear: family, friends and fun. He pitched his address just right, making everyone laugh (and cry), and quoting from bits and pieces of my blog posts, which made everything so personal. Just bloody fabulous.
- The reception. Wonderful Laura from the Oldcastle House Hotel needs a medal. The girl has obviously had herself cloned, because everywhere we looked, she was there: a calm, smiling presence, topping up champagne glasses, organising every little detail and just making everything perfect. Christopher, the Head Chef, did us proud. The spread that he put on was nothing short of breathtaking. The seafood was utterly amazing (the salmon and the little crab timbale thingies were to DIE for!) and he even surprised some of the fussier kids with chicken and chips. I can’t fault the hotel in any way at all. If you get the chance, go there. You won’t be sorry. Even though we’re probably the first couple ever to request two extra beds in the honeymoon suite, it was absolutely magical – champagne on ice, chocolates, rose petals sprinkled all around… when we finally landed there at ridiculous o’clock in the morning, I could have cried, it was all just so perfect.
- The band. Eoghan and Amanda and their gang were just fantastic. From traditional Irish jigs and reels (which got us all up and jumping) to a heart-stopping version of the Cranberries’ ‘Linger’ for our first dance, they were amazing from start to finish. The boys and their mates danced and danced (and lasted right til the end!). The band were also, incidentally, still on the dance floor at 2am when Hubby and I finally gave up and crawled to bed. Worth every penny.
- Ali dumping me on my arse on the dancefloor. My mental brother whizzed me around so hard that I managed to step on my dress and fall over. Well, it gave everyone a laugh.
- Seán singing Raglan Road. One of the locals, Seán, took everyone by surprise by getting up and singing a traditional Irish song. His voice was stunning, the band knew exactly how to support him, and everyone had goosebumps. It was the most amazing moment and I’ll treasure the memory forever.
- The cake. Oh. My. God. The cake was fabulous. Sadly, I’ve only got one very wobbly pic of it, but when I’ve got more I’ll post them here. Poor Jen got to bed at something like 6am after working on it all night. Not only was it beautiful, it was yummy too. The zingy lime filling had everyone talking.
- The craic. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever laughed (or cried) so much. Moon, Mad Uncle Ali, Clare’s Hubby R and my brother IJ were on fine form and we just spent the whole day with tears pouring down our cheeks. The locals were just amazing, welcoming all our family and friends and showing them just how hospitable Irish people are. At one stage, I looked up to see Galway C whizzing my Ma around on the dance floor, and Seán dancing with Hubby’s Ma. We really are lucky to have such lovely neighbours.
- The comedown. By the early hours there was only Clare and her hubby, The Lovelies, Moon and the band left with us. We had the last half hour on the dance floor by ourselves and it really was one of the nicest bits of the evening – winding down, dancing and laughing.
There’s so many people to thank I don’t even know where to start, but I’ll have a go:
To our wonderful, generous neighbours, for being open minded and accepting of our slighly left-of-centre church service, and for welcoming our family and friends in your inimitable fashion.
To our beautiful bridesmaids, for looking so gorgeous and doing us proud with the dancing thing!
To our Mums, I think every time I turned round my Mum was cleaning up again.
To my Disreputable Dad (who kept his speech clean as promised). Well done, Dad!
To the Lovelies, Clare and Rebecca and D-next-door for being the bestest friends ever, we love you x
To Moon, who took on about ten roles and performed them all with a stream of dry one-liners that had us all in stitches. You’re the best x
To Jenny my hairdresser for our fabulous ‘up-dos’ and Mary the superflorist for listening to all my demands and providing exactly what we wanted.
To Jen for our amazing cake (Mad Uncle A completely fell in love with her too – he emailed me earlier and asked if I thought she might marry him. I think C might possibly have a few words to say about that)
To Laura at the Oldcastle House Hotel (thanks for the Moet too!) and Christopher the chef, plus their amazing team
To Craig, our Rambling Rural Rector, the kindest, gentlest, most generous man, for accepting us as we are and making our celebration so special. No words will ever be enough to let you know just how grateful we are for making our day so perfect and for opening up your heart (and your church!), for suggesting the big entrance and ‘going with the flow’! x
.. and finally to my beautiful boys who looked so handsome, were such amazing hosts and behaved so amazingly well the whole day and to my wonderful Husband. I’d do it all again tomorrow. I love you guys xx
There are more photos to come, but for now I’ll leave you with this. I love this pic. The beautiful Little Lovely when she finally collapsed, bolt upright, in a chair. Isn’t she gorgeous?
Making up is hard to do
So this wedding lark, then. You’re the bride (well, you’re not, I am, but you get my drift). You want to sashay down the aisle looking fabulous: a little bit Grace Kelly… a touch of Andrea Corr… and maybe just a teeny hint of Jessica Rabbit for good measure.
My hairdresser, the lovely Jen, has long been shaking her head at my lack of commitment to the little finishing touches for my big day. I mean, I’ve been good and everything: regular hair appointments (well, okay, my two inches of dark roots were a bit of a worry, but they’re gone now), conditioning treatments, little trims here and there to stave off those annoying split ends, but it’s the decision-making that foxes me. ‘You need to cut out some pictures’, she pleaded, for the fifty seventh time while I sat staring vacantly at my reflection at my last appointment, ’”can’t you just tie it back?” doesn’t really help me. And frankly, “can you make me look like Cameron Diaz at that works party she goes to in What Happens In Vegas?” is a hindrance, not a help’. The poor love waited so long for me to purchase a hair comb for my big day that she finally admitted defeat and went out and bought it herself.
And then there’s the make up. ‘I thought I’d just do it myself’, I muttered vaguely as she looked horrified over the top of my head. ‘No, no, absolutely not. You need a make-up artist. I shall give you a card’.
So this is how I came to be perched, yesterday, in a dark room in front of an intensely bright light with a lady concentrating fiercely upon my kisser. If you’ve never had professional make-up done I have to tell you that it feels weird and rather ridiculous. You sit with your eyes shut while the most bizarre sensations overcome you. First she slops on something wet with something squishy. Then there’s various brushes that fluff and stroke and buff and poke. Then you have to shut your eyes while she pokes at them with something vaguely wet and pointy. And then she appears to want to force a brush into your mouth while you have to fight her by keeping your lips all stiff and pouty. Bizzarre.
Half an hour of having someone breathe into your face (I hate that) later, and I was finished. I had, apparently, a ‘smoky eye, with highlighting to the brow, soft apricot cheeks and a slighly-darker-than-natural lip with a hint of gloss’. ‘Maybe you’d like to see it in natural light?’, she enquired.
Well, dearest reader, it was all I could do not to shout ‘HOLY SHIT!’ when faced with this oddly colourful stranger blinking at me from the mirror. My smoky eye seemed to be made entirely of blue glitter, while the ‘highlighting to the brow’ was silver and shiny, right the way up to, and including, my eyebrow, which had turned a strange shade of ginger. My lips were slathered in wet brown melted chocolate and my lashes were thick, black and clumped together. I can hardly bear to tell you how orange my entire face was. My apricot cheeks were a stripe of glittery orange curd and my entire face appeared to have been slathered in a layer of powdery Dijon mustard. My hairline was also strangely powdery and ginger while my neck remained porcelain white with a fast-growing hot red flush of embarrassment.
Well. I laughed. Then I got cross and then I shouted and hollered and gave her a right telling off. I damned well berated the young lady for her lack of talent and refused to pay the bill into the bargain.
Ahaha. Of course I didn’t. I thanked her profusely, told her how lovely it was, handed over my card, then scuttled off to my car where I realised, mortified, that I didn’t have time to go home and scrape it all off before I had to meet #1 from the bus stop. He stepped into the car, eyeing my complexion, now a stunning mixture of hot red and Dijon and you could almost hear the cogs whirring away inside his head. Obviously deciding that women were strange creatures and I’d actually meant to come and pick him up looking like I’d slathered myself in blue glitter and then fallen asleep under a sunbed, he settled for ‘erm… you look nice’.
We drove home in silence, my bottom lip commencing a tremble that increased as we neared home. I smiled ruefully at my poor, confused husband who promptly almost fainted. And that was it. The tears started to roll, leaving fat, white stripes down my orange face and dripping into little fluorescent pools onto my lap. After a comforting bear-hug and several packs of tissues, I felt almost human again. Forgetting for a moment that I was now covered in wet orange custard, smeared with glittery blue and black streaks, I resolved to do my own make-up after all.
I’d like to thank winner of the 3.55 at Fairyhouse…
So yesterday saw both me and Jen setting out on epic cross-Ireland journeys to meet somewhere in the middle (bad planning moving so far away from each other) at a hotel where we sat, gossiped, giggled – no, hang on, there was something else – oh yes, and rolled 85 Order of Service sheets into scrolls and tied them with 85 little bows of ‘To have and to hold’ ribbon from the luscious Cox & Cox.
Before I left, Jen produced a heeowge box (she’s only teeny and it was nearly as big as her) which she said was our wedding present and I was strictly instructed to open it as soon as I got home. Apparently, she said, it wasn’t exactly perfect and she was a bit disappointed, but still, it was a nice present anyway. Even after pointing out that we weren’t strictly getting married (‘okay, call it an anniversary present then’), I was deeply suspicious as Madame J was somewhat squeaky and excited about this present. I actually suspected it might be a chicken. A heavy chicken, granted… maybe a chicken and a couple of bricks.
Well, dearest reader, the journey home seemed to take the longest time and finally I pulled back up at English Towers where I was greeted by two small boys (and one large one) who totally ignored me and made a beeline for the pressie. ‘What is it?! Open it! Open it!’ So with the chicken thing still in my mind I made them open it in the kitchen and I think I’m quite within my rights here to write OMG. A KitchenAid! A bloody KitchenAid!!!
Apparently this incredibly generous present was somewhat attributable to the racing prowess of two horses that Jen’s other half C bet on. So thanks go not only to Jen and the lovely, adorable C (who chose the colour – I love it!) but to Mark Anthony and Swift View for coming in first. I love you guys horses.
‘So hang on’, says #1, ‘last week on your blog you said that you wished somebody would give you a KitchenAid and here you are unwrapping one’. ‘Erm…yes, I suppose you could say that’, says I. ‘Right then’, says #1, ‘I want you to put on your blog that I want a 50″ wide screen TV, online gaming and the new Call of Duty 6′.
‘Done’, says I, ‘but don’t hold your breath’.
Wedding planning for duffers
So in a couple of short weeks I shall be tripping up the aisle (not literally, fingers crossed) in our pretty little church to renew the vows I made fifteen years ago to love, honour and erm…look after my long-suffering Hubby. We’ve had our ups and downs – neither of us have been angels, but we’ve survived fifteen years without killing each other (it’s been close on occasions), produced two lovely sons and, as the eminently sensible Revd Craig pointed out, that’s got to be worth celebrating.
When he asked me this time last year if I’d consider doing him the honour (‘properly, this time – church… dress… party – the whole nine yards’) who knew that half the fun would be in the planning. I heartily recommend getting married (or remarried or blessed – don’t let the fact that you already have the ring stop you) quite a few years down the line in a relationship. Okay, so the downside is you have to pay for it yourself, and I’ll never make a wedding planner (‘what do you mean the Rally of Ireland is on the same day as the wedding and we can’t use the carpark as it’ll be stuffed full of rally cars?’) but the advantages are enormous. In fact, here are my top ten reasons for planning a wedding once you’re mature enough to make all the decisions:
1 The dress. Every girl knows it’s all about the dress. I had a bit of a false start here, purchasing a sensible, grown up cocktail dress from Monsoon then lying awake at night wishing I’d bought the wedding dress of my dreams. After all, you only get to walk down the aisle once, okay twice. And hey, if I want to do it wearing acres of pink tulle, looking like a cross between Katie Price and the Bride of Frankenstein, then it’s my shout. I don’t, but I reserve the right to.
2 The guest list. Don’t want to invite that maiden aunt with the moustache who frightens the children? Cross her off the list. Let’s face it, by the time you get to your forties (6 months to go before the big 4-0!) you know who your friends are and who they aren’t. We’re delighted that we’ll be spending the day surrounded by the people that we love, and who love us back, and not with the people we felt we had to invite.
3 The service. Now it helps here to have a good relationship with your clergyman. We, happily, are onto a winner. Want a relaxed, child-friendly, happy, intimate service with lots of music and fun? No problem. Craig’s suggestions and ideas have added so much to the ceremony that we just can’t wait. And the locals secretly can’t wait to get a shufty inside the C of I church either.
4 The details. ‘I want the church full of flowers!’, I said to the florist, presenting her with my lovingly-made collage cut from several hundred wedding magazines. ‘I’d love the scent of beautiful lilies, freesias and roses to hit the congregation as they walk in… and I want my bouquet to be huuuuge and smell gorgeous and be full of bright colours: pink and orange and lime green…’ [cue sound of needle screeching across record.] Okay, so my original remit for the florist might have been a little extravagant. Flowers are slightly expensive and the sound of Hubby’s sharp intake of breath when presented with the quotation was enough to send me scuttling back with a slightly amended version of my original flamboyant request. These things cost money, y’know. The advantage is that you know exactly what you want. Even if you can’t actually afford it.
5 The cake. Don’t like fruit cake? Bit of a fan of Ace of Cakes? Happen to have an incredibly talented friend who just happens to make the most fantastic cakes in the world? You’re onto a winner. Jen and I have spent many a happy hour discussing the merits of white chocolate sponge with raspberry filling versus dark chocolate sponge with a lime-scented ganache. In the end we decided we’d have a layer of each one we liked. See, when you’re grown up you can make those kind of decisions.
6 The music. The fantastic night we spent at JD’s wedding convinced us that their band was the only one we wanted. It didn’t matter that they’re based in Waterford, and that there’s six of them plus a ton of equipment to find room for. We had to have them, so we took budget money away from other stuff and juggled the sums until we could afford them. You can do that when it’s your money.
7 The poncy bits. Don’t want buttonholes (‘why would I want a flower on my suit?’)? Don’t have ‘em. Ditto all the awkward, expensive and largely pointless bits that nobody cares about like favours. I mean, who actually eats those sugared almonds in a bit of netting tied with ribbon anyway? Cross ‘em off. Equally, if you want every car to be decorated with bright pink ribbon, for example, or have a friend mental enough to agree to sit with you and tie 85 bows of ribbon around 85 order of service scrolls then go for it. The poncy bits are all yours.
8 The grub. You get to pick the food you like. We’re lucky because the chef at the hotel didn’t run away screaming when he saw me enter our meeting with a clipboard and a list of requirements twenty feet long. Even better, he suggested fantastic local produce that we could incorporate into our wedding feast: beautiful fresh crab from Annagassan on the coast of County Louth… fresh local wild salmon and sides of beef sourced locally from the wonderful beef farmers of County Cavan (a couple of whom will be there with their families, which reminds me of my favourite conversation so far: ‘thanks for the invitation…you do know that I have five kids don’t you?’ Me: ‘Yup and we want you to bring them all along – don’t worry, we’ll reserve you a pew!’).
9 The chiselers. You get to enjoy it all with your kids. The boys’ friends will all be there and they’ve had enormous fun planning the day with us. They’ve picked out their suits and selected a couple of lucky local girls to share their ‘first dance’ with. The lovely Revd Craig suggested including them in the actual blessing ceremony and they’re breathless with excitement. What better way to teach them about the importance of family than to get them involved?
10 The fun. Oh we have some tremendous fun stuff planned. Some really bonkers off-the-wall stuff that will have our guests astounded and amused. Again, a flexible, forward-thinking vicar is de rigeur in this situation. But, I mean, blimey, it IS supposed to be fun, isn’t it?
Oh, but it’s not all romance and roses. We’ve had our fair share of doubts too. Are we mental? Does anyone really give a shit if the crab’s local? Is it wise that 35 of our 85 guests are children? Why have we spent all this money when we could have had two weeks on a tropical beach and renewed our vows barefoot on the sand with the boys in hawaiian shirts?
I collar the Hubby while he’s watching the grand prix. ‘Are we mad?’, I ask him. ’Would you have preferred the beach?’.
‘I don’t know’, he says, ‘I’ll tell you the day after the blessing’.
Oh.
‘Sun rays for your eyes only’
I’ve really struggled writing this post. It’s 10am on a Saturday morning and I’ve been writing and re-writing (and mostly deleting) since 8am when I finally got up, having laid awake editing and re-editing in my head. It’s important to me, though, so bear with me.
If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know that in September, the Hubby and I are planning on renewing our vows. I have complicated views on religion, as you’ll know. I wrote this post back at Easter last year, and I think it sums my feelings up fairly well:
When I say I’m not religious, I don’t mean like an atheist or anything – that’s too strong. I went to church when I was a child, sang in the choir and all that, but I don’t know, somehow it’s just not for me. I’m all for anyone else believing in anything they like: God, miracles, fairies, Santa, whatever. Don’t shoot me, but I’m just one of those people that’s not good at abstract ideas. At the risk of sounding too much like a Vulcan, it’s all too illogical for me, I’m afraid – believing in something that can’t be proved, crediting something invisible every time something goes right, and then not blaming them when it goes wrong?? Nah. Too complicated. As Charles Darwin said, ‘I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created that a cat should play with mice’. Fair point, methinks. Still, I have the utmost respect for everyone’s religion and find it all fascinating. I think if I was going to be anything, I’d be a Buddhist – they seem a nice gentle bunch. But then as a self-confessed spider murderer that’s probably not for me either.
So these feelings of, well, confusion, led to me writing this when it came to celebrating our day together. Although I look back on it now and think, well, that’s not really how I feel either.
Anyhoo, the upshot of all of it was that Craig, the Church of Ireland Rector, read my blog and came to see us. You can read all about it here. He was even inspired to write his own blog, Rambling Rural Rector.
He didn’t give up on us, though, oh no. In fact, I’d go so far as to say we’re becoming friends. He stopped off at English Towers the other evening to talk about the blessing, and it turns out we have loads in common – we’re parents worried about our children, earners worried about the recession, fellow villagers worried about the teenagers out late on the streets… ’I don’t think you’re an atheist’, he said, and I think he’s right. I just don’t know what I am. The other day I sent him a link to fellow blogger K8 the GR8′s amazing piece The Secret Fire. If you’ve never read it (you should – do it right now), K8 talks about:
’…Tolkien and his inspiration for his many amazing stories, and how he believed that God speaks to us not through prayer and sacrifice, but through music and nature… secret zephyrs and sun rays for your eyes only. When we feel inspired by these things, or feel raised goosebumps on our skin as a result of something beautiful, this is God speaking to us’.
This is how I feel! I told him. The other day, Bert and I were in the little churchyard, with the beautiful old church looming grey and silent behind us. There’s a family of rabbits under one of the pine trees and a teeny rabbit lolloped out across a grave and sat washing its ears, unaware that I was watching (and that Bert was imagining him in a small furry pie). The sun came out and there we sat, bathed in unusually warm sunshine, Bert’s head resting gently on my lap. I can’t get my head round the idea of God, white bearded, sitting on a cloud, or like in Bruce Almighty, being overloaded with people’s prayers, and deciding who wins the lottery and who falls under a bus (or like K8 the GR8 told me, she likes how he’s portrayed in South Park). But in moments like that, warmed by the sun, the bluest of blue skies overhead and in that beautiful setting, I felt such peace and happiness. If that’s how God feels, then I’m in, believe me.
And if my cousin Moon‘s amazing pictures from his recent trip to Canada are anything to go by, I’m sure he felt the same on this magical day:
My lovely cousin’s having a hard time at the moment. So send some good vibes his way or, if you’re that way inclined, say a prayer for him. I’m sure they’ll get there, one way or another.
And the blessing? Well, I can’t give too much away, but it’ll be filled with flowers, fun, music, laughter, family and friends old and new. You never know, God might even put in an appearance…
How the hell is an atheist supposed to get blessed round here anyway?
*WARNING: The following is quite ranty in nature. If you’re allergic to any form of ranting, especially ranting that is a bit religious in nature, I suggest you run away screaming right now.*
So the blessing is hurtling towards us at frightening speed. Just yesterday it was a whole year away and now it’s a mere matter of months until a large proportion of Englishes stuff themselves into a plane and descend upon our little smelly cow-poo spattered corner of Cavan expecting to engage in the usual church/piss-up/dance/fall over type of wedding celebrations. And I don’t know if it’s the jet lag, or the post-Florida depression that seems to have set in amongst the entire gang of ‘Disney 7′ bloggers, but I’m not looking forward to it quite as much as I was before.
Young Trendy Protestant Vicar came to visit Hubby and the kids while I was away. This is the vicar who oversees the services-once-a-month-if-you’re-lucky Church of Ireland church just the other side of the lane to us. It’s a teeny weeny pretty little stone church which has nestled in the same spot, squished in a field between our lane and the boat road since the famine, and is so teeny and so nestly that we’d lived here about 6 months before we even realised it existed. We thought it would make a lovely place to have our blessing thingy.
This visit was arranged after we’d already made arrangements to have our wedding blessed acknowledged at the Catholic church up on the hill. Stern Catholic Priest (who recognised us after we’d attended the gazillion ‘stand up, sit down, kneel down, now get up again’ funeral/laying to rest/interment/month’s mind masses after C died – and who I bump into at least once a week up at her grave but still never smiles at me) said he’d think about doing us a mass, BUT he couldn’t possibly do us a blessing (adopt face like sucking lemon) or renew our vows (look aghast and make eyes a little bulgy) as we were protestants (spit word out like vile tasting medicine) that were married in a registry office (change expression to one of extreme constipation). This did not bode well.
Bugger him, then, we said, having discovered the existence of the little Church of Ireland church over in the field, we’ll go there instead. I pass the congregation occasionally whilst walking the dog and they seem nice. Sadly, there’s a catch. It seems that in order to avail of its services, we actually have to go to church. Regularly. Apparently Hubby made noises to the effect that he might not actually be a regular church goer, and Young Trendy Vicar made noises back to the effect that if he didn’t see us in church we could wave goodbye to a pretty little stone-churched blessing. Shit.
Here’s the really ranty bit:
I mean, why is all this God stuff so complicated? Why can’t you just have a big pretty church-like place to celebrate happy family stuff in, headed by some guy who stands at the front and who everybody listens to, without actually having to say you believe in something that you don’t and that people don’t blame when stuff goes wrong (like 9/11 – apparently God can’t stop that sort of stuff happening) and praise when stuff goes right ‘I won the lottery! It was God’s will’ (no, it was 6 numbers and a bonus ball in the right order, you berk). I mean, I’m a good person. Okay I swear like a trooper, have a slightly smutty sense of humour and drink a bit too much Merlot, but I love my family and my friends (I’ve even got a Catholic best friend, for goodness sake – Jen, step forward and take a bow), I’ve never murdered anyone as far as I know, and I don’t think I covet anything (although I’m not exactly sure what that means).
So where does this leave us? I mean, blimey, we’ve got to do something remotely organised to recognise that we managed to actually stay together for fifteen whole years, for pity’s sake. Some sort of organised collection of people standing together and actually acknowledging this huge accomplishment.
Maybe we should all dress up in our glad rags, stand in the cow field and shout ‘THANK F*CK FOR THAT!’ and then all troop off to the pub. Or maybe we should go back to Walt Disney World. I bet you don’t have to be bloody religious to get married there.
DISCLAIMER: I’m really sorry if I have offended anyone that believes in God whilst writing this post. I’m very happy and delighted for you that you believe in God, it’s just that I don’t. Get over it.
So it’s mainly pink and chocolatey then…
So I know I didn’t win at the Blog Awards, but I’m not too disappointed, especially as two of my very favourite Irish bloggy mates won Best Personal blog (well done, Annie!!), and Best Food/Drink Blog (go Spudness!!) and sure, ’tis nice to be nominated anyway. If you voted my way then thanks, I’m absolutely humbled and delighted.
I’m feeling pretty shiny and happy anyhoo as I’ve been doing a spot of planning for our upcoming wedding blessing/vow renewal/anniversary-type-thingy (let’s not split hairs here, it’s a big piss-up with champagne and cake, and that’s what’s important). Today, over lemon roast chicken, mash and roasted parsnips, we had a little family brainstorming session:
Me: We need lots of colour, it’s a celebration: hot pink! Jade green, turquoise and bright orange!
#2: Chocolate!
Hubby: Champagne… and dancing
Me: Pink champagne
#1: And dancing… ooh, and linen suits – we could all wear linen suits, like on Miami Vice.
Me: And flowers – pink and orange flowers – and limey green foliage – ooh and swirly jewel coloured dresses!
#2: And lots of chocolate – a chocolate fountain!
Hubby: Doughnuts! Coffee and Krispy Kremes at midnight (to keep us going)
Me: Ooh yes. Diamonds! Okay, well sparkly stuff anyway… and Jimmy Choos!
Hubby: Erm…. (looks worried)… can you hire those?
#2: Did I mention chocolate?
Everyone: YES!
So that’s it, then. The hotel called me, and they’re fully booked already! And I can get planning. It’s basically lots of pink stuff, champagne, doughnuts and chocolate. Roll on September.
