As most of you know by now, the Australian Golden Boy (who I shall refer to as P, not because he is made of phosphorous, but because he likes a little more privacy online than Little Miss Let’s Share Everything With The Group here) proposed a few weeks back.
I said yes and we have been exploring the entertaining world of getting married together. Mainly this seems to involve people focusing all their attention on why I don’t have a ring yet. We are getting something made up with stones from P’s grandparents. His grandparents were apparently lapidarists – which does not mean butterfly collecting and certainly not be pronounced labia-derists, however amusing the concept is – and they fossicked and polished some lovely sapphires as a gift to him for his 21st which we will be using.
So, to answer the next question which is always “have you set a date”, we have no solid plans. There have been discussions on rings, engagement parties, surnames and more. Quite frankly I am beginning to think at this stage that the entire purpose of organising the question traditions quicksand that is a wedding is to test whether you and your partner can navigate the morass of decisions together or get bogged down and break up.
It hasn’t happened so far.
Neither has persuading my father that P would like a pony as the traditional dowry animal. Dammit.
There are a few givens. We are both the happy possessors of very reasonable families, thankfully, so there will not be some enormous white monstrosity of a wedding where we have to invite 300 people; 200 of which are relations we have never seen or met, 50 of which are senile, incontinent or both, and make our 15 friends sit at the opposite end of the hall to us (you may laugh, but I’ve seen this happen).
It’s probably going to be a very small do and if I have anything to do with it there will be no white whatsoever. My mother, on guessing that I wasn’t after a white dress, suggested cream which as far as I am concerned is the bastard offspring of white and the foulness that is beige and can go get fecked. I quite like white, but it hates me. Being a ruddy and freckle-skinned lady, wearing blocks of either white or cream makes me look like Freckle McSpeckle the Angry Tomato and I can do without people comparing me to rotting fruit in the pictures for years after, thank you very much.
The wedding ceremony itself is still completely up in the air (P is unaccountably resisting my suggestion that we elope and get married in a cave, removing the need for all organising of fripperies) but it looks likely that there will be an engagement party in Sydney in March-ish and a trip to Ireland, with a possible eye to a party, around Christmas in December 2011-ish.
|Frilled-neck lizard, from Wikipedia|
All these things, like the proposal itself, can be taken back if I insist too much on ponies and a red dress with flamethrowers in the underskirt. I also want a huge neck frill like the Dilophosaurus in Jurassic Park that can flare out massively, so if people alarm me on the day I can hiss at them and then SPOUT FLAMES. This would be better than cream, right? You could use my dress to toast marshmallows and scare off birds. It would be AWESOME.
But right now, we are both very happy, not on fire and looking forward to sharing some fun with you all.