All posts tagged: Wedding

Mistaken Identity at the Cocktail Hour

A word of advice to all the men out there: if you’re going to date one woman while you’re quasi-dating another, and you choose to invite the latter to a family function after you’ve already brought the former to an earlier event, you should issue some sort of memo to all of your relatives. Said memo should read: Attention aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and other interested parties: (Especially those who are getting up there in years…) Please note that the girl I’m bringing to my brother’s wedding is NOT the same girl I brought to So-and-So’s anniversary party earlier this year. To avoid confusion (and errant wine glasses being hurled in my direction) please refrain from mentioning She-Whom-Accompanied-Me-The-Last-Time. Sincerely, Date #7 Do you see where I’m going with this? You’ll be pleased to note there were no wine glasses thrown (I am, after all, a woman of dignity, and my aim’s not all that great.  I might have accidentally taken out one of parmesan cheese wedges on the antipasto table and I was rather fond …

The (art of avoiding the) Heart of the Matter

So there I am, inadvertently abandoned by my “wedding BFF,” left to fend for myself amongst Date #7’s cousins and wondering, as every woman must wonder at some point in her life, “Should I scrape the mud from between my toes now or later?” This is because Tyler Arboretum, the native woodland that Date #7’s brother and his fiancé have chosen for their rustic, fall wedding, turns out to be better suited for extreme-mountaineering than for tying the knot.  I know this because I have had just been forced to take off my shoes to avoid tumbling down the hill that leads from the terrace (where the minister and I have been helping enjoying an early cocktail hour) to the field where the ceremony is set to take place. Everyone is going on and on about how pretty the leaves look and what a lovely venue it is and even though they’re right, I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “Really?  It’s cold as f*ck and now I’ve got mud oozing between my toes!” I’d really …

(Thank Goodness for) The Rehearsal Dinner

Rest assured: I will not be tying the knot at Tyler Arboretum.  But before we get to Date #7’s brother’s wedding and my near death-by-exposure, shrapnel, mudslide and drowning on Saturday night, let’s start with the rehearsal dinner, shall we? I arrive exactly ten minutes early.  I don’t know if it’s the chill in the air or the fact that I’m about to meet someone’s parents for the first time in the history of my exploits on Match.com, but I am shivering.  I’m also sporting a rather precarious H&M spaghetti strap top paired with vintage bolero jacket which means I look great but my bra keeps conspiring to pop out of the top of my blouse so I’m afraid that my first impression won’t be quite as classy as I’d hoped. I call one of my girlfriends out in California, hoping she’ll be off work and able to distract me with tales of her love life, but my fingers are shaking so badly that I call barely dial and when I do, it goes straight …

A Potential Faux Pas of Epic Proportions

Did I mention that tomorrow’s wedding is black tie? Well, it is. At least Date #7 thinks it is.  I’m planning to bring a change of clothes just in case because men are generally clueless about these sorts of things and Date #7… well, he’s more clueless that most when it comes to weddings, not to mention all of the associated logistics that are, from the female perspective, rather important. The initial conversation went a little something like this: Me: Your brother’s wedding?  Sure.  When is it? Him: I don’t remember… sometime in October. Me: Okay… well let me know. Him: I will. Me: I’ll need to ask off from rehearsal.  And figure out what to wear.  It’s not black tie, is it? Him: No.  I don’t think so. Me: You don’t think so? Him: No. Me: Well can you check? Him: I will. Me: Ask your mom.  She’ll know. An hour later, my cell phone rings again.  It’s him. “I asked my mom.” “And?” “It’s formal.” Hmmm… I was initially thrilled to hear this …

Must Do Lifts

I’m late. After a weekend in upstate New York, a sixteen-hour work day and the launch of the Philly Tap Jam, I came home to discover that I’d missed something rather important: this morning’s blog post. (What? Did you think I was pregnant? Perish the thought! Contrary to popular belief, Date #6 and I did not sleep together. As such, it would seem that we’ll be able to remain friends, and I certainly hope we will because we’re slotted to go to a hockey game together on Thursday night and I don’t know enough about hockey to feign an interest in the score.) Getting back to this weekend, the entire Richter clan headed up to Poughkeepsie for the wedding of a family friend who, oddly enough, met her new husband online. (MySpace, granted, as opposed to Match.com, but still…) I’d been starting to feel pretty dejected about my own marital prospects (it’s been almost two years since I’ve had a proper boyfriend) and figured that eventually I’d have to settle for some half-witted, dual left-footed …

Lady’s Choice: The Truth, the Whole Truth and Nothing But the Truth

Approximately 90 minutes into dinner this past Friday, The Wedding Date That Wasn’t Mine smiles and tells me there’s something he’s been meaning to ask me. Seeing as this is our first date, I’m fairly certain it won’t be anything too serious, but all the same the phrase “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you” makes the hair on my neck stand up—and not in a good way. “What’s that?” I inquire. “Well, at the wedding, when the DJ called Lady’s Choice… was that you?” “What do you mean?” “Did you ask him to call Lady’s Choice?” “No.”  I take great umbrage to this accusation.  I asked for Usher.  I asked for the B52s and I asked for the Black Eyed Peas.  I did not ask the DJ to call Lady’s Choice. “That’s funny,” he mused.  “I thought you had.  It was weird.” “What?  Lady’s Choice?  Lady’s Choice isn’t weird.” “No, but the fact that he then said you couldn’t ask the person you came with.  That was weird.” And so it was, although …

Would You Rather: Jordan Almonds or an Online Dating Subscription?

Today I’m going to a wedding.  Not my own, obviously, but that of my former babysitter/art teacher/next door neighbor.  I have mixed feelings about this wedding, not because I have any doubt that the couple in question will be very happy together, but because I’m egocentric-to-a-fault even at the best of the times and seeing as I’ve just lost my wingman, this is not the best of times. The entire Richter clan was invited to this wedding, including Landlord, Chauffer and Tech Support.  Tech Support, aka my younger brother, was supposed to be my partner in crime for the evening but due to an unexpected turn of events, his boss is sending him out of town for the weekend. Typical. There are few things I hate more in life than flying solo at a friend’s wedding.  In fact, flying solo amidst a sea of happy and soon-to-be-happy couples ranks right up there with my hatred of pigeons, zucchini, eggplant, eggplant disguised to look like something else and tourists who walk four-abreast on the sidewalk. Needless …

How Can You Tell if a MAN is Engaged?

Here’s something I don’t get: why don’t men wear engagement rings?  I know that a diamond is meant to symbolize the man’s financial wherewithal (the rational being if he can’t afford a diamond, he can’t afford a family) but it seems like a double standard, especially in this day and age. A man can walk into a bar, size up the clientele and immediately deduce who’s is available and who’s not.  (What he chooses to do with this information, of course, is entirely up to him.)  The fairer sex, by contrast, is left in the dark. It’s hard enough to tell if a guy’s married when you’re dealing with men who don’t wear wedding bands.  It gets harder still when you throw a European into the mix: do you check the left hand or the right?  And gold wedding bands tend to blend in with most skin tones.  I go back and forth on the whole white gold vs. yellow gold debate for myself but for men, I’m all for platinum-colored bands.  Why?  They stand …