My sister just got back from attending an out-of-state wedding at which the bride’s sister… wore a white dress. Wowsers. By now you know I’m not all into the “Tradition says you do this” and “The rules say you do that” when it comes to this holy matrimony business, but hooboy, if there’s any rule which needs keepin’ it’s the one where you don’t compete with the bride! Not overtly, anyway. I mean, it’s okay if you’re just straight up prettier than the bride or say, have better hair. That’s genetics and therefore, impossible to control. Also, if the bride happens to be a totally wretched person and you just happen to not be, you go right ahead and flaunt your non-wretchedness. But don’t dress like her. That’s just way too obvious.

Apropos of Everything

While lying in bed the other night, the Dork Lord and I had yet another very uncomfortable Name Change talk with so many ups and downs, a graphic representation of the discussion would have looked something like the Hulk’s EKG. Gah! I’m not sure how many times I explained that I hadn’t made any decisions, but that I wanted both of us to be open to the options, but it was precisely the number of times he didn’t hear a single word of it. At one point he folded his arms across his chest and grumbled,

“I already know you’re not taking my name. I’ll just have to get over it.”

And then I laughed. Hard and deep.

“It is fairly safe to assume, then…” I said, curing my arms around his stubborn, puffed up chest “…that you have absolutely no idea what it’s like living with you while you’re in the process of getting over something.”

And then he laughed, too. Finally. And thankfully, because we’d never have been able to say our “I love you’s” and go to sleep, the unresolved issue hanging like that over our bed. Not that I slept, really. As a rule, I don’t sleep when things remain unresolved, regardless of the mood of our closing arguments. Conflict is the pea under my mattress – and the pebble in my shoe, I suppose, because the next morning, I was just as unsettled. But then there were red roses and the message, “I always want you in my life. I don’t care what your last name is.”

If it’s ever a question, this right here is why I’m choosing to swear to spend the most complicated, messy phase of my life with this man. Because he loves me. Really, really loves me and in many ways, he’s much better at being an “us” than I am. I’m in the middle of learning this big lesson from him about generosity and trust. Unlike the romance portion of our relationship, effortless and unvarying, the actual commitment and dependence part is really, really difficult. As the Boy pointed out, I’m accustomed to and proud of being independent, of being fully in charge of me, and it cuts him out of the equation sometimes. Figuring out where I end and he begins means I still have to remind myself to insert him into that equation. I’ve said it before: math is hard.

I’d love to “belong” to some guy. Your life is supposed to change when you get married – now it’s about each other. – Andrea

I may or may not have already told you (I tell a lot of people a lot of things – because sometimes, once I put it out there, I realize that either I am a wedding planning GENIUS or that I should really be consulting a professional. While lying on a couch) in lieu of corsages, I decided to go with vintage brooches for the ladies. So this weekend, my sister and I hit the antique mall in Austin and I learned that if I am a champ at cake eating, I am a ninja master when it comes to antique costume jewelry buying. It was so much stinking fun. Like being allowed to prowl around on the set of Mad Men and take whatever you want. So long as it fit in your budget, of course.

Also fun? That Mihow and I are talking lollipops! Since this a budget affair, I am determined to make every last detail as personal and deliberate as possible. And handmade, custom flavor lollipops fit that bill. I need to get some work done on the wedding website so I can show off the gorgeous, hand drawn invitations that Maura has done for us. I don’t want to embarrass her or anything, but I love them so much and she’s been unbelievably generous to donate her time and whatever our buy-at-Target-print-at-home invitation budget wouldn’t cover.

Less fun? Discussions about last name changing. Or about how I am currently having a really, really hard time with the idea. I’m just not ready. My sister couldn’t wait to trade in Hunter for her husband’s last name and honestly, I wish I was that eager because of how guilty I feel for, well, not being eager. I’ve been me for a really, really long time now and it’s like my friend Krissa said when she and Stuart tied the knot six years ago – I know who [Heather Hunter] is; but [Heather Griffith] is a total stranger. And you have to admit, Heather Hunter has a nice ring to it. Even if it is in a porn star kind of way.

The Dork Lord says that he can understand my reasons – on a logical level – but he’s taking it terribly personally in every other which way. Whether or not it’s a rejection of his last name (it’s not), it will still feel that way to him. And what about babies? Don’t I want to have the same last name as our children? Sure, I do. But why can’t that last name be Hunter? Yeeeeah, don’t even go there. Dudes who have been programmed with these traditions cannot even have such a conversation. Why would he ever change his name? That’s totally ludicrous. Of course it is, baby. I can’t believe I would suggest it.