vajazzling your ceremony

Our wedding ceremony is looming. Both Vicky and I are excited and terrified. It's the part of the whole shebang that makes us actually married, just like magic. We walk into the place, the power-infused celebrant incants a few words and *bamf* - we are officially married. 

Bearing that in mind, it does seem as if all the planning we've done for it so far, and we truly have done a tremendous lot, has, nevertheless, been a bit lacklustre. 

I think we need a more intricate affair, one with extra pomp.

For starters, perhaps we need to hand out hooded robes to our guests, so that they may look appropriately charmed. Vicky's entrance into the venue will be preceded by mysterious barefoot druids, each waving about a thurible. These should probably be filled with super-power-providing toxic ooze. While I wait near the altar, buffeted by a wind machine, I'll spin the dial on my omnitrix to the appropriate position. Europe's The Final Countdown will blare from enormous speakers in the corners of the room.

Vicky will enter riding a well-behaved unicorn that will wait patiently in the corner after she slides off its back to take her place by my side. 

Our celebrant, shaved and tattooed, should recite the vows in latin and backwards while spinning counter-clockwise on one leg. Vicky and I will both take a step forward, over a red-and-white spotted smiling mushroom and cry "inyuk-chuk!" to increase in size. 

So embiggened, I'll pull a sword from a stone, hand it (handle first!) to the celebrant, and kneel on one leg. She'll rest it on each shoulder and, by the Power of Greyskull, proclaim me as worthy. I'll be told to arise and then Vicky and I will exchange rings, whereupon we will both blink out of sight and enter a bewildering negative world of burning shadows.  None of this will daunt our stoic celebrant who will tap each of us in the chest with a glowing index finger, returning us to plain view, and proclaim us as husband and wife. Standing up and shouting "shazam!" while moving our hands in the appropriate sequences, Vicky and I will shoot into the air, surrounded by blinking motifs, soaring music and stock zinging sound effects. Our clothes will rip off to reveal our wedding costumes beneath. Also, now I have fire-eyes. 

The oompa-loompas will burn our marriage banns, adding a special chemical to make the smoke white, so that the gathering faithful outside will know that their wait is over. We will emerge as butterflies out of the cocoon of singledom. 

That, I think, is more suitable, considering the significance. 

Also candles; we'll need more candles.

The ring - the end.

Now that I have written about my stunningly amateurish proposal, I can share the result with the world.

Vicky's finger has gone from this:

- to this:

And I'll tell you another thing: it's a blimming good thing that I went about it the way I did. I never would have picked out an oval marquis cut diamond but that is precisely what Vicky wanted, when we went into the jewellers and designed it together (mostly Vick). Let that be a lesson to all you cocky bastards.

Of course, it took months for the jeweller to make the custom ring, which was maddeningly unimpressive, but that's another story. It's not a very interesting story, either, so you won't read about it here. 

How long?

As of today, there is less that one month until I get married (and/or the world ends).

Holey Moley.

The proposal.

Hello. Some good friends of mine have recently pointed out that I never concluded the saga of Vicky's engagement ring. I thought most people had given up on reading the blog, lost among the endless drivel about shoes, so it was nice to hear otherwise. Of course, these same friends were very quick to point out that they got lost among the endless drivel about shoes, so I will refrain from posting other tailoring tips. This was good feedback; thank you, fellows!

Now, instead, some more nonsense about the ring. You may recall that I decided against buying Vicky's ring as surprise in the proposal, instead deciding to stuff a brilliantly-crafted proposal poem into a ring box. I also embarrassingly asked Vicky's parents' answering machine for its blessing, but that was humiliating and not crucial to this stage of the story. I also foreshadowed that my next challenge was to get an engagement-ring box to hold the poem, without paying for an unnecessary engagement ring. I'll get to that in a moment. 

Instead, let me tell you about another wonderful wonder.

Although immensely proud of the poem I wrung out, I still felt that it wasn't quite enough. I am quite partial to romantic tales of penniless ne'er-do-wells actually, well, doing well, and surprising beloveds with ingenious proposals. You know, engagement rings made from spoons or onion rings, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, I am not especially crafty and don't enjoy inflicting second-degree burns on the unworthy. A poem is about all I'm good for. 

The thing is, Vick couldn't very well wrap a poem around her finger and show her family while breathlessly announcing the engagement. It'd get sweaty and difficult to read.  I needed another band-aid solution until such time as she could get her actual ring. Luckily, I chanced across the perfect interim product:

It's a band-aid with a diamond embossed onto it, if that's not immediately clear.

It ends up looking a bit like this:

It turns that I am also quite handy at getting lucky in fashionable stores full of unnecessary goods. 

To get my hands on this tasty piece of French artistry, I had to change my clothes on my lunch break at work, cycle across town (note - town not very big, so it's not too much amazing) stink out a fashionable hipster store with my bike-stink (remember - Perth gets up to 40 degrees Celsius in December), purchase  a solitary band-aid, ride back to work, shower, get changed - all in under an hour - and try to resume working without a mighty smirk. Oh, the dedication! It bodes well for marriage commitment, I think. 

(It turns out I am also pretty neat at over-emphasising minor achievements.)

With both a poem expressing my love and commitment, and a band-aid symbolising my stop-gap approach to risk-management, I felt suitably confident that this proposal could win a heart and was good enough for a woman of great consequence. 

We flash-forward to Xmas morning, 2010. The previous night, Vicky's mother had told me that it'd be terrific if I proposed to their daughter. I have a magic band-aid and the greatest poem I've ever written  stuffed into my substitute ring-box. I am still marvellously, preposterously nervous. 

Vicky and I awake and share season's greetings. We head downstairs, still in our pyjamas,  to see what Santa had brought us, and what we had bought each other, and if the cats think their own presents are acceptable. It's nerve-destroyingly delightful. 

All gifts exchanged, I tell Vicky that I have one more thing for her and head upstairs to get it. I get properly dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie. I want to maximise my chances but dressing like this is perhaps not a great idea: it's stinking hot already, our house has no air-conditioning and poor insulation and I am supremely nervous. I am a sweaty boy at the best of times. 

I tell Vicky to close her eyes. I head downstairs in a soggy, translucent shirt with my tie already loosened. I am sweating monsoons. I kneel before her and tell her to open her eyes. Vicky sees my state of dress and smiles, radiant with happiness and pity. She's positively beaming.

I mumble something incoherent about her doing me a great honour. Given everything else I fretted over in the lead up to this moment, this part is surprisingly unprepared. 

I whip out my love package. I neglect to open it in the traditional style. (Last minute doubt about the disappointment of seeing only paper inside.)

Vicky says, "is that your cufflinks box?"

And that's truly all I remember.

Heartwarming, innit? Can't you just feel your cockles smoulder? One for the ages, I reckon.

Of course, it soon became obvious that she'd also said 'yes' somewhere in all the confusion. We spent ages smooching and smiling and holding hands on the couch. These are not the actions of a recently rebuffed man. Just to make sure, however, I've asked her several times since. It's always a good answer. 

How to choose your booze.

A couple of weekends ago, Vicky and I blackmailed our families into meeting each other under cover of a wine-sampling party to decide on a list for the wedding. It went quite well. Blurry, but well. I think. 

I thought I should post a list of the things we learned about wine and how we reached our final decision on what to serve:

1. After the first glass, it all tastes even more like the same. 

Fin.

Top this!

Hot on the heels of yesterday's post about our wedding cakes, here is some information about the cake-toppers. I meant to make it all one long post but I got hungry and had to take a snack break. Then I had to go to the pub.

You may recall that Vicky and I had a lovers' tiff about whether to have Legoes or trolldolls adorning our wedding cake as tiny representatives of our good selves. You might also recall that the only princess Lego piece I had came wearing one of those stupid pointed princess hats (or 'hennin' if you're a fetishist), which made it a bit unrepresentative. Sure, Vick and I are both fond of a good fancy hat, but an angled, conical, upturned flowerpot is going a bit far.

However, thanks to the modern wonder that is internet nerdery, I have been able to purchase another princess Lego that is a much better approximation:

Of course, the original jaundiced smile remains best for me.

Now, before you go thinking that, without consultation, I spent too much money on a single piece of Lego in an attempt to force Vicky to my way of thinking, lest those funds be wasted, I'd like to point out that the princess is made up of at least 8 separate pieces. She also comes with an ingenious interchangeable face. Nertz.

Also, you forgetful bastard, as written in yesterday's blog, we are having at least two - probably more - cakes. This is magnificently symbolic. As Vicky and I are both pretty indecisive, we usually compromise in this way on most things, so why not for our wedding? I get to put awesome Legoes on one cake and Vicky can put hideous mythical beasts with awful hair on the other. Win-win!

The possible third cake will come in handy too. While traipsing about the UK earlier this year, I managed to drag Vicky into a comic-book store for a few minutes. She amused herself by purchasing a mystery 'kidrobot' Best Friends Forever box. Inside, she was astonished to discover, were a best-friend cupcake and fork ensemble called Eddie and Sprinkles.

Ever since, these have been discussed as potential wedding caketoppers, especially considering our cupcake cascade cake.

Sure, our names are neither Eddie nor Sprinkles but, then again, nor do we have zany hair or fixed crablike claws topping arms set at 45-degree angles.

Eddie and Sprinkles are also wonderfully interactive. Just like real best buds, they are interlockable:

And come with a lovely love slogan:

I am totally the fork, by the by.

With three potential cake-topping options, it will assist greatly to have three cakes, though I can foresee troubles ahead deciding which goes on what. Whatever happens, I'll be happy, so long as Vicky doesn't pick, or look remotely like, the alternative princess face:

Cake for your cake-hole

And so I return to tasty blogging. Our wedding venues woes are still bringing us down - we have moved on from having nowhere to get married to having "options" - but, nevertheless, the thought of cake is cheering for all, surely?

I am also thus able to part with the greatest piece of advice I can pass on to any man, ever, wherever: it is a tremendously good idea to accompany your beloved intended to cake shops. 

When Vicky and I arrived at the babycakes store to suss out what they could offer us, the proprietor commented how refreshing it was that I was there. It seems that she is usually visited only by individual women brandishing lever-arch files and checklists. What fools! The chaps who decline to visit the store, or simply don't insist on attending hard enough, miss out on being offered, legitimately, all the free cake one could cram into one's gullet. This is the bountiful treat that I experienced one lovely morning. 

We had gone into the store with a vague idea of having a tiered cupcake extravaganza instead of a traditional cake what requires slicing (terrible symbolism, especially if you've ever been forced to sit through Picnic at Hanging Rock). Such wishy-washy ideas gave me the perfect excuse to sample just about every single cupcake flavour in stock. Some I even got to eat twice as much of: "Oh, gee, I'm just not too sure which I prefer out of these two... What's that? Why yes, I would like another one of each, thank you!"

Such was the amount of cupcake I gobbled that it is only now, months later, that I can write about the experience with a clear head. Earlier, reminisces would send me all a-tizzy with learned hyperglycemia. What a grand day!

Oh yeah, so, at our wedding guests will be presented with a cascade of sublime delights comprising "Death By Chocolate"* cupcakes, lemon-meringue pies, lime coconut cupcakes and marsbars-flavour macaroons, all topped with a choco-tastic slab upon which our caketoppers can rest.

Oh, and we'll be getting a second cake made for us by the famous Dot of York.

Oh, and then I heard that it was possible to have dinosaur-shaped Partysaurus cakes, so we'll probably get one of those, too.

You guys like cake, right?

Oh, and there'll be a lolly buffet too. What a grand day it'll be!

*Actual death not guaranteed and hopefully unlikely. 

bow-tying your bow tie

I bought a bow tie for my buck's wingding. I didn't know how to tie the mofo. I looked up this video.




I achieved moderate success: