I got engaged while tipsy on tallboys and wearing an AC/DC muscle tee.
My now fiance asked me to go bike riding to all the bars in town that had photobooths. We have an epic collection of photo strips together but it had been a while since we had taken one.
At the first bar we enjoyed some beers in the sun, took some photos and then gleefully fed dollar after dollar into a vending machine full of “prizes” such as copies of the book The Hobbit, mystery bags and fake mustaches.
Thrilled with my new fake mustache, I pasted it to my face and messed my hair into a rat’s nest. My mister immediately told me, “No mustache.” I sighed, peeled it off and somewhat de-poufed my hair.
Into the photobooth we went and on the second frame that bastard pulled out a ring box with “marry me?” inked onto the inside of the lid. Oh and a bitchin’, beautiful, way too nice for me ring was in there too.
Then I cried a lot.
And said yes.
I thought wedding planning was going to be fun. I thought wrong. It’s been the least fun thing I’ve ever done. Okay maybe more fun than an unwelcome gynecological exam. But still. So I thought I might as well blog about the ridiculousness of planning a wedding. Enjoy!