Month: August 2012

How To Save Money For A Wedding

As I write this, there are 290 days, 23 hours and 49 minutes to go until Sarge and I stick a hyphen between our last names.  Because this is an equal relationship. We have been ‘trying to save money for the wedding’ since we got engaged.  Having said that, Sarge recently admitted he’d been carrying around Frodo Bob Ring-Box since before we went to New York, so maybe he’s been saving longer than that. Without taking a screen-shot of the wedding fund, it’s safe to say there could always be more in there. In order to cover the to-do list and throw a really good party because we’re only going to do this once, we have come to certain agreements.  Turns out they’re flexible. No book-buying.  Unless it’s second-hand, for the book group, or a birthday.  This one is mostly for me.  Saying that, if Sarge didn’t collect his own books, we probably wouldn’t need to save for a wedding anyway.  We’ve discussed this. No take-out.  Unless it’s once a month.  On a weekend.  This one is going pretty well.  This is also the cut-back that will ‘enhance the silhouette’ of my wedding dress.  Because it has one.  And I always thought the idea was not to enhance it.  But I’m wrong.  Apparently.  Go figure. No movies.  Unless previously owned.  By us.  This one is really just Sarge’s ploy...

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On The Road: The Nerdy Backpackers

‘We look like a couple of nerdy backpackers.’ ‘That’s because we are.’ On Monday, Sarge and I went to Newcastle (ish) to visit a friend of mine from University (the first one). She was the friend from this post and featured in the beginning of this one. Through no fault of our own we’d seen each other all of twice in five years. Before Monday, Em hadn’t met Sarge, and we are going on three. Because I don’t have a job, and Sarge had a week off from his, we boarded a South-bound train after packing George and the robot and bumping into some coffee on the way. Now. Another little known fact about me is that I can actually make myself sick with excitement. Really. Being happy/nervous/excited about anything makes me throw up. Or dry-heave. When I was a kid and the carnival moved in next door, I had to breathe into a paper bag before we left the house. One fateful night, I got to the top of the ferris wheel and threw up. I was up there with a friend who was a boy who decided then we should see other people. The whole experience left me with a phobia of vomiting. These days, Sarge knows to either hold my hair back or get out of the way. And I do my part by skipping breakfast...

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The Oma Does Edinburgh

You may remember that we have a house guest. We’ve taken him out with us almost everywhere since his arrival. Here is photographic evidence of The Oma’s adventures so far: Hugging some cider at Sofi’s: Offering me a rose. Possibly drunk here: Zombie coffee is good for hangovers: More coffee at Artisan Roast.  He appreciated the signage: Perusing Festival posters: And enroute to a bookshop. His hosts didn’t buy any books. He wanted some postcards. No such luck. In the middle of a celtic-knotted compass in The Meadows: Posing in front of The Usher Hall.  Probably wondering if they need any robot guitarists. Trying to blend in with the furniture at Frisky, after enjoying some of their frozen yogurt: Maybe it was a sugar-high, but he was very happy to get to Edinburgh Castle: And even happier to to see the Scottish flag:  Here he is having a moment outside The Scottish Parliament: And then Sarge took The Oma and George up Arthur’s Seat. The boys go hillwalking: And to prove they made it down from there… We took The Oma to the movies.  To see Ted.  We thought it was appropriate somehow. Some notes on the photos: They are a joint effort. Sarge climbed hills to get some of them.  He loves me that much. The Oma reminds you to drink responsibly. For more on The Oma’s adventures,...

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Those Fascinating Things

Sarge and I sent a few overseas and faraway invitations on Saturday.  We went across the street to the post office, with me actually praying that I wouldn’t drop them. We arrived safely at the post office and with each PAR AVION stamp applied; I dug my nails deeper into his shirt.  This was not a metaphor for anything.  Or a comment on the fact that we are suddenly more engaged now than before.  I was just counting.  Really hard. However, when we dropped the stamped addressed envelopes into the somehow really bright red post box, I said, ‘It’s official now, unless you want to tip the box.’ ‘No tipping.’ ‘But I did fall out of the chair that one time.’ ‘No more tipping.’ When we got the samples, I was excited to read the details of strangers’ weddings.  It’s even more mind-blowing to see our own names on there.  Weird to think of those cards on their way to other people’s hands and hearts and houses. I lay awake at 5.38 yesterday morning, wondering what people would think of the ‘no hat’ rule. In the middle of the invite, in not-so small print it reads: Dress:  Scottish traditional (no hats).  I don’t like hats.  Because I have a big American head. When I brought up this point with my mother, she said, ‘What does that mean?’ ‘If at...

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Two Years Of Shots

Today is Gin & Lemonade’s second birthday.  My move from Glasgow to Edinburgh is not so recent any more and I no longer have a cat who thinks she’s a dog.  I don’t even have a boyfriend, because he’s now my fiance. A few days after I posted my first blog birthday post, I dumped some coffee on Hemingway and he left me.  And then he came back.  Since then things have gotten weird and more weird. While I’m still trying to make the world a more accessible place, it isn’t my day job any more.  I’m looking for another one of those. But I still think Shakespeare is overrated. This has been an interesting year, so far.  I proposed to Sarge, and then my Dad got cancer.  Dad celebrated our engagement by wearing a beard hat and burning stuff.  Including cancer cells.  And I missed my grandparents.  Some things never change. Sarge and I went venue shopping, and tried to make our own invitations.  The only thing we made was a mess.  We sent away for them, and Dad might be writing them out as I type. So, that happened.  And I blogged about it.  I’d like to thank you for being there to celebrate with me, worry with me, and celebrate again. I can’t wait to see what happens...

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