Illustrator Emily McDowell describes her brand as insightful, relatable and colourful. Tick, tick, tick. While "motivational" prints generally motivate me to throw up, these ones are so cheerful, encouraging and just true that I can't help loving them.
I'd happily own anything in her shop, but if I had to pick a favourite it would be these Tiny Encouragement Cards. So simple, so perfect, so easy to make somebody's day. And, since today is World Kindness Day, so very appropriate.
All prints available from Emily McDowell's Etsy shop. This isn't a sponsored post or anything, they just make me happy.
SEE ALSO:
Dear National Stress Awareness Day,
So says Tamera, and I'm inclined to agree.
What with the nauseating cloud of positivity leaking out of Alt Summit right now ("If people don't like you, it's just because you're SO GREAT!"), I needed a little snark to kick start the weekend.
Happy Friday, folks.
{Background: Kevin Dooley. Quote: @verhext. Crappy photoshopping: alllll mine.}
Here's how it works:
If you're single, you're a Miss.
If you're married, you're a Mrs.
If you're a big hairy feminist, you may be a Ms, but this is best avoided.
You know what's not helpful?
Saying to a stranger in the lift on their way to work, "Did you know that when you walk your skirt goes right up at the back?".
I know you were just trying to give me some friendly advice, but what do you expect me to say? "Yes, actually, I did know. Flashing my knickers at the mailman as I walk around the office is my new strategy for bagging a promotion! And by the way, feminism is for losers!"
Obviously, I did not know, and it's not like I can do anything about it now. You might not have guessed this from my nonchalant, skirt-shrinking gait, but I am technically meant to be in work by 9 and it's already quarter past. Which is why you might have noticed me frantically stabbing the 'close doors' button before you lurched into the lift at the last moment and pressed 'Level 1'. Changing my skirt is not an option.
So what, exactly, am I meant to do with this information? Roll around the office in my desk chair all day? "Hey, Mr Coffee Man, I'm down here! On my wheelie chair! Don't mind me, I'm just taking it easy today."
Next time (oh God, don't let there be a next time), maybe you should just not say anything. Because there's a chance I might reply, "Did you know that you can actually get the stairs to the first floor?"
Love,
Self-Conscious Office Worker Who Will Now Not Be Going To The Loo All Day.
{Image: The Sartorialist}
If you close your eyes and squint a little, don't you think this post bears an eery resemblance to this one?
Of course, it's hardly plagiarism on the scale of the controversy currently doing the rounds over in the slightly sinister domain of the mommybloggers. To be honest I'm more concerned that I found the post through a google search for "a safe mooring" (Don't look at me like that. You're telling me you've never googled your own blog?) and now I'm worried people might think I was personally responsible for this crime against the English language. For example, "I really, Present reckon that Oahu is the believed that number Points wedding presents." Um, what? That isn't even a sentence. Nor is "And thus Reasonable goal the kind of person who is going to breezily Expect Kansas city lasik surgery invoice". I mean... I just.. what are they on about?
In fairness, "Obtain drunken Experience Equipped with Mate Yvonne" does sound like something I'd say. And "minimising potential risk of a seventeen-toaster calamity" actually is something I said. (Seriously, of all the insane Frankensentences you put in that post, you had to get that one word-for-word?)
Hilarious as it is, I should probably get them to take it down. It's not really fair for some random scraper site to be profiting from my own ill-judged babbling. Fin's comment on the whole debâcle was, as ever, incisive:
"How come they can make money from it when you don't make any?"
GOOD POINT, FIN. Anybody want to offer me some money for some sentences that may or may not involve toasters and/or make sense? Anybody...?
{Image: Albumen print by Stephen Berkman (New York: Bliss, Zohar Studios, n.d.) From the collection of Ricky Jay.}
Have you seen this story? Oh, Topshop. You never fail to crack me up. I'm not sure which is more ridiculous - the fact you spelt Shakespeare wrong, or the fact that you felt the need to clarify who wrote Romeo & Juliet in the first place. Is your opinion of teenage girls really that low?!
My favourite part is this: "When informed of the error, a Topshop spokesperson reportedly exclaimed: 'Oh my god.'"
Quite.
What, you can't even buy TROUSERS now without finding a bad sexist joke on the washing instructions?
I am morbidly fascinated by the ways in which women and men are stereotyped by companies trying to flog their pointlessly gendered wares. Fin and I are thinking of getting a new car (our current car is too small for Smidgen, it makes a very ominous noise if you go over 40 miles an hour and bits of trim fall off at random on motorways. All valid reasons for a replacement, I feel). So I was on the What Car website looking at estate cars. The fact that my entire being is appalled by the very thought of buying an estate car - for my husband and my dog, URGH - is a whole other can of worms, but suffice to say I was already depressed enough before I noticed a little pink link inviting me to check out the "Female Verdict". One regrettable click later and I found myself on What Car's sister site, evecars.com. Because of course women need a separate car website all of their own. How are we meant to absorb information if it's not wrapped up in a pretty pink package? It's, like, totally hard!
Evecars seems to trade on the assumption that if you talk about cars like they're sexy beasts, women won't notice that they are, in fact, cars. The particular model I was looking at was described as "almost as smooth as 007"; its "sassy styling really stands out in a crowd". Erm, great. Any, you know, actual information about the car? Other than the fact it's "one of the cutest in its class"? I thought I was buying an estate car, not Justin Bieber?
The category descriptions are even worse. On and on, cliché after cliché. Easy to park! Great for the school run! You'll look fabulous! In fairness, there is an executive car category - "going to work is great!" - but whatever you do, don't try and drive to work in an MPV. That's "Mum's Taxi". No executives allowed.
Okay, fine, I'm probably overreacting. A lot of women might find the idea of walking into a car showroom intimidating or confusing (I certainly would), and might welcome a resource that talks about the different options in a simple, light-hearted way without descending into Top Gear territory (gah, the horror). But this relentless division of us all down neat little gender lines - women and men, girls and boys, pink and blue, even for something supposedly neutral like buying earplugs - is it really necessary?
I suppose my fear is that by endorsing the idea that women need only take a superficial interest in supposedly "manly" things (and vice versa), it encourages a particular brand of silly faux-helplessness. "Oh, gosh, I have no idea how many miles per gallon it does, that's for boys. But look at my sassy pink cup holder!" "Change a tyre? Well, I was hoping you might help me with that [cue hair twizzling and much batting of lashes]." One of the many reasons I'm grateful for knowing Fin is that he will always call me out when I lapse into daft lassie territory; I know I'm bright, he knows I'm bright, and allowing me to pretend I'm anything else is just irritating.
Having said that, I still have no clue how to change a tyre. Frankly, I'm not so hot on the washing and ironing, either.
Does anyone else get frustrated by this stuff?
{Images: 1. Emma Barnett/The Telegraph 2. Rion Sabean}
I have absolutely no intention of wading into the whole Scottish independence debate on here. I spend my life uncomfortably wedged between a fervent nationalist (my mother) and a staunch unionist (my husband), so the only sensible course of action here is for me to sink gratefully into a warm bath of indifference. It's a self-preservation thing.
But there is one thing that never fails to ruffle the calm waters of my disinterest. One thing guaranteed to have me leaping to my feet, dripping with righteous indignation. This one thing can be summed up in eight short words:
"England" and "Britain" are not the same thing.
One more time, for the folks at the back:
"England" and "Britain" are NOT. THE. SAME. THING.
Those of you who live on this fair isle will I hope be reasonably familiar with this concept. Those of you who live in other places, places where pants are trousers and sunshine is more than a bi-annual occurrence, well, I understand that the United Kingdom has a unique constitutional arrangement and not everyone in the entire world is educated about it from birth (more's the pity). But oh good lord, whenever I hear people referring to England when they mean the UK, it drives me crazy.
To be clear: I say this not as a patriot (although I am quite fond of our soggy little nation, and it hurts me to see it perceived as just another English county), but as an irredeemable, incurable pedant.
Seriously. It's like a disease. Whenever someone writes or says something that I know to be factually incorrect in even the smallest respect, I find it physically painful to keep my corrections to myself. My husband will confirm that it is my most irritating trait. And not in an endearing way.
At least I'm aware of it, and I am *trying* to get better. I almost got into a disagreement with one of my closest friends over whether it was James Murdoch or Rebekah Brooks who announced the News of the World closure to its staff. Even though I knew the answer (hint: it wasn't the redhead) and even though there was a computer sitting there winking at me, flashing its search engines, offering to prove me right, I somehow managed to restrain myself and just... let it go. Because does being right matter more than being a friend? No. Probably. No, definitely no.
(Although apparently I didn't really let it go, since this happened in July and I'm clearly still bitter about it. And now I've flaunted my rightness all over my blog. Like I said: incurable.)
So who has incurred my pedantic wrath this week, I hear you cry? Well, it was none other than the goddess that is Meryl Streep. Usually, Meryl can do no wrong in my eyes, but after winning a Golden Globe for her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady, she made sure to thank, in her speech, "everybody in England" for letting her "trample all over their history".
Oh, Meryl. Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. How could you let me down like this? You seem like an intelligent woman. You've just spent weeks living in this country. Worse than that, you were here giving what could be the defining performance of your career as one of the most notorious leaders this country has ever had. How is it possible that you still don't know what this country is called? Margaret Thatcher was not the Prime Minister of England. England does not have a Prime Minister. England no longer has a parliament. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland does. LOOK IT UP.
And, breathe.
There is another possibility, of course. Maybe Meryl's speech was really a clever allusion to the fact that, even though Thatcher decimated Scotland's industrial communities, put a fifth of its workforce out of a job within the first two years of her administration and imposed upon its people the most unpopular tax in Scottish history, her Conservative government never actually won a majority in Scotland. So we do technically have the people of England (well, okay, mainly the posh ones in the south) to thank for that. (Thanks.)
In which case, Meryl, by all means - trample away. I'll even hold your giant skirt for you.
Images: Site of the National Mining Museum of Scotland at the former Lady Victoria Colliery near Edinburgh, by LDN Architects.
Writing the words "Please" and "Thank you" in quotation marks kind of defeats the purpose.
Just thought you might need to know that for future neighbourly notes. You're "welcome."
Your Neighbour Who Is Now Secretly Plotting To Train Her Dog To Crap Beside Your Car
{Image via Passive Aggressive Notes}
A confession: I actually quite like pink, if it's a nice pink (hello, blog). I also carried on playing with Barbies for longer than anyone who hopes to have a normal social life reasonably should, only giving up when the potential embarrassment of being found out by my friends was finally greater than the joy I found in making up stories and creating outfits and designing floorplans all over my bedroom carpet with precarious rows of books as walls.
But I also read those books, and rode my bike, and wore green dungarees and red wellies and nobody accused me of not being feminine. I played with Barbie; I didn't aspire to be her.
I don't have a daughter, or any immediate prospect of one, but even I can see that there is something badly wrong with the way in which little girls are targeted and defined by today's media. There's pink, and then there's Pink.
In the sheltered, calm waters of the blogosphere (or at least the corner of it that I frequent), it's tempting to believe that the tide is turning. I see intelligent, stylish parents raising their daughters with respect, imagination and more than one colour of clothing, and I feel some measure of hope for my own hypothetical offspring.
But apparently, the rest of the world is lagging behind a bit. More than a bit, in fact. Just look at this. Ugh, and this. Sigh.
All is not lost, though. I have been following the Pink Stinks campaign on facebook for a while, and I was delighted to see their new website has just launched this week. Their campaigns not only highlight the pinkification (what? It's totally a word) of little girls, but also challenge the underlying stereotypes and blatant sexism that sneaks in behind it. They first caught my attention when they forced Sainsburys to back down over gender stereotyping (they labelled a fancy dress doctor costume "Boy", and a nurse's uniform "Girl". I mean, come on). By the looks of the shiny new Pink Stinks website, they are headed for even bigger things. I defy you to watch the promo video on the front page and stop your jaw from dropping. It's not possible.
Far be it from me to lecture parents on how to raise their children. I'm finding it exhausting enough just trying to keep a dog alive. But not even dogs are safe from this ruthless gender stereotyping. Just look at poor Smidgen:
The Pink is spreading, ladies. WE HAVE TO STOP IT.
1. Doutzen Kroes shot by Karl Lagerfeld (yes, really) for Harper's Bazaar, April 2008. 2. Me, shot by a responsible adult, presumably. 3. Smidgen, shot by me. She loves it really...
I make no secret of the fact that I'm a Strictly Come Dancing fan. It's not an exaggeration to say it's one of the highlights of my year. That wall display up there? I made it. That's right. I also cut out and hand-lettered eight complete sets of gold paper scoring paddles for my friends and me. Some people might say I have too much time on my hands; I prefer to think of myself as simply enthusiastic. Either way, when I heard this year's squadron of starlets was to be revealed yesterday, naturally I was beyond excited.
Excited, that is, right up until the moment they were announced.
Seriously, BBC, WHO??? Did you already spend all of your budget on Formula One and royal wedding documentaries? Who are these people?!
Okay fine, it's not a total celebrity vacuum, but Lulu and Jason Donovan can't carry an entire series on their teeny tiny shoulders, not even with the assistance of mildly attractive actress-turned-popstar-turned-actress-again Holly Valance (you know, that one that used to be on Neighbours). Thank God for Kristina Rihanoff, that's all I have to say.
Speaking of old Lulu, the hot question on everybody's lips (fine, just mine) is whether she'll be going for Posh Lulu or Weegie Lulu. For those not familiar, Lulu, like my mum, grew up in Glasgow in the 50s and 60s (my mum once chatted to her in the toilets in a club when she was a teenager. Terrible skin, apparently. So there you go).
Upon Lulu's arrival in London in the early 60s and her sudden rise to international popstardom, she promptly abandoned her Scottish roots to adopt a bizarre mid-Atlantic accent, something she has valiantly maintained to this day. So what? She wouldn't be the first and won't be the last to discard a regional accent to advance her career (although she should have done her research first; just check out this not-at-all biased article from the Glasgow Herald entitled "Scottish accent is best, yet another survey reveals". Indeed).
But what really hacks me off is the fact that when she does decide to grace our humble country with her presence, she feels the need to don the most ridiculous faux-Scottish accent you have ever heard. Seriously - just listen. Does she think we're daft? Does she think we don't have televisions north of the border?
Lulu, love, the game's up. If you want Scotland to vote for you (incidentally, why, in these TV talent shows, do people feel compelled to vote along national lines? Just look at Jedward - don't you think the Irish regret it now?) then the time has come to just pick an accent and stick with it. Stop changing your accent more often than you change your sparkly, flesh-coloured leotards. Thanks.
Anyone else got Strictly fever?
**If you've come here from the BBC Strictly website in search of more Strictly goodness, I strongly suggest you check out these amazing write-ups. Seriously. You won't regret it.**
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| Image by Nick Papakyriazis |
I hate bank holidays. Hate them, hate them, hate them, because I NEVER get them off work. The only public holidays we get are Christmas, New Year and Easter. We *allegedly* get extra days of annual leave to make up for it, but that's cold consolation when I've already used up all my leave and it seems as if everyone in the world is getting a lie-in apart from me.
Well, if I can't have a day off work, I can at least give myself a day off blogging (I'm such a generous boss). So I hope you all enjoy your day of eating and napping and fun. I'll think of you as I sit at my desk, gazing longingly out of the window...
Who knew that shoddy grammar was such a rich seam of comedy gold? I thought I'd reached the peak of grammatical hilarity when I found the alot. I was wrong.
Have you guys ever listened to A Dramatic Reading of a Real Break-up Letter? [WARNING: the sound plays automatically and it's really not funny without the sound, so maybe don't play it at work. Or in a library. Or anywhere where it might be a problem if you become incapacitated by streaming tears of laughter and unable to speak in coherent sentences for approximately five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you.]
On Saturday morning, I sneaked out of bed when Fin was still asleep to get my illicit internet fix and eventually I stumbled randomly upon this site. Fin burst into the room five minutes later, convinced that I had received some terrible, tragic news, because how else to explain the loud, racking sobs echoing from the living room? Unfortunately I was so consumed with laughter that I was completely unable to explain myself - I could only point helplessly at the screen and hit refresh.
I am without doubt a grammar geek. To me, knowledge of proper punctuation is not a luxury or an old-fashioned frippery. It is essential to our understanding of the written word - to our understanding of the world, even! Probably!
Of course I devoured Eats, Shoots and Leaves, and I can't get enough of Cate's occasional series on common grammatical mishaps and misunderstandings (as an actual proper linguist, she is far more tactful and helpful than me. I just scream, "IT'S WHOSE NOT WHO'S, DUMBASS!!" at my screen about five times a day, which is clearly neither tactful nor helpful. Unless you count being helpful to me). But nothing makes me happier than when someone brings to life the sheer ridiculousness that ensues when a writer's grammar, spelling or punctuation (and preferably all three) goes horribly awry.
Which is exactly what this Dramatic Reading is all about. I must confess that I have never actually been dumped in my life (I know! I'm surprised too. That's just what happens when you marry the guy you met when you were 18) but I like to think that, no matter how heartbroken or humiliated I might be, I would still hit the spell-checker before I pulled the trigger on a break-up letter. In fact I think I'd make it my priority.
Because nothing says, "You have hurt me, but I shall maintain my dignity and composure in the face of adversity," quite like the phrase, "Your such n ass wipe n bastert!!".
Images: 1. Letterpress card by Sapling Press 2. For the girl who *really* loves punctuation, via American Apparel
Which is exactly what this Dramatic Reading is all about. I must confess that I have never actually been dumped in my life (I know! I'm surprised too. That's just what happens when you marry the guy you met when you were 18) but I like to think that, no matter how heartbroken or humiliated I might be, I would still hit the spell-checker before I pulled the trigger on a break-up letter. In fact I think I'd make it my priority.
Because nothing says, "You have hurt me, but I shall maintain my dignity and composure in the face of adversity," quite like the phrase, "Your such n ass wipe n bastert!!".
Images: 1. Letterpress card by Sapling Press 2. For the girl who *really* loves punctuation, via American Apparel
What was I saying yesterday about powerlessness and injustice?
Perhaps Ken Clarke would care to explain what constitutes "serious rape", and what differentiates it from, say, whimsical rape?
What. A. Twat.
This weekend, I read this book. (I know, I know, I'm meant to be reading that one for the A Practical Wedding book club. But I can't exactly go on a romantic minibreak with my husband and take The Science of a Good Marriage, can I?)
This is not a particularly sophisticated book. It's written from the perspective of a dog, for a start. It also contains a lot of references to car racing, which isn't something I would ever have imagined would be interesting. But, actually, for a little light reading on a carefree weekend, cosied up in pressed sheets and fragrant, fluffy pillows, it was perfect.
Except, there is an incident in the book that didn't quite fit in with the serene and peaceful mood I had planned. In fact, it had me quite literally shaking with rage. My heart was pounding. I actually had to put the book down for a few hours and do something else until the rage had subsided and I could go back and, hesitatingly, pick up where I left off. I won't go into the detail but essentially what it boiled down to was a vile mixture of injustice and powerlessness (oh, how often the two go hand-in-hand).
I didn't go into law to save the world or right wrongs. I went into law because I couldn't think of anything else to do wanted to be like Ally MacBeal thought it might be interesting. I've always enjoyed analysing complicated situations and seeking out the most elegant, logical solution. (Like the time I broke into my parents' house using a tent pole. I've never been more proud.) Honestly, I saw law as more of an intellectual pursuit than a vocation. And, true to form, I have ended up practising in an area that is full of complicated regulations and difficult concepts and not much in the way of life-or-death implications, and that's the way I've always liked it.
But I think I may be undergoing a conversion. Your typical law student starts out brimming with high aspirational principles. These are then slowly and ruthlessly ground out of him or her by the tireless, all-consuming force of Hourly Rates, Chargeable Time and Performance-Related Bonuses. I, on the other hand, seem to be floating back in the opposite direction, to the point where a potential fictional miscarriage of justice, narrated by a dog, leaves me boiling with rage at the wickedness of the world. I mean, is this normal? I have no idea.
Was this book a turning point? Was it the final push that would make me throw in the towel on my corporate law job and run off to the Democratic Republic of Congo to be a human rights lawyer and bang up all these scumbags?
Truthfully, no. Probably not. I did sign up to volunteer for a free law clinic, though, so all is not entirely lost.
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| Image: Getty, via The Telegraph, via Pinterest |
Mainly, to be honest, the book just kind of made me want to get a dog. Preferably this one. Anyone know where I can steal him?
WTF is this?
Is this for real? Are you just trying to make me feel old?
I was not aware that leotards had become (a) socially acceptable and (b) worth eighty-nine quid.
And I mean, where do you even wear something like this?
High collar + dark colour = work-type scenario.
And yet, see-through skirt bit + highly flammable fabric = PARTAY!
What happened, Topshop? How did it come to this?
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| Weird greige one-armed leotard thing, £89 (yes, £89) |
Is this for real? Are you just trying to make me feel old?
I was not aware that leotards had become (a) socially acceptable and (b) worth eighty-nine quid.
And I mean, where do you even wear something like this?
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| Scab-coloured sheer blouse/skirt/whatever, £35 |
High collar + dark colour = work-type scenario.
And yet, see-through skirt bit + highly flammable fabric = PARTAY!
What happened, Topshop? How did it come to this?
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| Yes, those are Brown. Crochet. Shorts. £36 |
I remember when Topshop used to be my first stop on Princes Street. My friends and I would excitedly swarm up the steps from the station, a giggling gaggle of hormones and pocket money.
You were the purveyor of my first pair of the finest jelly shoes. My first ever too-tight pencil skirt. My sage-green chenille cardigan that I wore with a beige v-neck t-shirt. I looked HAWT.
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| Trousers made from curtains! It's upcycling! Genius! £45 |
Were you always like this, and I, in my youthful naivety and chronic 1990s style-blindness, simply didn't realise? Could it be that my sparkly jelly shoes and my clunky chenille cardigan were - whisper it - not actually all that nice??
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| Crochet blanket fringe vest (that's its ACTUAL NAME), £32 |
No. It was never as bad as this.
So long, Topshop. It was fun while it lasted.
...until Team Sugar is back.
The Hubster and I are beyond excited.
The Hubster and I are beyond excited.
This year's candidates have been announced.
I continue to be baffled that anyone would willingly subject themselves to this ritual humiliation.
We couldn't pick a favourite candidate (they're all pretty horrendous),
but the odious Natasha is a leading contender for most obnoxious.
We couldn't pick a favourite candidate (they're all pretty horrendous),
but the odious Natasha is a leading contender for most obnoxious.
Anyone who describes herself as "in your face",
like that's a good thing, is not really My Kind Of Person.
But oh, how I luuuuurve to hate them all.
And you know the best thing about The Apprentice in the UK?
We don't have to put up with this bell end.
Never mind the royal wedding, it's times like these
when I thank the Lord I'm British.
Top two pictures via BBC. Bottom: PA
This post originally appeared on Any Other Woman
The husband and I recently spent a weekend staying with my parents. Unlike us, they have an all-singing all-dancing satellite TV package, so at the first opportunity I grabbed the remote and began excitedly flicking through the channels. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the First Universal Law of Television: the more channels you have, the fewer the programmes that are actually worth watching. I had worked my way through the usual channels without success and desperation was setting in as I scrolled further and further downwards, edging dangerously close to the realm of Russian news channels and obscure sporting events, when a programme title caught my eye.
I should have known better. I knew I would regret it, I could tell from the title, but I couldn't stop myself. I clicked 'View'. And suddenly I found myself watching the most horrifying, rage-inducing programme I have ever seen. No, it wasn't Louis Theroux with those vile people, or even Jordan's latest nonsense. It was Bridalplasty.
For those of you who haven't experienced this horrendousness, allow me to explain. Hosted by what I can only assume is a robot, Bridalplasty sees twelve brides compete against each other for the chance to win "The Perfect Wedding". Each week, the women participate in increasingly ridiculous and demeaning challenges with the aim of winning another dream plastic surgery procedure from their "wish list" while so-called "experts" prey on their insecurities. When the "losing" bride is eliminated each week, Robo-Host sends them on their way with the immortal line, "Your wedding will still go on. It just won't be perfect."
Seriously??
If I learned anything from my wedding planning experience, it was this:
1. Your wedding will not be perfect.
2. Your wedding is not a competition.
As a highly competitive perfectionist, I struggled with both of these realisations and, honestly, sometimes I still do. I can't pretend I didn't love it when guests told me ours was the best wedding they'd ever been to (aw, shucks, I bet they say that to all the brides), or spend hours admiring our amazing wedding photos, or get a thrill out of seeing our wedding featured on Rock My Wedding.
But it certainly wasn't "perfect". I had to abandon several projects in the run-up to the wedding (chronological photo collages of our entire relationship? Personal handwritten welcome notes for all 140 guests? Yeah right). I didn't get a facial, or a manicure, or a massage, or a spray tan. I was late to the church. I ripped my dress. There was a one-day-only, never-happened-before-or-since plague of greenflies on the beach, so that I ended up with little flies embedded all over my lace dress and in my veil (nice). I got stressed and started yelling at people to come and be in the formal photos. Our speeches overran by an hour and most people missed us cutting the cake. Instead of a romantic late-night stroll along the beach to our B&B after the wedding, we had a not-so-romantic trek along the pavement with Fin's stepbrother obliviously in tow. Et cetera.
Nor was it "better" than any other wedding. It was ours, and that made it special to us, but there is no Standard Scale of Wedding Perfection. There are no marks out of ten. Wedding planning is not (yet) an Olympic sport. It's so easy to look at weddings on blogs or in magazines and see how intimidatingly beautiful everything is, and become overwhelmed by the fear your wedding will simply not measure up. I will freely admit that I felt that way more than once during the planning. It was really only after the wedding was over that the cloud lifted, and I saw clearly for the first time that it is not the stationery, or the decorations, or the flowers, or the dresses, that make a wedding; it's the people, the love, the FUN, and all the other warm gooey stuff that you can't feel from a computer screen or the page of a magazine.
I want to grab hold of those Bridalplasty brides and tell them they do not need to be "perfect" to be beautiful. I want to show them that having a happy marriage has nothing to do with having a perfect wedding (just look at poor wee Cheryl Cole). I want to beg them to support and encourage their fellow brides, instead of stomping all over those brides' dreams with the heavy jackboots of their own insecurities. I want to shout that the only thing that matters, the only thing worth fighting for, is that at the end of the day you will be married to the one that you love and who loves you.
(Although, as the inimitable Bowie Bride proved, even accidentally missing out the legally-married-bit isn't *that* big a problem.)
So, for those you still navigating the stormy waters of wedding planning, here, for what they're worth, are my thoughts from the other side.
1. Forget about perfection. Our imperfections make us beautiful, and the same applies to our weddings, because ultimately they are nothing more nor less then a reflection of ourselves. Embrace the parts that matter to you and try to let the rest fall away (but don't beat yourself up for caring about the aesthetics and the details, if that's your thing - sometimes pretty things just make ushappy).
2. Try not to fixate on what people will think of your wedding, or compare yourself with other brides, or second-guess your choices. It's not a competition, but even if it were, guess what? You already win! By the end of the day, you will (hopefully) be married and get to spend the rest of your lives together. Eyes on the prize.
3. Pay close attention to this one. This is vital. If you find yourself idly clicking through the channels on a rainy afternoon and you happen to come across (*gag*) Bridalplasty, whatever you do, do not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, press View. Just keep on clickin'.
Image by Lillian and Leonard
