03.06.08
Mes Invites…are gonna love these favors.
03.05.08
Finding the Wedding Clothes
I only looked at one bridal magazine before finding my dress. I bought it in the JFK airport while making my connection to O’Hare and read it on that flight. I dog-earred three or four. Of the four, only one really struck my fancy and tore it out so I would remember.
When my mom picked me up at the airport, we started talking wedding stuff so I showed her the four dresses in the magazine. She liked all of them, except the one I had torn out (my favorite). “I hate this one. No way!” she said.
The next morning I woke up with extreme jet lag. (i had flown all the way from switzerland). As I had one month in the USA to search for dresses, it wasnt on my list of things to do that very first day. But it was for my mom. She pulled me out of bed saying she was going to take me to breakfast. Aww, how sweet. Except half way there she blurted out “I just noticed this bridal shop the other day and well its on the way so lets just stop.” What a trick she pulled!
After six hours of sleep and jet lag I really wasn’t that keen on it. Plus, the tiny shop had broken front windows, which were taped together with duct tape, and it was nestled between a mechanic’s garage and a Walgreens. She basically had to beg me to go in.
Inside I tried on a few dresses. No luck. Then suddenly my mom was handing me a dress and saying “I know you will probably hate this, but humor me, because i think it is SO YOU.”
I laughed out loud. It was the same dress as the one I had torn out of the magazine. She refused to admit that it was at first, but insisted it was the best dress for me. (Later she would sheepishly admit that it was) I agreed. I was torn between the one that was “me” and one that was completely 1500s ball-gown with embroidered jewels and flowers. My mom and the shop keeper said, in eerie unison, “You look much thinner in the simple one!” Sold! We bought it and walked out after an hour in the store, and before I had even been 24 hours in the country again. Easy-peasy.
Jon and I spent this past Saturday looking for his suit. The consistent theme to our whole marriage-planning adventure is “Firsts.” The first place we visit, we love, we book. The first font we try, we adore, we use. The first day I try dresses, I love, I buy. The first suit shop we pass has a gray suit in the window - the color we’re seeking. We enter, he tries it on, we love it. Of course, just like with the reception hall I am the one to say “If we love it, let’s get it, and free up the rest of our Saturday!!” and Jon is the one to say “But let’s just go visit the other seven places on our list to be sure.” So we did. All seven. Then we made a bee-line for the first store to book the suit; It is the clear winner.
The only problem with the suit arose when Jon went to have it fitted while I was not there. He called me on the cell, frantic. “I cannot wear my brown shoes (his best shoes which he wears once a decade, and are handmade from Italy and cost more than my dress). I can’t wear them! The woman says they break the Three Color Rule!!
“The what? ” I ask.
“The Three Color Rule Jessica! She is so right, why didn’t I think about this!?” he groans, more to himself.
I ask him to explain: The three color rule means no more than three colors with a suit. The suit is gray, the shirt is pink, the tie is fuschia. So he cannot wear brown shoes. Or so she says.
I ask, “Then how can you wear black shoes?”
“Because black is a shade of gray so it is not an additional color.”
“Well fuschia is a shade of pink,” I counter.
Touché.
To clear up the matter we’ve set another appointment to go in and try on the various colors of shirt/tie/shoe ensembles with the saleswomens’ help. The funny thing is, this rule, it makes sense. To a point. If it happens to look good with four, well, I say do it (though the Saleswomen would shoot me the evil eye and cluck their tongues under their breath). This whole conversation made me laugh because Jon was so…Swiss. So upset about possibly, nearing, contemplating breaking a “Rule.” While in the meantime, if I know him well at all, he really is more “American” in mentality, and he will listen to their well-intentioned advices about color theory, but if he (and only he) likes what he sees in the mirror, four, five, six colors or not, he will wear it.
What about you folks? Have you been abiding my, or hearing of any dress/attire rules throughout this process??
Cupcakes in a Cup
If you are clinging to the cupcake idea, what about a little twist? Why not have your cupcakes served in a tea cup, like this:
If I were doing it, I would pick a flavor that went well with chocolate sauce (which could be drizzled lightly over the top) or a small dollop of vanilla bean ice cream. I would take the outside wrapper off (which is still on in the picture) so that people could dig in with a demi-tasse spoon!
03.03.08
The Proposal, Part II
For months after we had our secret official wedding, Jon and I did not discuss an actual wedding ceremony. Then, during the summer, the subject began to surface. We both felt ready for the next step, and what felt like the real step for us: a ceremony in front of cherished friends and family.
As we discussed engagements and weddings, and mostly how long one could be engaged before holding the ceremony, we fell upon yet another cultural difference. The Swiss don’t usually give engagement rings, and certainly not diamonds! As you can imagine, this was no light-weight discovery. Jon showed me the most impressive and popular wedding bands, and my face crumbled in dismay at the sight. Then Jon researched what people spend on engagement rings in America, and he felt his own staggering sense of despair. Worse than the price for him was the discovery of what the perceived expectations around an engagement ring were. For the next six months, as he and I batted around the subject of engagement and a proposal in public terms, Jon also began to fret heavily over the subject of the ring.
When we visited America, instead of keeping his eyes at eye level to take in the sights around him, he would screen the feminine left hands that passed within his sight, and then let out a long sigh. Sometimes he would get downright pissy, and say things outloud like “Why do you even need a diamond ring, you Americans. Is it just to show off? Do you know where those stones come from!?” Throughout those moments I tried to remember that he was not angry at me, and to keep in mind that the man was encountering this subject, and the weight of the price and expectations, for the very first time in his life. Facing the thought of disappointing the woman he wants to marry must have been staggeringly rough (must be for even American men at this step), but so was swallowing the fact that he was going to be doing this for me only, and because it was my culture.
At times the subject saddened me. I said, “No diamond. Forget it.” I cried a few times. I wanted to feel that he desired to make this effort for me. Then I was forced to ask myself tough questions: Why do I want a ring? Do I need one? Is my cultural expectation really grounded on anything?
In the end, I decided I did want a ring. I did want a proposal, preferably on one-knee - another idea I introduced to an increasingly shell-shocked boyfriend/husband. Did I need a ring? No. Did I want one? Yes. Did I need a diamond? No. I wanted an opal to replace a ring my favorite, inherited ring which I lost the dayI flew to meet Jonathan in Hawaii. What I wanted was a visible testament to his desire to make me happy, and a piece of tangible proof of our mutual commitment. The world sees this ring and, in my head, knows that I have committed myself to someone. Why do I care if the world knows it? Because I think this ring, or perhaps it could be anything I could wear everyday, is also a living compliment to Jon himself. With this ring, I pick him, above all else.
Also, I give him tangible proof. Perhaps not diamonds, or even a nice watch, but I try to give him tangible proof too. I hope our lives are filled with small exchanges of it.
As it turned out, my mom had a loose diamond taken from my deceased grandmother’s wedding ring, which she decided to donate to Jonathan. One night he sat me down at the kitchen table and said, “You know that your mom is giving us a diamond. I will find a way to make you a ring, but from now on the conversations stop - this is my project.” As usual, he greatly exaggerated his ability to keep things from me.
Fall was one long season of torture. My engagement ring, which Jon continued to inform me is beautiful, was hidden in our apartment. I was leaving for the United States in Early November, and he still had not told me when he was going to propose.
This ring has been a series of small discoveries since our “final” conversation. Once I stumbled upon a piece of paper accidentally dropped into my personal “mailbox.” It was a drawing of the ring. That was discovery number one. Fortunately for him I had the good sense to crumple the paper before my eyes registered the design. Then there were other discoveries, accidental, which meant that I knew where it was made, and I hoped, the relative time-frame he might give it to me.
For example, one day Jonathan seemed to have a temporary loss of memory and told his father in French where the ring was coming from, while I was standing in the room. I had to remind him, in French, that I understand French, ya know… for future reference.
Once the rings physical existence was somewhat known business, Jon thought it was acceptable to leave me in Neuchâtel one afternoon while he went to the ring maker and checked on it. I thought it was torture!
Then one weekend, about a month laster, while eating dinner at a colleague’s house, I I happened to walk past the open door to the coat closet, and I saw his colleague passing Jonathan the box.
Eek! I was only feet away.
From then on Jon teased me ruthlessly by showing everyone but me the final product - the ring he had hand designed for me. And I had only to wait, and hope in utter selfishness, that it came before I left for America for two months.
03.02.08
Cultural Tradition: The Cortège
Aside from the two seconds during which Jon and I say “I do,” or rather, “Oui” (There’s another cultural difference, that whole Famous Two Words thing is obsolete here!) the part of the wedding that I am looking forward to the most is the Cortège. I am looking forward to it for so many reasons: For the organized fashion of a caravan of cars all following us; for the antique car Jon will be driving, for the feeling of cruising through country roads with views of lakes and mountains; for the horns blaring for thirty minutes without pause; for the children racing through fields to grab the candy thrown from cards onto the roadside, for the elderly and adults waving to us from balconies as we pass through small villages; and finally, for my American guests to see, as I have every time I have been a participant in someone else’s cortège, that the Swiss can be loud, let-loose, fun and crazy.
This week we made the map of the route, in order to pass to our guests at the end of the ceremony before leaving. Normally there are two whole cortèges: from church to cocktail and from cocktail hour to reception. We’re just having one (no church). Everyone files into one long line of cars, so mostly people can just follow us, but given red lights, people need directions too - hence the maps. They are handed out along with a large sack of candies, each wrapped individually in plastic.
The key to the whole thing is the honking. From the second the leading (our) car begins to drive, the entire caravan begins to honk insanely - sometimes to a rather interesting beat - and doesn’t stop until we arrive at the reception. The honking alerts all villagers, and especially kids, that there has been a wedding and we are coming. Kids run down to the street to catch the candy thrown from cars.
If you like this idea, try incorporating it in America, and telling people in advance what to expect. Also, drive the route beforehand so you know exactly how you want to drive it, and what potential traps there are for getting lost. Google Maps gave us a set of directions online beforehand, but when we started to drive it we found a MUCH prettier road just along the lake to take, and it was only five extra minutes long.
