If I scream in this blog, will it make a sound? Or is there an echo? Hello out there...
Chris is watching Don Draper and Bill Maher talk about politicky-stuff so this is a good time to ramble on and on and on...

I am back in school (recall the teacher from Peanuts: Waah wah waaah) so I am going to use some of the knowledge gleaned from those hours of oh-so-much fun. First up, when writing a lengthy bit of words and phrases- summarize what you are going to discuss in the beginning:

1) I will talk about stuff tangentially related to my wedding....
2) uh, haven't thought this far. Let's just go with it, noting that we will most likely end up in a gonococcus laced (Clap On!) hot tub with the epically coiffed (aerodynamically sound!) Pauly D.

A couple of biggie small accomplishments have been pushed through in the last couple of days. Today, we drove out to the Galleria to meet our new photographer, Jessica, at a Starbucks. We decided against hiring the first photographer because it's all about the Hamiltons, yo. And as grad students we need to save up our US Presidents. By the way, did you know that there is a $100,000 USD bill? I sure as hell didn't. I really wish there will be a point in my life in which I can snort coke off a stripper's ass with a rolled up Wilson. That's the American dream, right there.

Back to Starbucks- I sipped on my Passion Tea while she talked about the package deals and pricing. I was in a state of half-sleep, trying desperately to jolt my recently awaken body to full capacity before I passed into a sleep deprived coma in the midst of bustling shoppers. Thank Florence + the Machine, I survived the meet and drink, dodging mini-vans full of middle class drones filing into the doors of the authentic Mexican eatery, Jimboy's. "Excuse me waiter/cashier, it seems as if someone emptied their stomach contents onto my plate. Oh, that's how it's supposed to look and...smell? I'm gonna need to have someone do me a solid and call Poison Control."

Speaking of things that annoy, disturb, and upset the delicate nature of my gastrointestinal system- do you know about the "sizing" of wedding dresses? *breathe in, breathe out* So take the average American woman (size 14 according to Wiki). She walks into David's Bridal/The Bridal Depot/Brides-R-Us/Dress, Train, and Beyond and goes to try on a size 14. Sorry dear but that dress ain't fitting that ass. By walking through the doors of whatever overpriced tulle factory is nearest to her, she automatically jumps up two dress sizes. Two! Is the gravity in this place different? Did we move to Jupiter? I want to go back to Earth but I will settle for Pluto. A size 14 goes to a size 18 in a snap. How does that affect the bride's self esteem? Is she really going to feel like a princess on the "most important day of her life?" I used to ridicule the women who woke up at dawn to pound the cement, eating a slice of cheese coupled with a floret of broccoli as her daily nourishment but now I hear the treadmill calling my butt. Too much junk in the trunk. What is seriously disturbing is that there are size 0 wedding dresses. Think about that for a minute. [Size 0] - [2 dress sizes] = 1 seriously malnourished woman. During her Ally McBeal days, Callista Flockhart rocked the clothes hanger look with a size 0 but her chunky ass and thunder thighs must resort to a size 4 wedding dress. If the average model is a size 2, is the average wedding dress model a size 2, a size -2, or a size 6? How does that work? Do you go back to children's sizes? Can I get the Hannah Montana themed wedding attire, please? This flipping industry is going to give me an ulcer. It is absolutely mind-boggling how they can make a woman feel like Violet Beauregarde after her life altering gum chewing incident. Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-do/I have another Zoloft for you.

If I don't end the rant now, it will never stop and I will be concocting Oompa Loompa lyrics for the remainder of the weekend. Moving on. Tomorrow, we once again travel up to the mountainous hills of Placerville to take a peek at our venue and Bob, the two-foot catfish. I have my pinkie toes crossed hoping that he has successfully deterred my Canadian foes from nesting in my future ceremony site. I see your Avril Lavigne and raise you a Ted Nugent. Game on, birdie. Game on.