Something I here don’t do a whole lot is give credit where it is due.

Sure, I tell a lot of gross girl-joke stories, and if you want information about the the current state of my pubic hair, look no further. While that is all well and good, I feel as though I must give a shout-out to the one person who has made this entire blogging experience happen to us, AND to most of you: my husband.

And to be fair last night he actually THREW a crusty greenish yellow booger at me while he was sleeping, but who can blame him? I am still the person who was, according to both of her parents, and I quote, “Born smoking a cigar and barking out orders.”

Yesterday WHILE AWAKE, he did something for me that I couldn’t do myself: he took my bestest cat in the whole wide world in to be put to sleep. He held him while he died. And no amount of crusty boogies thrown at me day or night can minimize that to me. It meant EVERYTHING.

My heart was wearing a less-sad face knowing that Finnigan died with someone who loved him (almost) as much as I do.

This isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination the only thing that Daver has ever done for me. He allowed me to pick out AND BUY the car that I wanted over the car he wanted. He’s even learning to like it! That may have something to do with the fact that I GRILL him about it over and over, but so what? Right?

He doesn’t even talk TOO much about annulments when I use my crappy way of evoking the cheerful daemons when he’s in a nasty, foul, disgusting, flatulent mood. I mean maybe you don’t know this but I SING HIM ROD STEWART! AT TOP VOLUME! Now I of course, ADORE Rod “The Hot-Bod At 708 Years Old” Stewart, but I recognize this as another of my dirty and gross qualities.

Take whatever dislike you likely have for my choice in music and couple that with the fact that my singing physically shears wallpaper from the walls. Really, it does. This is why we have none in our house.

In this vein, I leave you with my favorite quote from my favorite Rod “I Can’ Believe I’m Still Makin’ Baby Batter’ Stewart, and I dedicate it to you, my sweet Daver:

You’re a rhapsody, a comedy,
You’re a symphony, and a play;
You’re every love song ever written,
But honey, what do you see in me?

Did you know that I didn’t want a wedding? And that I have a vagina? TRUE MOTHERFUCKING STORY, INTERNET.

I was in favor of the Vegas-way. Elvis, gambling, boozing? All up my alley. A 440-lb white dress? Not my scene. Nonetheless, *someone* stupid told me that relationships were about Compromise so I gave in. We had a wedding on 9/10/05.

And I give my thanks EVERYDAY that it is over. Seriously, every day I wake up and am grateful that it is NOT my wedding day.

Over the course of the wedding, I had several epiphanies of things I will be sure to do the next time I get married. Because I am not just stupid but annoying too:

1. Don’t do it. Romantic as the whole shebang can seem from afar, it isn’tt. Don’t let any rosy-cheeked newlyweds tell you differently. It’s not a rite of passage, it’s a highway to hell.

2. If you’ve ignored my advice, do yourself a favor and elect someone from the wedding party to be the Annoying Questions Lazy People Ask Fielder. Make someone else be your bitch or people will walk all over you.

3. Do NOT get an upper respiratory infection before the wedding. Because then you will turn into Typhoid Becky and infect the entire Chicagoland Area with a Superbug worse than MRSA. Unless, you know, you’re into that stuff.

4. Make sure the DJ plays Nazareth’s “Love Hurts” as your first song. Because really, it does.

5. September 10th is a fucking hot day. Also, your knees have sweat glands.

6. Everything is better with bacon.

7. Elope to Vegas. Because, obviously.

8. Do not allow yourself to be suckered into doing all of the work for a wedding that you didn’t want to have in the first place because then you will be bitter and annoying to everyone around you.

9. Do not make your friends wear strapless dresses. They will bitch and moan and make YOU wear 608 lbs of yellow taffeta at their weddings. And ride on a llama.

10. RSVP’s are optional. Get over it.

And lastly, just don’t do it. Really, no. Don’t do it.

In four days, the two shall become one, or something like that. So here we are, posting as one.

Aunt Becky has been running herself ragged getting everything done for this wedding, because I don’t do anything for silly things like weddings. I prefer to focus my energies on my online girlfriends and computer-related foibles. I do this because you can’t hear online girlfriends queef.

It’s interesting that Powdered Gay Man or whomever DAVE would like to be would say something about weddings. See, hear me out, I didn’t want a wedding. No, no, in every OTHER man’s romantic life, I would be the most simple, kindest of women, because MY idea of romance is a short flight to Vegas away. I’ve not even BEGUN to understand why on earth ANYONE would want to spring such money for one single day. And honey, we will NEVER be “one.”

Hey, I offered a Vegas trip. I wanted to be married by Elvis. Of course, the ceremony would have to happen in true Road Trip fashion, the only TRUE way a Vegas wedding should be: Skydiving. That’s right. You, me, and the King with parachutes flapping open in the breeze, saying our vows in just enough time before having to pull that cord and land back on earth, joined in wedded bliss. But as much as my love SAYS she wants a Vegas wedding, this small little request was returned to sender. Denied. Kaboshed. And honey, we’re ALREADY one. We just don’t have the rings on yet.

I did quite appreciate the Vegas offering, I did. Let me set this record straight once and for all, though. You ONLY offered this trip AFTER I said that I would go skydiving, and I quote myself here,”when it becomes socially acceptable to shit my own pants.” YOU didn’t think that having my pants filled with dookie would be “romantic” or “sensual.”

You forget, my love, that I offered to clean those soiled drawers for you myself. With my own tongue. And on top of that, this is what Depends are for. You’ll never remember the dookie in the drawers, what you’ll remember is the love in the air. Besides, no one will smell it at 20,000 feet or so, in free-fall, you’re ALWAYS upwind.

See, honey-muffin, here’s where you’re lying to yourself, and to me AND TO THE INTERNET. Now I know FOR A FACT, that had you ACTUALLY offered to “eat my shit,” literally this time, I would have been more than happy to oblige you. I’ve been waiting to see something like that happen for AGES. No, this whole elaborate wedding is your fault, as are natural disasters, the fact that my closet doesn’t have enough purses, AND soaring gas prices. P.S. There is no one. The computers must count for SOMETHING.

It’s no lie. I mean, I may have been a bit, y’know, *figurative* about the actual “eating” part, but no, I’d have cleaned you up nice afterward. Instead, now, we’ve got all these people coming into town, an oncoming bar tab the size of China, cute-ass little place cards, and even some minor family drama. P.S. I’m sorry about the gas prices, but baby, your closet has so many purses that we don’t need to buy luggage for our honeymoon. We can just fill up the purses and carry ’em on.

God Bless America, and God Bless YOU, Dave. You have SO MUCH to learn about purses. I’ll teach you ALL about it after the honeymoon.

Oh baby, I can hardly wait. Maybe someday SOME day, I’ll have a purse of my very own in my closet. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

The purse in your closet, honey, is actually called “spillover.”

We need a bigger house.

We need wealthy benefactors.

Now THERE is a brilliant idea. This is why I love you. Benefactors? You out there? Show us some love. W’re buying 160 people dinner on Saturday.
Give us the hookup!

You’re shameless.*I* was going to have a”love child” with an old, old, rich oil tycoon.

And you scrapped that brilliant plan just to marry me?

There are still four days left for me to change my mind.

There you have it, kind readers. True love.