No, I Don't Have A Date: An Open Letter from an Unbride

I recently got engaged. For me, this means I have found the person to whom, before the Universe, I will swear never to leave. Even if, for the rest of time, he never puts his dishes in the dishwasher or wipes his toothpaste out of the sink, I'm staying. Best I can tell, the things I will need to accomplish this are patience, love, kindness, and fortitude. Best I can tell, the things I won't need to accomplish this are a dress, ugly dresses for my friends, cheesy gifts that will take their place in the ranks among other candles and koozies, and GOD DAMN mason jars. So you can imagine my surprise (this is a lie, people don't surprise me any more, it's just the word I use when I mean, REALLY PEOPLE?) when the first words out of everyone's mouth are, "Have you set a date?

Now that we've been engaged a couple of months, I at least understand a little better why this is what people want to know, but in the first round of congratulations we received just days after the ring was on my finger, it gave me panic attacks. What do you mean when? I haven't even called all my relatives yet!

More than the (implied) pressure of feeling like I've failed myself because I don't have a boring old beige hall booked where I can live out the same BORING dreams of a million girls who came before me, I dislike the pity eyes. The ones that say that we probably don't love each other enough because we haven't set a date. That David is probably really NOT so committed to me, because we haven't set a date. That I, as a woman, am probably not going to be able to keep it all together if I have been engaged for 15 minutes and don't have a lame square room with a basic dance floor under contract. The condescension in all this is rivaled only by my favorite other question about when I'm having kids.

Look, I get it (I actually don't at all and think girls are REALLY dumb about weddings). Chicks dig weddings. And most chicks have had some like, grandiose plan for their own wedding since they were like, 4 and Pinterest has filled in the rest. Well in my house, at 4, I was outside playing in the woods. I didn't play house. I didn't have dolls. I never got dressed up or played princess or wedding and whomever this Prince Charming guy was sounded like a real drag to me. Like him showing up was the end of something, not the beginning. And I watched as all of my friends (seemingly) went knowingly into a LIFELONG union after college, right around the time I was figuring out how to pay my rent AND drink every night. Being a wife was never my dream. In fact, being married a mere 3-5 years after being a teenager is the opposite of my dream.

Here's the honest truth. I haven't set a date because I don't care. I haven't set a date because I think weddings and the amount of money we spend in our culture to say, LOOK AT ME!  I'VE CONFORMED! I'VE COMPLETED ANOTHER LIFE STEP THAT SAYS I'M JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE! GIVE ME GIFTS AND MONEY FOR MY LIFE CHOICES! are completely atrocious. I haven't set a date because in that list of things I need up there to make my marriage work, most of them will take a lifetime and I don't want them trivialized or made to be ceremonial by one fluffy day where people bestow platitudes upon us about how they hope now is when we love each other least and to never go to bed angry. Let me tell you something. If you get out of marriage never going to bed angry, your relationship sounds boring to me.

I bet you're reading this and thinking back about your own beautiful wedding and how you would never trade it for anything. Maybe you're even offended by this post. Well here's what offends me. The idea that a wedding is what's important. The idea that the day is what makes this special. Especially when every bride does the same exact thing. Please don't tell me how you're so super unique because you set up some extra cute mason jar centerpiece on a bail of hay at your rustic chic barn wedding. Please don't.

Stop asking me about my date. Or rather, stop looking at us like we're assholes when we say we don't know. Stop forcing us to look sheepishly at one another and shrug our shoulders because we've been so busy living our awesome every day lives that sitting down with a calendar sounds like a pain. What I want for my "wedding" will take exactly 2 hours to coordinate so I feel certain we can pull this out. That said, if we can't and don't get married this year, I'm not sure what changes for us. If we don't get married next year, I'm not sure what changes for us. Nothing changes because the wedding isn't what makes this.

I PROMISE I will let folks know if I have a date. I will yell it out into the Universe to let everyone know I have been validated by establishing a wedding day. I will send out Save THIS VERY DATE magnets. Followed by invitations with the same date on them. We'll have a date. Then a wedding. It's the 50 years that follow that I choose to be excited about.

An Open Letter To Jimmy P.

Dear Jim,

I still remember the first time we met. Actually, that's totally a lie meant to pull at the nostalgic strings of your heart. I don't remember it at all. But, because I've known you in some capacity for the last 15 years, I can well imagine you walked up to Robby and me fighting in a corner somewhere, put your big friendly arms around us and said, "HEY GUYS! What's GOIN' ON?" We probably laughed and went on to have one of the greatest nights of our college life. Again, a lie. I probably went on to throw up in the bathroom of Taco Stand and Robby and I probably fought again when we got home, but the point is, for just those few hours, the Jim Pickens magic saved the day.

Well my tall, fatherly friend. You have the opportunity to wash, rinse, repeat ALL OVER that act of good humor.

As I'm sure your ever-lovely wife has told you, the one true jam band is making their appearance for 2 nights in Charleston in early October. You should know, Panic coming to town a month after I move to my favorite city is a straight up gift from the universe and you have the power to put the cherry on that universal sundae, my friend.

Here's the thing. Robyn and I, much like the two of you, didn't realize we were soulmates until later in life. Perhaps, had we figured this out in 2001 instead, we would have had our fair share of Panic shows together and this request would seem unnecessary. ANOTHER ONE?!, you'd think. Sadly. There have been none. And now, not only is there one, but it's in Charleston and Renee AND Sheena can BOTH make it. Do you know how much I love these girls? Do you know what levels of awesomeness and ovarian type bonding things could come out of a weekend such as this?

Now, I know as husband, the idea of your pretty wife out with me and my wanton ways probably seems a little daunting. So, as I hear lawyers like facts, let's lay this out by the stats. I have been to somewhere around 80 Panic shows. I have never smooched a single random. I have never gone home with someone from a Panic show (with whom I did not arrive). I have never been arrested, in a car accident, nor have I, despite REALLY wanting to, hopped on the tour bus and said "WHERE TO, FELLAS?" I have, however, had 100% success rate with the follwing:  Dancing my ass off.

Do you know what dancing is for women, Jimmy? I'm sure you're starting to see KM finding her own little rock out world to the kick ass tunes of Fisher-Price. Here's what happens. You are on an island of best friends, in a sea of your favorite tunes, and all the best feelings you've ever felt in your life, need to escape through your limbs. IT'S MAGIC. Can you really deny, magic, Jim?

I hear you guys are going to Athens the week before and this weighs on you. Hey, I understand. I am booked, including a move, every single weekend until the end of October now. I'm gonna be tired. But I'm gonna be glad! We have our 80s to recover from all the livin' we did.

Anyways, on behalf of all the married moms out there (because you know I TOTALLY speak for them), and their still single friends who miss them more than words, please make this Charleston Panic Extravaganza a reality for us. I'll bake you a pie. I'll make you a mixed CD. I will stand up on a booth in Taco Stand this year and toast you as the GREATEST MAN ON EARTH. You'll make all our lives. Or at least our one very special weekend.

Do it, Jimmy. Do it.

An Open Letter To My Break-Up

Well, hey there, Break-up!!

It's been a while since I've seen you. Though, let's be honest, I always know when you're coming. I'm really sorry I always try to delay your visit. And I confess, I know I'm not always happy to see you, but when our time together is through, I'm usually glad you came.

We've been quite the pair in the past, you and I. Carousing around town, drinking ALL of the drinks together, doin' some smooching. Most of our time is spent in a daze-y hangover and I don't pay enough to attention to, well, anything that isn't a pack of Parliaments or a beard. Admittedly I've quit smoking this time around, and the idea of another self-absorbed hipster fuck sounds treacherous, but together I know we always accomplish great things.

It's funny. People keep asking me how I'm doing now that you're in town. Then they look at me sideways when I earnestly answer that I'm doing just fine. Swell, even. I AM FUCKING FABULOUS. I'm actually so great that I'm sorry you didn't just break-up, too. They want me to cry, I guess? They expect me to sit at home in my house and feel things. GROSS. I mean, don't get me wrong, Break-up, we've had that kind of party before. But usually by the time your flight lands I'm all cried out and ready to play.

Do you know I've never been single? Did you hear me? I HAVE NEVER BEEN SINGLE. I've spent just as much time with New Love as I have you, Break-up, and I'm really hoping to avoid them at all costs right now.  Can I tell you, Break-up, that I put together a fucking TV last night? By myself. Like, with a screwdriver. Admittedly it was only had 8 screws, but the point is that it felt way more awesome to do it by myself than to have a dude there doing it, the price of which comes in the form of the emotional currency of having to deal with someone else's bullshit.

I try not to do the dirty laundry dump in a public place when you're around, Break-up, because I mean, he has his own side of this story. The one where all my terrible bits will be exposed to all of his friends and family and if I were A. someone else entirely, or, B. inclined to worry about what other people think of me, I might feel that small twinge of regret. "God, I'll be remembered as the crazy controlling one." As it stands, I've been too busy to consider such things, as I have been making a list of the following things that make having you around wonderful:

1. Not living with the person you used to live with.
2. Everything else.

I'm sorry you always get such a bad rap, Break-up. I wish more people were OK with accepting you for who you are and welcoming you with open arms. You are always, whether they know it at the time or not, a source of great goodness, positive energy and new beginnings. And new smooches, which, really are the best part if you're not inclined to focus on all the hippie zen shit about you.

I'm glad you're here, even if I have been hammered 6 of the last 9 days. You just make yourself at home and stay as long as you like. I can't wait to watch movies with you on our new TV.

Love,

Jenn

"My God, a Freshman!"

Dear 8lb, 9oz, sometimes serious Jesus in the manger,

Little leader, we’re coming to you today with a different sorta prayer. While of course our eyes are always set on the W, (AGAIN AGAINST SOME MORE DANG TIGERS, if I may say so) we need a little TLC for our boys this week, Jesus.

Bulldogs remember the first time we set foot in Heaven, Jesus. On Earth, we call it Athens. And we remember marching miles in heels, hammered, calling out about who’s coming down the track. And we remember our first tailgate on North Campus, and how we were darn sure we’d never find a better place to call home. The moment you know you’re a Georgia Bulldog, Jesus, you are forever changed.

We remember our first trip to Jacksonville. If you’re me, on a bus with ALL of the drunk fraternity boys, some of whom are still my most favorite people on the planet. We remember being so wasted before a night game against Auburn that we were sure we’d never make it, but we did. We think about the moment when everyone realizes you’re going to win a too-close game against Tennessee and you hug a complete stranger in the stands. In that moment, you understand why we call it the Bulldog Nation.

We reflect on the players we have loved along the years! And some we love less now, David Pollock you filthy traitor!

*Ahem*

When you’re a Bulldog, the sound of Larry Munson’s voice does somethin’ to you.  Standing in Sanford Stadium on a perfect Saturday afternoon in Fall is better than the best thing you can think of. And the song leading us into the 4^th sometimes makes us choked up, but we just pretend our bleary eyes are drunk, because there’s no crying  in football.

But there is. Our ever-stoic coach shed tears, Jesus! When things like last week happen, and the week before, and all of the weeks where a Bulldog has fallen, you feel it! And your heart hurts. You worry for your team, not a National title. (Ok, a National title a little, but go with me on this, Jesus.) Georgia Bulldogs everywhere are worried, Jesus, and we need your help!

Watch over us today, lordlet. Loran said it best when he said Larry would love this team’s heart. I believe Larry is up there with you, Jesus, so maybe you could talk to him some about why this year’s Georgia team is so incredibly special. Keep it safe! And if in the interim we could whoop some Tiger tails, that would also be muchly appreciated.

In your grown man football playin’ name we pray,

Amen.

AND GO DAWGS!

Orange Is Not the New Red and Black

Dear 8lb, 9oz, SEC-lovin' tiny Jesus in the manger,

Woooooeeeeee, Jesus! How about all of the awesome it is to be a Georgia Bulldog this season! Thank you for helping us send those crappy tigers back to the swamp with their tails between their legs! Today our blessed Bulldogs take on some Volunteers in orange (which to me sounds a lot like those prisoners who clean up trash on the side of the road) in some gross old place in Tennessee. I feel strongly you will help guide us victory, littlest lord.

Remember when Tennessee weekend used to be a big deal, Jesus? In college, I always spent a little extra time talking to you before this game! Now, well, I have to be honest. I don’t even know their coach’s name. I expect this is all a result of that one time Derek Dooley decided to be a big ole traitor and went to Knoxville for approximately 5 minutes. Now they're just another dumb team dressed in orange who doesn't know what their mascot is. *cough* Auburn *cough*

Speaking of mascots,  let’s just be honest here, tiny Christ. I know we’re supposed to love all of your creatures, and we do. But there’s just no way on Earth that Smokey is as good as Uga when it comes to mascots. That Russ is a handsome gentleman and could obviously whoop that coon dog’s hiney if he felt like getting off his bag of ice! And that wretched Rocky Top business. I'm sorry, little savior, but if Phish covers your fight song, you should probably just hang it up.

I really like to think Heaven looks a lot like Sanford Stadium around 9am on the morning of a noon game, Jesus. Not like Neyland Stadium, which I hear looks a lot like a garbage truck workers’ convention. I mean, it would make sense, Jesus. Remember when Lane Kiffen left and they burned trash in the streets to stop him? First, what kind of nasty rednecks burn trash? And second, who wants to keep Lane Kiffen anywhere?

Bless over our boys in red and black this week, baby ruler of the Universe, and for the love of your sweet name, don't let us do that thing where we accidentally lose a game we shouldn't. Know that in honor of today's game, I will not be drinking Jack Daniels to avoid showing any support to state best known for...wait wait, Jesus, I can't even pretend I'm telling the truth right now. I guess Tennessee the state isn't all bad, but their crappy football team is, so let the Dawgs win today!

In your hobnail boot wearin' name we pray,

Amen.

And GO DAWGS!

Cajun is French for Corndog

Dear 8lb, 90z, tiniest little Georgia-loving Jesus,

Thank you for another glorious Saturday in Athens, lordlet! And thank you for that sweet victory over North Texas last week! Today, the Bulldogs take on another team of Tigers, Jesus, and we come to you asking for a better outcome than that first go’round!

First of all, Jesus, Baton Rouge (really, they can’t think of a better name for their city than Red Stick??) is just the grossest! It’s like all the rednecks in France got kicked out by the sophisticated folks and fled to Louisiana. Have you ever met snobby white trash, Jesus? They're the worst! And they barely even speak English, which we all know was your native tongue. I mean, it's in the Bible, Jesus. You can’t just go around, inventin’ languages and stuff. Who spells it geaux? I mean, honestly. And they can call it a bayou all they want; fact is it’s a nasty old swamp! Speaking of which, have you ever even seen a tiger in a swamp, Jesus? I don’t think so. 

I’ll be honest, cause you said we should be, and admit I don’t know much about LSU, tiny monarch. I’ve heard the fans smell like corndogs and that just like the last stupid Tigers we played, they named their stadium after a place in another state. Not that I’d expect much from the people from a place where beads are accepted as currency for lewd behavior! Georgia should win just on our caliber of students alone, savior! And because purple is ugly.

This important battle also comes down to our coaches, little ruler of Heaven. Every week we devout Georgia fans look to Mark Richt (second only to you, of course) as our hero and our leader. Sure, he’s a little conservative, but at least he knows how to clap. And he doesn’t go around paying players and stuff. Or taking Nick Saban’s throw-away jobs. Or cheating on his wife. Or eating grass. (Really, Jesus, what is that all about?) Or taking on quarterbacks who treat ladies inappropriately! That Mettenberger, Jesus! Thank you for seeing to it that he not be allowed to continue his career as a Georgia Bulldog and for delivering Aaron Murray to us instead!

As we gather between our sacred hedges today, tiny savior, protect over our boys and lead us to victory over those crappy cajuns. Let there be long (caught) passes, lots of (forced) turnovers and long (touchdown) drives. Continue to keep us safe from injury, and out of trouble during the week. We thank you for making it so darn great to be a Georgia Bulldog, sweet Jesus!!!

In your comin’ down the track name we pray,

Amen.

And GO DAWGS!!

The Doucher Bowl, brought to you by Axe Body Spray and the Ford Mustang

Dear 8lb, 9oz, little Lonestar Jesus in the manger,

Today’s prayer is a little different, tiny Jesus. You saw fit to give our Dawgs a break this week, so I’m coming to you on behalf of SEC fans everywhere who are tired of being kicked around by bandwagon fans from Alabama. Today, I (and hopefully the rest of the Bulldog Nation) stand proudly behind Texas A&M as they take on those…wait, are they elephants...some red wave thing? Who knows! The point is that you said through you all things are possible. If the Aggies can do it once, they can do it again!

First of all, tiny lord, you CLEARLY told us that you’re the only dead guy we’re allowed to worship. This Bear Bryant thing, Jesus, I mean, it’s obviously blasphemy. And nobody’s cared more than Alabama fans about wearing a tacky pattern until Kim Kardashian left the house wearing a couch that one time. (http://thelaughingstork.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/kim-kardashian-couch-floral.jpg)

I get that Alabama is an OK school, Jesus. I mean, they have the highest graduation rate of MRS degrees in the country. And Tuscaloosa isn’t all bad…oh wait. Yes, yes it is. My point is, I guess it can’t be that terrible a place to go to school when I’ve seen such a huge increase in the number of folks sporting their gear since the National Championship... I can’t even imagine how they accommodate so many new students…

It’s not that I particularly care for Texas A&M, small ruler of the universe. They’re like, obsessed with the Alamo and teach bronco-busting in their institutions of higher learning. But this comes down to more than Johnny Manziel and his stupid autographs. This is about Alabama fans and the fact that the rest of us have to deal with them! Seriously, Jesus, THEY POISON TREES. Not that anyone gives a rat’s patootie about Auburn, but that's some shady business!

Bless over the Aggies today, Jesus, even if Johnny Manziel is a huge …hmm, I’m gonna need some help here, little savior. Normally I’d call him a douche, but I get that probably isn’t a prayer-appropriate word. How about this -  I have no idea what Gigging ‘Em entails, but as long as it’s not like twerking,  if you could see to it with all of your mighty ways that our pal Johnny Football is able to accomplish it, we would all greatly appreciate it.

Thank you for the SEC, Jesus. It is, as I’m sure you understand, the Alpha and Omega of college football. Forgive those who covet us, because I mean, really, can you blame them? Who wouldn't want to be a part of an institution that's won...wait, Jesus, I need to do some research here. Only Alabama fans exaggerate the number of National Championships they've won...

In your yellow rose lovin' name we pray,

Amen!

And just for good measure, GO DAWGS!