The Legendary Michigan Coney Dog Rivalry

In the past few months, I've come to the conclusion that Michigan may be the one state of the fifty that could successfully secede and nothing would change.

These guys have everything. They grow everything, raise everything, manufacture everything, and are so obstinently loyal to their own state and its products that they pretty much buy everything locally anyway. 

This includes their own Coney Dog.  If you ask a Michigander, they'll say their own Greek roots had the Coney first, then took it to Coney Island in New York.  And they'll tell you that it started on the corner of Lafayette Blvd and Michigan Ave in Detroit.  And then they'll tell you which one is "the true original Coney."  Which really just means which one they think tastes better.

Historically, no one really knows for sure where the Coney originated.  Most research pinpoint the hot dog was born in Detroit, concocted by Greeks who immigrated there via New York City's Ellis Island and Coney Island.  According the lovely pre-gaming ladies we consulted outside, it was the same Greek family that opened Lafayette.

Lafayette Coney Island still inhabits its original location on Lafayette and Michigan.

They weren't completely wrong, but given our information, we went into Lafayette first.

The menu at Lafayette is simple, and pretty dern cheap.

A hole-in-the-wall diner barely touches on what Lafayette Coney Island is (yet another establishment with no website. Get with the program, Michigan!).  By all accounts I can gather, the narrow, tightly packed diner hasn't changed since it's establishment in 1918.  The walls are painted a faded mint-green, the tables and chairs are places about two inches apart from its neighbor, and the place stinks of chili and cleaner.  The cooks and wait staff scream at each other over the patrons, yelling out orders in a Greek-English blend of mostly vowels.  We squeezed our way in, past the kitchen, around the corner, and seated ourselves right under a collection of autographed photos from an alumni team of Red Wings.  The waiter wandered up and we placed our order - four Coney's, one chili cheese fry, one regular fry.  He yelled the order back to the kitchen.  "Fo'ConeyEvrthingChleeFryRegFry!" About two and a half minutes later (literally), our orders slid down the table to us.

The Red Wings are on Team Lafayette.

It looked disgusting.

Lafayette Coney

Traditionally, a Coney is an all-beef hot dog on a bun, a line of yellow mustard, a spoonful of chili, and a heavy layer of fresh diced onion.  And that's what lay before me.  Here we go again, that Bucket List making me brave.  I picked up a fork (because we were going to the Fox later, and I'm a mess when it comes to food), and ate.

This was also my in-law's first trip to Lafayette and American.

I was non-plussed. It wasn't terrible.  But I don't think I'll be going back.  The chili was runny, a gross-creamy-brown color and on the sweet side (which seems to be par for the course for Midwestern chili), the hot dog was mediocre, there were far too many onions for my taste, and the bun was pretty chewy.  But this stuff is legend.  For some reason.  We ate, paid, and went next door.

American moved into a larger location on the opposite side
of Lafayette a few years ago, now on the corner of the building.

Yep. You heard me. Next door.  To American Coney Island, Lafayette's rival. (Who's website was "not found" at the time that I wrote this blog. REALLY, guys?!) 

As it turns out, there are a couple versions of how these two restaurants came to be.  The more popular is, of course, more dramatic, and involves a blow out argument between two Greek immigrant brothers over a chili recipe.  To get back at the elder, the younger opened American next door with a differing chili recipe, and said "let the customer's decide who's better!"  But if you ask the current owner of American, this version is a tall tale.  The truth, she says, as a direct descendant of the founder of American Coney, is that American was established in 1917 by her great grandfather, and that he invited his brother to join him in America.  When his brother arrived, he opened Lafayette next door with an alternative approach to both the chili as well as the hot dog.  No sibling rivalry to mention (yeah, right). Lafayette has changed hands since opening, and the two joints are no longer owned by relations, but continue to butt heads in the battle for the "Best Coney."

American has obviously been recently renovated, but in the style of a mid-century diner - like something out of Grease.  Checkered floors, red tables and chairs, swirly fluorescent signs with chrome-lined counters.  The place was pretty empty, which was surprising since its neighbor was crawling with people.  But it was a Friday, so perhaps everyone was in search of a Fish Fry.

Our waiter was pleasant, and spoke clear English (so he never had to repeat himself - but one could argue that's not nearly as much fun).  We placed the same order, this time with chili and cheese on both orders of fries.  He quietly walked back to the open kitchen, and brought our food back within five minutes.  My sensitive tummy and I breathed a sigh of relief.  

American Coney

The menu at American had a few more options.

The chili was pretty good!

The difference was obvious.  The chili was thicker, had a deeper, more chestnut tone to it, and wasn't nearly as sweet.  Still too many onions, but the char on the hot dog made it juicy and tender, and the bun seemed like it perhaps came out of a fresh bag recently.  Much better.  The four of us agreed that American won the taste test, be it "The Original Coney" or not.  We were not alone in this conclusion, joining the ranks of the experts from The Food Network on team American, but Travel Channel seems to side with Lafayette for the age-old environment (which has it's entertaining "no ketchup on my coney" charms).

At Lafayette, the waiter told my MIL "No Ketchup!"
She did it anyway. At both locations.

Team American right here, folks!

So if you're looking to test out the rivalry yourself, Lafayette has the environment - loud, Greek, and old, but American has the tastier dog - grilled, fresh, and meaty.  

What Michigan food should I try next?!

A Michigan Friday Fish Fry

You guys know that song "Always On My Mind?"  The one that was originally a country song that has been re-recorded by Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and the Pet Shop Boys?

Well, I'm at least 98% certain it's the song that exemplifies my husband's relationship with fried fish over the past twelve years.

Every restaurant we grace with our presence gets scrutinized by his hungry Michigander eyes, in hunt for the glorious "fish and chips" on the menu.  And if it's there, he then begins the incessant debate - chance it, in the hopes of finally discovering someone who knows how to adequately fry a fish filet? Or go the safe build-your-own fiery taste of hell cheeseburger?  More often than not, the cheeseburger won.  Nothing could compare to Michigan's fish.

Needless to say, the past several years of our growing relationship has been an incessant chorus of "Just wait 'til you try it - you'll see.  Michigan has the best fried fish."

"Yea yea, yadda yadda.  Fried fish is fried fish is fried fish - it all tastes the same."

Oh how sweetly ignorant I was.

When we visited Michigan last August to find a house, Matt sampled some central Michigan fried perch.  I took a bite, and my expectations were not met.  In fact, the stuff was gross.  Significantly worse than most fried fish I've had before.  Limp, rubbery, and tasteless. He heaved a sad sigh, hanging his head in disappointment as he picked at his soggy fries, and I contemplated his sanity and the credibility of his tastes (surprisingly, generally pretty good).  After we moved, we tried again at a well-rated sports bar near our house. Again, limp. Rubbery. Tasteless.  I'm a foodie.  I thrive on sampling a wide variety of flavors and techniques - it makes me all warm and bubbly.  We were but a couple months into this crazy cross-country move, and literally everything I had eaten in Michigan outside of my mother-in-law's house was awful. How am I ever going to survive up here when they fail at even their own specialty?!

Then Lent arrived, and Matt mentioned visiting his childhood favorite place for fried fish.  With the last two experiences still fresh on my starving tastebuds, I was skeptical.  Alas, the Michigan Bucket List gives me courage and a sense of adventure, so I agreed to make the two-hour trek to Adair Bar in Casco, Michigan.

Adair is located on St. Clair in Casco, Michigan, a small town on the southeast side of the Lower Peninsula.
(Kinda near the bottom of the thumb.)

My in-laws insisted we get there early, since it was Friday and it's Lent.  (For those unfamiliar with the Catholic tradition, this is why Michigan is allegedly the master of frying fish - they have a lot to fry, thanks to the lakes, and it's all they could eat on the "Fish Fridays" of Lent - no meat allowed.)  It was still light out as my Father-In-Law dropped us off at the door to go search for a parking spot, but their concern quickly proved valid - the bar was already packed.  Thankfully, we beat the major crowd by about ten minutes and were seated just as the masses flooded the entry way.

Diners come for the fish, and remember it for the fish, and talk about the fish... But Adair is known for it's larger-than-life-size wooden statue of fish diners.

Placing our orders almost immediately, my mother-in-law filled me in on the history of Adair's famous fish-feasting wood carving, evidently dating back to the 1800's.  I'd link you to the website so you can read about it, but they don't have one. (Another observation of Michigan - this is the second wildly popular restaurant I've encountered today that has no website - the madness! You can, however, find them on Facebook.) She also explained why our previous attempts had failed - the fish wasn't fresh.  Here, we were so close to the lake, the fish we'd be feasting on was probably caught last night.

The waiter overheard us talking about the history of the statue,
and was kind enough to bring us this old menu to read about it.

Or, perhaps, after we ordered.  It took forever.

By the time those golden nuggets arrived to our table, we were starving.  Some small, snobby voice in my head pondered at why mobs of hungry patrons were willing to wait an hour to be seated, and then an additional 45 minutes to be served.

This is the "large" Perch plate.  It was far too much.

And then I took a bite.  And the world made sense again.

An exterior salty, crispy crust yielded to tender, buttery, flaky Perch - the most common of the fresh water fish to fry.  It was heaven.  And it came with sides of a creamy, but still crunchy cole slaw (not too much sugar, not too much vinegar), and hot, crisp steak fries.

This is a Southerner thing - cole slaw is a side dish as well as a condiment.

It was heaven in a poorly lit, crowded hole-in-the-wall, no website fish fry bar.

Guys, my husband was right.  So right, I'm willing to put it in writing and disperse it across the whole internet.  I have seen the light.  The gorgeous, golden-brown, battered light. There is nothing like fried freshwater fish in the thumb of Michigan.

If and when we move again, that song is going to be a chorus for the both of us.

But for now, Adair bar and lower Michigan fried fish has another evangelist.


Read about my only other positive Michigan food experience so far here.

(Puhn-Chkee): P-A-C-Z-K-I

Most people don't know that my husband is one-quarter Japanese.  His mom's mom was born and raised in Japan, and taught her daughter all kinds of delicious Japanese recipes.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my mother-in-law's cooking is the only food I've really enjoyed up here thus far.  To be fair, she's a spectacular cook, and puts an enormous amount of effort and love into each of her elaborate, multi-faceted meals, so reaching the caliber of her cooking is kind of a tall order (I'm sincerely not trying to suck up, it just happens to be a plus that it's true and may or may not flatter my MIL). But as of this moment in time, Michigan food outside of my in-law's home has consisted of a lot of salt and sour cream (bleh), without much else as far as seasonings and condiments go (aside from the time I was served mozzarella sticks with Ranch dressing - that was weird). There has yet been but one exception to my culinary adventures in the past few months, and that lies in a seasonal pastry.

And this is where the other almost three-quarters of my husband's heritage comes in - Polish.  As it turns out, a significant portion of Michigan is made up of Polish-American ancestry.  It becomes evident at a certain time of year, when the smell of confections hits every bakery in the state, and the Meijers are flooded with stacks of little red and white boxes, with a myriad of letters on the side that may have been picked at random through a game of the official unofficial sport of Michigan, and don't seem to actually make up a full, sensible word - Paczkis. P-A with a squiggly underneath- C-Z-K-I.

Say it with me now - Puhn. Chkee.

No, I'm not trying to set you up to sound like an idiot next time you have a conversation with a Michigander about Polish pastries, which is obviously a common topic at the water cooler.  That's really how you say it.  Somewhere in between Poo and Punch, with a Key on the end.  Purse those lips like you're kissing Aunt Gerta.  Puhn-Chkee.  There ya go.


And guys, Paczkis are a really big deal.

Chi Chi, get the #Pączki. pic.twitter.com/8eRMFSM2DD

— Nicole Szymczak (@nicsimzak) February 9, 2016

Like, Clemson vs. Carolina big.  Summer is here big.  Oh my god they're forecasting an inch of snow and Publix is out of bread big.  Making enemies because you described it to "foreigners" as a jelly-filled doughnut big.  So I'm not saying it's a doughnut.  Instead, I will say that it is "a small, fried cake of dough, generally formed in a flattened sphere-like fashion, filled with a fruit-flavored gelatin or custard."  There. Now I won't get strung up and beaten with egg noodles.

It's like Christmas with cholesterol! #paczki #paczkiday pic.twitter.com/PzENreoQf3

— Jake Neher (@GJNeher) February 9, 2016

Michigander legend has it that the Paczki originated when bakeries in Poland were trying to get rid of their perishable, too-rich-for-lent ingredients before Lent, because, traditionally, they were devout Catholics, and gave up sweets (and meat, hence the popularity of fish frys) until Easter.  So, they just dump all of their leftover eggs, sugar, flour, yeast, fat, and milk into a mix and fry it, and the result is a super rich, super heavy, slightly chewy, insanely delicious pastry.  It's then poked and filled with a sugar-drenched jam or custard, and distributed to the masses to get in one last sugar fix bender before fasting for six weeks.  And they are only available one time a year - the day (or week) before Ash Wednesday. Thus, in Michigan, "Paczki Day" and "Fat Tuesday" are one in the same, interchangeable phrases. (Although in Poland, it is actually "Fat Thursday." See the purist debate on Twitter.)

When I told Matt we had to go get Paczkis (because eating them will obviously help me remember how to spell them), he initially said we had to "get there early."  I, of course, am thinking, "ok, so, like, 8?"

Getting Paczkis on Fat Tuesday is an early morning event.  For us, it was 5am.  And it was snowing.

Nope.

Apparently, on Paczki Day, some bakeries open as early as 3am.  Some close their doors to the public and will only let you in if you've placed an order ahead of time.  The majority are out of pastries by 8am.  Matt's dad used to leave their house at 4am and sometimes stand in line for almost an hour to get their two dozen and be home in time for breakfast.  Like I said, these Paczkis are a serious business.

Thankfully, my husband is merciful (and sleeps like the dead), so we awoke at a leisurely 5am to heavily falling snow (our yard has been bare for weeks) and drove the 30 mins to Krzysiak's (I have no idea how to pronounce it - it took four attempts just to spell it correctly), where we stood in line for about 20 minutes to get our assorted dozen.  Other people in line were commenting on how tame it was this year, and grumbling that people could come in "first come, first serve." ("I thought you had to order ahead of time!")

Krzysiak's paczkis at 5:45am.  According to their Facebook page, these were full when they opened this morning only 45 minutes before our arrival, in addition to the hundred something boxes ready for pre-placed orders.

Guys, they had already almost run out.  Serious. Business.

Additional Polish goodies they offer, like egg noodles and pierogies, heavy potato-filled pasta shells.

That poor bakery was so busy the boxes were spotted with powdered sugar and jelly.
Which I in turn got all over my lap.

We drove back, the Paczkis happily awaiting consumption on my powdered sugar drenched lap, and discussing how glad we are that we got there in time.  Then, once arriving back home, sat down to coffee and a box of assorted Paczkis and began the guessing game of which pastry enveloped which sweet, gooey filling.

They may all be covered in strawberry jelly, but don't let that fool you. You have to inspect the hole they use to inject the jelly to get a pretty solid (but not certain) idea of what's inside. We got lemon, custard, strawberry, blueberry, and cherry.

I'm slowly learning that, much like the weather, and when the next snow plow will come by, not really knowing what's coming is all a part of the fun of living in Michigan.  It's a constant adventure.

Matt says this happens in almost every batch. Bakeries are in such a hurry to meet demand that a pastry just slips through the cracks and gets no filling.  He calls them "duds." But they're still awesome.

Now, is this sucker Strawberry, Cherry, or is that jam from another Paczki?

Double-check me - did I spell Paczki right every time??

What Michigander food should I try next?

To follow my #MIBucketList adventure, suscribe at the bottom of this page.

The Official Unofficial Outdoor Sport of MI (TUT16)

Michiganders will tell you left and right that it's the perfect state for people who love the outdoors.

My reaction when Matt and I started this list was that we'd have to complete the whole thing in the five months that we wouldn't be snowed in.  What kind of outdoors could possibly be enjoyed when it's too cold to actually DO anything the majority of the year??

What I'm beginning to understand is that Michiganders have their own definition of "outdoor sports."

Matt's sister and boyfriend are pursuing their medical careers a bit further north of us, near a small town known to be highly popular for it's population of senior citizens, as well as it's ice fishing.

Yea, I thought it was a myth too, but evidently it's really a thing.  People actually sit on literal feet of frozen water and stuck a baited string in a drilled hole to catch dinner.

What's even a step beyond that stranger danger? They have an actual festival to celebrate the absurd activity.

So we wandered up to their neck of the woods a couple weekends ago to see what all this ice fishing business was about during Tip Up Town, the annual event that attracts attendees from all over the state.  I was excited to learn more about the "outdoor sports" of Michigan.

Before we embarked on this grand adventure to trudge on a frozen lake and learn about ice fishing, Matt's relatives deeply intimidated and concerned me, because up here, when you go outside for an extended period of time and there's snow on the ground, extensive undergarments become a comfortable commodity.  But when you start talking about venturing out onto a frozen lake - then it gets serious.  Long underwear, snow pants, multiple pairs of socks, and at least six other layers the South likes to joke about but if you ever required it, they'd probably determine "safety indoors." It's about a two-hour conversation up here before risking the elements while you pile on garment after garment.  It's possible I exaggerate that length of time because I was sweating from both overheating in my seven layers as well as nerves that I was going to be that stupid Southern girl Matt used to be married to that froze to death because she didn't take the nice Michigander's advice.

Once we finally arrived, we spent about twenty minutes hiking through the snowy festival, a square half block of a couple rides, an ice slide and food trucks, populated by maybe fifty people, then I took my first step on ice.

The lake was beautiful.  A wide expanse of white, topped with a wispy blue sky, the already setting sun sparkling off of everything. Snowmobiles, trucks, even a mobile home, dotted the ice, blanketed with a couple inches of fluffy snow.  I literally would not have known it was a lake.

Somewhere in the distance, a couple tents and huts were propped up, presumedly sheltering some dedicated ice fishers, but for the most part, it was snowmobiles racing across the horizon.

And I wish I had more to tell you about ice-fishing. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps educational displays on the process of ice fishing, or someone actually explaining what a tip-up is, or people kindly attempting to sell their frozen-solid catch in a slightly Canadian vernacular... but, as it turns out, events like this are not really so much about the whole fishing in the ice thing.

Apparently, it's about drinking.

My companions allowed me a moment to oh and ah in marvel of standing on a foot of solid naturally-frozen ice-lake, before trudging on to the beer tent, where we camped out for the next two and a half hours, dancing, talking, taking goofy photos, and enjoying ourselves.  We emerged for another twenty minutes of play time on the lake, during which I made snow angels with a stranger, and Matt wrestled in the snow with his sister's boyfriend.

And that was it.  Two hundred and ten minutes of exploring the great outdoor sport of ice fishing - and I think I got the gist of it. It's not about fish at all. It's about hanging out in a tent with your friends, trying not to freeze to death, and drinking beer.

That's the official unofficial "outdoor sport" of Michigan.  Beer.

Created with flickr slideshow.

What else should I put on my Michigan Bucket List?

MI Bucket List: A This Is My Shot Series

Matt finally left command last May. The nightmare finally ended.  Well, it turned into a much bigger, scarier nightmare that deeply angered me to my very core due to the dangerously entitled generation Matt led, but all of those details are now behind us, and there they shall stay.  The point is, that nightmare, too, came to a finale late last July, and we finally got those blessed orders to leave Fort Gordon.

A very quick, dramatic, and eventful six months passed, during which I moved out of the South for the very first time in my life, to join Matt's family and thick-blooded brethren in the great, mysterious state of Michigan.

I'd never known anyone from Michigan before I met Matt a fateful three and a half years ago.  As a born and raised Southerner, the states of the midwest held little glamour to me, so all I'd ever absorbed prior to that point are - "It has lakes."  Granted, I'm known to get lost taking a wrong turn to the grocery store I've been visiting for two years, so I'd never claim geography to be my strong suit. I'd been dating my now-husband for less than a year when regular cable started to offer Michigan's last stand to survive the flunk of American auto in the early-2000's by targeting none other than tourism.

I remember watching those commercials with skepticism and a look of split pea soup on my face - "You've got to be kidding me. Why on God's Green Earth would anyone ever go to Michigan? Willingly?!"

Apparently I would.

I got the same response from several co-workers when I turned in my notice.  Ironically, the most common culprit to spout the phrase - former Michiganders. "WHY would you go there?"  The owner and CEO of my prior employer, who is also a Detroit-native, expanded further when I told him my husband missed his home state:

"Which part? The awful weather, the corrupt politics, or the terrible condition of the roads?"

My fellow Southerners responded with a brilliant observation: "It's cold there."

Well-spotted.

After all of that encouragement, you can imagine how excited I was to pack up our life and drive 900 miles to my new home in Michigan.

BUT, I'm a survivor. I learned a little over a year into Matt's time in command that I have to learn to make the best of each situation and find the joy, happiness, adventure.

So, with the help of my own in-house expert, I formulated a Bucket List - an itemized list of things I'd like to accomplish in Michigan.  And, because I believe in documentation, I will be sharing my journey as a South Carolina Girl in surviving this ferocious Yankee state, in the hopes that in the very least, I may help Michiganders laugh at my fate, and Carolinians to affirm their aversion to the North.

1. Visit and hike the Sleeping Bear Dunes.
2. Not just taste, but experience, a fresh fish fry.
3. Go snowmobiling for the first, and undoubtedly last, time ever.
4. Make an attempt to see - and photograph - the Northern Lights.
5. Learn how to make Michigan Four Berry Pie.
6. Learn how to make Southern Biscuits. (Because I'm #SCProud no matter where I am, dammit.)
7. Visit Mackinac Island, eat fudge.
8. Try a Coney Dog. (Which apparently is not exclusive to NY.)
9. Visit Frankenmouth/ Bronner's.  Eat Bavarian Chicken Dinner.
10. See the Tulip Festival in Holland.
11. See the Cherry Festival in Traverse City, and eat cherries until I'm sick.
12. Figure out what all this "Faygo" nonsense is about.
13. Learn if Euchre truly exists, and play it (if it is, in fact, not a myth.)
14. Eat fresh Paczki (and memorize how to spell it).
15. Use my hand to describe where we live. (Correctly.)
16. Experience and document a true Michigan Autumn.
17. Visit Silver Lake Park.
18. Snow shovel.
19. Walk on a solidly frozen lake.
20. See a show at the Fox Theater.

Michiganders and MI enthusiasts (assuming those exist), tell me - what have I missed?

Wedding Dress Dating

Collecting your girlfriends together, searching through magazines and ads and dog-earing "the pretty ones," then sweating profusely as you try on dress after dress, style after style, lace, satin, taffeta, a number of other fashionista terms that remain completely foreign to me... Has anyone else noticed that wedding dress shopping is basically re-living your dating life? 

Mine has been precisely that.  My first trip out shopping, I tried on two or three dresses before I found one I really thought was IT - THE ONE.  I got sucked into the accessories they added here, touched up there, and didn't realize this was the first time I saw myself in a veil.  That's where those "THE ONE" feelings came from.  The consultants stood around chirping away about how it was "one of a kind" and "so beautiful on me" and "such a great deal."  (You're so cute together...)

Deep down, I felt really indecisive.  Deep down, I think I knew I sensed it was wrong. But it was a such a great deal.  They threw the veil in for free.  They sold me on "we'll clean up the imperfections, it'll be perfect for your big day."   (Everything wrong will become right before you're committed to it...) Smoke, mirrors, fantastical ideations.  And then reality hit.  

They lied.  They lied about everything.  A single repair was made to the dress, and it was done so ridiculously half-assed they may as well have just left it alone. In fact, upon arrival nearly a month later than it was supposed to, the dress was in even worse shape.  The beading was missing in several places, the applique was falling off, there were dirt smudges, ink stains, runs and scratches in the silk, and sweat stains under the arms.  It was awful. Ruined. 

I had been deceived. I was heartbroken.  It took much longer than it should have to get the dress returned, back and forth with the boutique and the credit card company, being accused of lying and breaking my "contract."  I searched for another dress, but half-heartedly.  I had made the wrong choice before.  What if I did it again?  Finally, after literally three full months, the credit card company found the transaction to be fraud and the boutique refunded the money.  (Read my review on Yelp here) I was finally free to make another decision.

More shopping, more trying on dresses, and rejecting them. I was running out of time and needed to make a decision. (Tick tock tick tock...) Two dresses at two different shops were in the final running.  Both were very similar to an idea I had floating around in my head.  I tried both on multiple times, deliberating over "taking out a layer of fluffy stuff, altering the waistline, switch out beading, add a belt," with both consultants. After taking off one of the dresses, emotionally exhausted, indecisive, feeling beat up and defeated, I bonded with a consultant over military spouse life, both of us desperately seeking a last-minute gown for an upcoming post social.  Then she gave me the best advice I could have ever gotten: "If you're not sure, maybe neither one is it."  

On one hand, I felt even more rushed than ever.  I have not found the dress, the wedding is in six months and two weeks, and I'm running out of time.  On another hand, I felt refreshed.  I didn't have to decide between this dress I like that just wasn't giving me that fluttery feeling, and that dress that was quite nice but was missing something I can't put my finger on.  I was freed to find THE dress - THE ONE.  More shopping, more dresses, more indecision...

And then I found it.  The fluttery feeling, the I can't think about anything else, the wow is this for real?

You'd think the battle was won, but life had just one more curve ball for me.  This perfect dress I had found online.  By a designer that is not very popular in the States.  Only one shop in 200 mile radius carried this designer.  And they might not have that particular gown. I then was immersed in a new kind of debate - Do I keep fighting for this dress, even though it's inconvenient and is a huge risk, or do I give up on it, wash my hands of this perfect dress, and hope to find one that maybe somehow could hold a candle to it?

All who know me well and have been with me on this journey over the past six years that led me to Matt are thinking this singular thought: "Whoa."  

I know.

My dress journey has been a direct reflection of my dating journey.  Every bump, every uncertainty, every mistake, concern, self-doubt, close call, and final leap of faith, has been, almost verbadum, my journey to finding the love of my life.

Spooky, right?

Wedding Planning Advice That Will Save Your Marriage

Yes, I’ve been absent.  Bad blogger.

As it turns out, constantly writing news-worthy press releases, catchy Facebook posts, and SEO-rich blogs kinda drains oneself of the motivation to type out one’s meandering thoughts.  I’ll admit, I’ve noticed a significant side effect to not writing, but that’s another story for another day.

Today’s story launches off of some pretty life-altering news for me.  An event that occurred on December 8th of last year - the evening a pretty cool guy asked me to marry him.

I said yes, in case you were wondering.

And we were so excited - and still are - to start our life together by sharing the moment we exchange vows with all of our loved ones.

Now, I know a lot of people who got engaged recently.  Like, a LOT.  Pretty much seeing engagement announcements every weekend these days.  And I’m over the moon happy for every last one of them (those people out there nay-saying engagement and pregnancy announcements - STAHPIT. They’re not hatin’ on your weekly hangovers and careless jaunts to nowhere. Quit hatin’ on their own version of happiness).  

But there’s a seedy side to getting engaged people warn you about, and don’t really provide a solution for.  I don’t like problems with no solution.  It’s like a hot dog with no bun. Or a “buh-dum” without a “ch!” So the anxiety, the - yea I’m using the word - STRESS - it kind of started to get to me - to both of us.  

Well, I found a solution. And I’m going to share it with all of you brides and grooms out there planning your wedding.  

SCREW IT.

Yep, you heard me.

SCREW IT ALL.

No, I don’t mean dump the plans you’ve had whirling around in your head since you were seven chasing or being chased by the cute kid with the buck teeth on the playground.  I don’t mean blow the budget and spend the rest of better or worses eating beans out of a can and fighting over who gets to sit in the lawn chair over the hand-me-down bark-a-lounger because you’re so severely in debt you can’t afford dishes, furniture, or the electric bill. I’m not encouraging you to light the extended family’s invitations in a giant bonfire and dance around it laughing maniacally while smearing the juice of berries down your arms and red clay on your face.

Although you should know all of the above options will - I don’t mean might, but will - cross your mind at some point or another.  And they are going to sound kind of appealing.  It really won’t seem that crazy.

What I mean is this:  The man who got down on one knee five months ago and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him is the only damn thing that matters in this whole ordeal.  The life we build together, the health of our relationship, the faith and trust and respect we instill so vulnerably in one another - THAT is ALL that tops the list above all else.  

Now I’ll admit sometimes I suspect I may be naive for thinking it, but Matt and I have an awesome relationship. And I’m not just saying this to sound like I’m living the most perfect life and others should be envious, because both of us have already made mistakes and have hurt each other, but I sincerely believe that I am the luckiest girl in the world.  Because I have found this man - this incredible, wonderful, ambitious, caring, considerate, intelligent, strong, selfless, empathetic, and loving man.  And by some kind of miracle, he chose me to share his life with.

Absolutely everything could wrong with our day.  The cake could fall apart, the flowers could randomly light on fire, the dress could not fit, the dj could be drunk, the photographer’s memory card could fail, the families could erupt in drama - and not a damn one of them would ruin that day.

As long as I get down that aisle, and profess my love, support, respect, and faithfulness to the man who literally makes me weak in the knees - and he to I - there is absolutely nothing that could ruin that day.

So that is my advice to all of you brides out there.  Things can and will go wrong.  The decorations will break, the venue you want will be too expensive, the dress you want impossible to find, guests will be fickle and insensitive, but none of that matters.  It’s not about the wedding, and I was just as guilty as so many others when I forgot about that for a few weeks.  It’s about the marriage.  It’s about this wonderful person you are committing to, who loves you with every fiber of their being, and if you are as lucky as I am, is solely interested in committing themselves to you completely.  The rest is just details.

To all of you who are or will be taking the big plunge into marriage in the coming months/ years - congratulations.  And remember, SCREW IT. Screw it all!