I'd rather ride a unicycle.

One night, when I was six years old, my mom served fish sticks for dinner. I took them into the living room, plopped down on my belly and started to eat dinner in front of the television.

The thing was, I wasn't hungry. The other thing was, it was the night my mom promised we would go pick up my brand new bicycle. No more training wheels, but two wheels - with sparkles and spokes.


"Mom," I said after a few bites, "I'm finished." 

And she said what many of us have said once or twice or five thousand times, "Just three more bites, Sweetie."

I remember it took me a whole lot of willpower to get those bites down, but get them down I did, and then I yelled at my sister to hurry up and we jumped in the car to go to the bike shop.

A half-an-hour later, we pulled into the parking lot at the bike shop and I walked inside, my mind scrambling with all of the shiny possibilities. I was just minutes away from my brand new bike.

"This one," I said, pointing at a pink Schwinn. It was beautiful. My eyes went wide when the owner said, "Would you like to give it a try?" and I swung one leg over the seat and imagined how cool I was going to be riding around town.

And then I puked.

All over the bike.

And (weak stomachs stop here), it dripped off the handlebars and crossbar down to the carpet.

I remember the owner's face, and I remember my mom's, and I remember the feel of my sister's arm as she led me away from that super cool bike, out of the store, across the parking lot and into the car, where we watched my mom help the owner clean up my fish sticks.

"That smelled awful," my sister said, watching with gruesome interest, sitting backward in the passenger seat to get a better view of the action.

I curled up in the fetal position in the backseat and groaned.

When my sister was younger, she spent nearly all of her time on her bike, riding all around town with her neighborhood friends.

I walked. A lot. 

I think it's because my bike and I got off on the wrong foot. When I looked at that shiny pink bike, I knew it was a lie. It wasn't going to make me cool. It was going to make me puke in public. Looking back, I guess it was a really good lesson in vanity. Speaking of which, have I told you about the time I chopped my hair off and decided to get a perm?

Until tomorrow ...

Officially a Mrs. Well, except for Facebook.

So it’s official. I’m married. 

And though I promised myself not to cry while we stood under the arbor and my brother-in-law recited the vows we would exchange, I did cry. So much so in fact, I had to ask if I could “skip” a line in the vows.

Just in case anyone else plans on asking if you could skip a line in vows while getting married, it apparently isn’t allowed. 

It was exactly as I thought it would be. 

My walk down the aisle with my parents ended up including William, who upon making eye contact with me was hell bent on ensuring he had 100 percent of my attention, so I tripped my way down the aisle. John ended up holding Sully throughout the ceremony as he became super jealous about Will’s special treatment, and all was as it should have been – John and I holding the loves our lives while we married the love of our life. 

It sounds nice, but I was sweating like a pig because Will weighs close to 30 pounds now, my heels were digging into the mud and to avoid tripping I was constantly shifting – shifting weight in heels in mud by the way, is also not something I recommend for a wedding day. Outdoor wedding = flats. 

John hasn’t accepted my married status on Facebook yet, so I don’t know if we’re legal in all 52 states, but he says he doesn’t want to ruin his image.  Love you too, Sweetie. 

All right, so the blogs on wedding planning will end, and tomorrow, I will begin telling you about my married life. It will start with me hitting a deer while wearing a dress on my way to our celebration dinner. What, you’re surprised?