dearest husband-to-be,

photo via sabino

dear one-day-pal,

i broke the candlesticks. the one's i knew you'd hate.

this last move.

they were on top of my bookshelf.

i was moving a picture frame and they fell.

and they shattered.

i didn't imagine they could make themselves so small. even in breaking, i couldn't fathom that there would be so many pieces. so tiny.

i was fine. unscathed. strangely enough the glass seemed to avoid me all together.

i should be thankful for that.

i know. i know that.

but the thing is, all i can think,

it's one less fight. one less fight we'll have.

a silly little fight about differing tastes.

one less memory.

one less moment for me to fall madly and deeply and desperately in love with you.

love,

the girl two-candle sticks short tonight

okay. so.

dear husband-to-be,

i've been thinking a lot about deal-breakers lately.

i mean what is a deal-breaker?

what is that thing that will make you say to someone else, that's it, my love for you will never overcome this. because isn't love supposed to trump everything?

does love change the rules? and therefore change our set of deal-breakers?

so, do deal-breakers even really exist?

and then i sat next to a man on the train yesterday, and had my clearest thought in weeks: axe as deodorant? deal-breaker.

love,

the woman who is so glad you smell just the way you do. and would've kept walking had you been wearing said deodorant. don't believe me? just try.

so michael buble wrote a letter to his wife-to-be. in the form of a song.

turns out it's not just the blogging community who has a penchant for penning letters (or songs) to their future mates.

this song, on Michael Buble's newest album, tickled my fancy immediately.

and so i can't stop listening.

but you know what the best part is? he looks so happy. so utterly confident when he performs it (here and on the video accompanying the deluxe album). and that's what it should be like--the promise of love, when you truly believe in it, inspires that confidence--that happiness--and that becomes the most attractive thing in the world.

(note for new year: work on exuding above attitude).

ps: grocery stores? dancing? that smile? could this be love?

happy post Christmas Monday. it's gonna be a good week.

dear husband-to-be,

i culled many wonderful and impressive gobs of knowledge from my time in australia.

chief among them is this:

a man looks far, far, far better when his suit is cut in the italian fashion.

why do american men wear their suits baggy and ill-fitting? they look like little boys playing dress up.

a well fitted suit-pant can make an okay-looking-man into a good-looking-man. a good-looking-man into a great-looking-man. and so on.

i can't even begin to imagine how you will look.

but because i am forced to wait for that fateful day when our eyes do meet, you cannot blame me for the torrid love affair i might just have with this man:

because he looks damn good in that suit. and because i would look damn good on the back of his vespa.

image via the only place

it could be from:

the sartorialist

dear husband-to-be,

if we ever choose to paint our house or apartment or closet for that matter,

promise we'll hire professionals?

love,

the woman-that-if-you-met-tomorrow-you'd-wonder-about-her-calloused-hands

oh to look like someone else. just for a day.

dear husband-to-be,

i'm afraid this will be a very serious letter. you see, i need you to understand something.

my looks belie who i really am. 

does that make sense?

i look like i would love to spend an evening at the opera. i would not.

i look like i might really like a swanky jazz bar. mmm...not really my thing. if you could find an off-the-beaten-path beatnik pub with some jazz on the side...that i could do.

i prefer a ball game to almost anything else.

i will always order a cheesburger. and i'm a cheap drunk. 

i laugh. a lot. out loud. at the most inappropriate of times. 

and when we go to the beach, you'll have to drag me out of the water at the end of the day. i will not be the one working on my tan. 

i look like i could be a politican's wife. and i could be. i could play that part really well.

but that is not the part i want to play. 

i am not perfect. i am a screw-up in the most glorious of ways. 

you see, i want to have a ping-pong table in the dining room. 

and i'll still climb a tree. or hurtle down a hill on a sled. 

i'm not the girl you think i am, when you first glance at me.

it's strangely frustrating.

but i refuse to change who i am to conform to what i look like. 

and if on that first glance, i come off as cold, it's simply because i'm shy and quiet and totally, madly in love with you. already. 

so please don't be intimidated by some idea of me. i'm flighty and i lose everything. and i'm funny. really, i am. at least, i think i am, and that's something, right?

and i still have this old-fashioned belief that the guy should make the first move.

so please, do. make the first move. 

you might just be surprised by what you find.

love, love, love,

the woman who is not the woman you first assumed i was (but it's okay, even my friends still make silly assumptions, and they've known me for a while)

dear husband-to-be,

I hate noisy eaters. And heavy breathers. 

Just so you know.

Love,

your doting and delicious wifey-to-be