Why, hello readers! My name is (currently) Rachel Fine and I'm beyond honored to be writing for the Huffington Post. Thank you for joining me on this, my inaugural blog posting.
Before we get started on the intricate minutiae of going batsh*t insane trying to plan a wedding over the next 12 months and 2 days, I think you should know a little about me. First off, I mentioned my name. And I should say some more things about that, particularly in light of the fact that despite its permanency for the last 29 years, I'm trying very hard to embrace changing it. You can't have a last name like "Fine" (which yes, is my real last name -- and yes, sucked as an awkward kid) without some attachment.
It's been fantastic from a career perspective. Working in music and television, it's lent itself nicely to critiques ("Fine music to unwind to!") and show titles (like Fine Time, the new show I'm working on for Howard TV).
So when Richie Wilson proposed to me a couple of months ago, the first thing that went through my head (after a minute of complete exhilaration and happy tears about spending my life with the man I love) was some sort of panicked mental expletive about trading the snappy and entertainment industry-friendly "Fine" for the, umm, sort of plain "Wilson" that I'll be sharing with 650,293 others. Plus, can we please discuss how uncomfortably close it is to Rachel Bilson?! (who is actually on my TV right now promoting some new show that does not contain any sort of fun play off the word "Bilson." Sigh.)
Now let me tell you about the second thought that went through my head.
It's a lot to adjust to, the idea of marriage. I don't know why, but I've always identified strongly as a very "Independent Woman." As a teen, I was the only female in a nationally competitive drum line. Prior to working full time in entertainment, I was a Senior VP in corporate America. I've always thrived in a man's world, and to do that, you almost gotta shut off your girlie side. I'm starting to think there may be a whole generation of chicks like me who grew up with "Free to Be... You and Me" on repeat and are now having a tough time embracing their inner girlie-ness.
The idea of excelling at any domestic-type activity always had a Taming of the Shrew vibe to me. As if cooking my man a pot roast would somehow invite the destruction of my inner being via a 50 foot Godzilla version of Donna Reed. And seriously, this underlying belief system has been in place since kindergarten, when I vehemently declared blue as my favorite color due entirely to the teacher's strict insistence on pink nap time blankets for the girls.
Here's a fun example of how not kidding I am about my utter suckitude at domestication: About 4 years ago I got a hankerin' for slice-and-bake cookies. I made 4 of them. The gas company called me immediately (I swear to you this is true) highly concerned about a probable gas leak due to the dramatic spike in usage versus the prior 10 years. Because I turned my oven on (or stove? I always mix those two words up. The inside part that I now use for storage, not the top part).
Luckily I can order in like a champ.
My point is, the idea of being somebody's wife kinda freaks me out! Am I alone here, or are other modern day Rosie the Riveters out there struggling in silence?
And now I gotta plan this wedding. And I'm supposed to have highly developed lifelong preferences on the cakes and the dresses and the flowers for the big day of my dreams. And I like... good cake. And... pretty dresses. And flowers... that smell good. But beyond that, I seriously have no clue where to start.
So maybe you can help. I'm gonna need a lot of advice over the next 12 months and 2 days.
Something blue,
Rachel