Gettin’ ready to get all married.

My wedding dress came in. Six weeks early. Crazy, huh?

So, Saturday morning, my friend A. and I trekked to the bridal salon, where I put on The Dress. Since I ordered it in August, I’d started to have … not second thoughts, but doubts. Was it really the right dress? Did I really look OK in it?

Well, rest assured – all is well. I look good.

My veil was in, too, so I tried on the whole ensemble, and we played a bit with jewelry. I feel confident that I’m going to look like me, but me on a really, really good hair day.

My entire look will be pretty, umm, classic, even with my own funky touches. Of course, I’m basing this “classic” judgment on my most recent addiction: Married to Rock.

Yeah, they’re married to rock stars. Yeah, one of ’em just had a fancy wedding, where she entered the ceremony via a giant tulle-swathed swing from the roof of a nearby building. And yeah, her bridesmaids did wear large, Hello Kitty pendant necklaces.

Like I said? My wedding will be soooo booooooring.

But Married to Rock? Well, I’ve been a little disappointed in Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It. His kids are just too messed up for me to fully lose myself in the show. But Married to Rock? It’s nothing but sweet, sweet collagen lips and pretty decent – if disproportionate – boob jobs. And I don’t feel a need to find any of the families portrayed a good child psychologist.

Thanks to Married to Rock, I’ve learned about rocker post-tour depression, and the special burdens of being a rock wife. I’ve also learned that a proactive way to keep groupies at bay is to FedEx your husband a life-sized doll in your likeness.

Well, it would have worked had FedEx not lost the doll. But it’s still a valuable pointer that I’ll carry with me in my marriage.

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