Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, they all fall down.
I don't do well with disappointment or confusion. I live the way I drive. I know where I want to go. I know how to get there. Detours are not welcome, but thanks for playing.
So, here's the truth. Last spring, I applied for an online PhD program with Texas Tech. I wasn't accepted, most likely because my application information was not research oriented enough. The deadline to reapply was September 1 of this year (as I just found out). Oh, for the love of God. My stupid numb mouth just dripped my drink. Sod it all. I digress...
Anyway, I found an online PhD program (or so I thought) with Utah State. I sent an e-mail to a program adviser today...the supposed PhD program is a Master's program.. I swear everything I read indicated it was a doctoral program. So, I found all of this out when I read my e-mail this evening...after I shot out $55 for the application fee plus $23 to GRE to send my most recent scores to Utah. Epic suck. Really, there aren't words. The feeling of accomplishment I felt today at having gotten my application off was euphoric. The disappointment of reading that e-mail. Crushing.
This also comes at the same time I notice The Mister left his ice cream in the microwave --melted for having sat for just under 24 hours along with an ant infestation spawned by the stupid rotted back door frame thanks to water gathering on the back porch.
No, I'm not going to blaspheme in typical Amy-esque style. I'm going to regroup and figure this crap out. Okay, God. I get it. You don't want me to get a PhD. He and I both know I have what it takes to get a PhD. And okay, I'll say it, my heart's not in it, but I need it. I need it for my career...don't I?
Really, I don't. I have the wits and the balls (most of the time) to succeed on every level I ever imagined. To be completely frank and to reveal some of my less-than-savory qualities, I feel like I need so everyone else will know these things about me, too. Also, I have this terrible fear that my job at USA will be short-lived if I don't have a PhD to bolster myself.
And no, I will NOT do something that sucks...like get a degree from some frivolous online University that commercializes degrees like some sick assembly line. Don't get me wrong, if there was a traditional academic setting in or near my home town that offered what I wanted, I would do it. But, I'm enfianced. We can't leave. We just got a damn house. He's got dreams, too, and quite frankly, dreams much more important to him than this is to me. I refuse to be that selfish person.
The closest program is in Tuscaloosa, and truth be told I could make the three hour drive once or twice a week, providing work permitted the time off. It would be awful, but it would be worth it. That drive and I are one in the same. Impossible, frustrating, difficult, but somehow, so worth it.
How do you know when to let it go? When disappointment and rejections pile up? I feel like I get much better at things each time I attempt them. I only had the nerve to submit queries to children's fiction agents once. I got nothing but rejections. 2006 was a helluva year.
Looking back at my query, I realize, it sucked. Sucked like that fish that supposed to clean the mold off aquariums. I'm floored by the sucking and my charming, youthful naivety at submitting such drech.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Sorry, but I'm distressed. I'm so stupid for complaining, too. I have SO much going for me. I can write. I just killed another ant. I can draw and paint. I can think. My jaw is no longer numb. And I have. Oh, how I have. I have a house larger than my parents could have dreamed when they started their lives together. I have beautiful espresso colored furniture. I know that the word is espresso and not expresso. I love tea. Two beautiful, spoiled cats. A wonderful family. An amazing fiance with in-laws, all of whom I love dearly.
I do say, life is a funny thing, and it will be interesting to see how it all plays out.
On a nuptial note, I think I shall accessorize my gown with 3/4 length gloves. My dress is so simple and elegant that veils, tiaras, and other adornments won't do. So, gloves, a bracelet with my grandmother's rings on it, and some kind of earrings and maybe a baby white lily in my hair will be all there is for my outfit.
My, how vain does that sound!
I've also decided something else...after spending the previous weekend in Louisiana, my favorite state, hands down, although I do love my sweet home Alabama, I want to do cajun food for the wedding. Yes, I think that's my aspiration. We'll see.
I can't wait to go to Italia. Do we have to come home...?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Will of the Tiger --Strength of a Kitten
My arms are sore. From taking out the trash. Admittedly, it was two bags of trash the majority of which were Great Value brand spices (I shudder to think). Still, this does not bode well for the pending move on Saturday. I'm already having cringe-worthy fantasies that involve the washing machine bouncing down the cement stairs of my apartment like a rogue pinball.
It's enough to make me start a bit of a fuss...I just texted The Mister: "Are any of your boyfriends going to help us move Saturday? They kind of owe you...", which they do. The Mister helped one of his now en-fianced friends move from Mobile to Biloxi and then to another town in Mississippi (opinion withheld). I know one of those days I was writing my thesis; for the life of me, I can't remember the other time I wasn't free to help The Mister move his friends further into the wilderness.
His other friend, The Mister packed and moved all of his stuff when he deployed to the desert for a few months back in September. Considering this desert trip didn't appear out of nowhere like a 10 lb fatsplosion, I think it's uber generous of my fiance to take care of his mate like that. If it had been me...well, I'm a woman, I probably would have thrown his things down stairs before putting them in a bag. Although, if I had power of attorney, I could treat myself to a massage after that work...hmmm...yes, this is why women just "do it themselves"...they know there are other women who think the same way.
So, The Mister's best mates owe him a helping hand. Will he get it? We'll see. In the meanwhile, I'm moving boxes to and fro. I've got linear bruises flanking my "biceps" and my arms are so sore, you'd think they were string cheese. I'm not sure how you're supposed to make that physical connection, but then, here we are.
It's enough to make me start a bit of a fuss...I just texted The Mister: "Are any of your boyfriends going to help us move Saturday? They kind of owe you...", which they do. The Mister helped one of his now en-fianced friends move from Mobile to Biloxi and then to another town in Mississippi (opinion withheld). I know one of those days I was writing my thesis; for the life of me, I can't remember the other time I wasn't free to help The Mister move his friends further into the wilderness.
His other friend, The Mister packed and moved all of his stuff when he deployed to the desert for a few months back in September. Considering this desert trip didn't appear out of nowhere like a 10 lb fatsplosion, I think it's uber generous of my fiance to take care of his mate like that. If it had been me...well, I'm a woman, I probably would have thrown his things down stairs before putting them in a bag. Although, if I had power of attorney, I could treat myself to a massage after that work...hmmm...yes, this is why women just "do it themselves"...they know there are other women who think the same way.
So, The Mister's best mates owe him a helping hand. Will he get it? We'll see. In the meanwhile, I'm moving boxes to and fro. I've got linear bruises flanking my "biceps" and my arms are so sore, you'd think they were string cheese. I'm not sure how you're supposed to make that physical connection, but then, here we are.
Monday, September 13, 2010
In a Galaxy Far, Far Away...
I knew the last vestiges of sanity were leaving my body last night as I --in a concentrated attempt to stop my mind from whirring obsessively over what was left to do before moving next week, focused all of my mental energy on likening The Mister's and my moving situation to Star Wars. Would we be moving from Alderon to Tatuine or the Millennium Falcon? (And, I don't care if I misspelled anything as I am very tired.) Naturally, The Mister would be Hans Solo and I would be Princess Leia...yes...
I managed to eventually drift into the land of nod where I dreamed about polygamous marriages. I clearly have a very misguided understanding of Star Wars. Admittedly, it was less traumatic than dreaming about incestuous ones. I digress...(was I ever really here?)
The house is coming along nicely. I see more and more of my mother's neurosis in myself every day as I insist on painting the baseboards in the most meticulous fashion possible. I should be done by 2012. The end result, however, is well worth the tedium as the baseboards look shiny, pretty, and new.
Most unfortunately, I do not have until 2012 to move, in fact, The Mister and I are moving my apartment (and the kitties!) next Saturday. As I got ready for church on Sunday, this reality hit my like a sack of bricks. Oh. My. Gaw. With the exception of the addition of about 30 Avon boxes, my apartment did not look as though it would be ready to be moved anytime in the near future.
I started packing my closet last night and finished it early this morning. Tonight, I plan to buck up and pack the kitchen (it's just so hard to see all of my beautiful cookwares sealed unceremoniously into boxes). I'm also going to the house to clean the kitchen so I can rescue my beloved cookware from cardboard purgatory ASAP.
Thus far today, I've warded off the urge to curl up under my desk and sleep like a baby kitten (when I get tired while I'm painting at the house, I just lay back on the floor and close my eyes...an hour later, I feel better) with energy drinks. Mmm...synthetic. Two Red Bull's and a Starbucks Doubleshot of espresso later, I don't feel any more awake...just a dull headache.
Needless to say, I can't wait for this month --and everything that will invariably go with it, to be over.
I managed to eventually drift into the land of nod where I dreamed about polygamous marriages. I clearly have a very misguided understanding of Star Wars. Admittedly, it was less traumatic than dreaming about incestuous ones. I digress...(was I ever really here?)
The house is coming along nicely. I see more and more of my mother's neurosis in myself every day as I insist on painting the baseboards in the most meticulous fashion possible. I should be done by 2012. The end result, however, is well worth the tedium as the baseboards look shiny, pretty, and new.
Most unfortunately, I do not have until 2012 to move, in fact, The Mister and I are moving my apartment (and the kitties!) next Saturday. As I got ready for church on Sunday, this reality hit my like a sack of bricks. Oh. My. Gaw. With the exception of the addition of about 30 Avon boxes, my apartment did not look as though it would be ready to be moved anytime in the near future.
I started packing my closet last night and finished it early this morning. Tonight, I plan to buck up and pack the kitchen (it's just so hard to see all of my beautiful cookwares sealed unceremoniously into boxes). I'm also going to the house to clean the kitchen so I can rescue my beloved cookware from cardboard purgatory ASAP.
Thus far today, I've warded off the urge to curl up under my desk and sleep like a baby kitten (when I get tired while I'm painting at the house, I just lay back on the floor and close my eyes...an hour later, I feel better) with energy drinks. Mmm...synthetic. Two Red Bull's and a Starbucks Doubleshot of espresso later, I don't feel any more awake...just a dull headache.
Needless to say, I can't wait for this month --and everything that will invariably go with it, to be over.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Where Were We? --Still Alive! Still Alive!
So much has happened. Okay, not a darn thing with the wedding, but life has been an absolute whoosh since the last time I blogged!
For one, The Mister closed on the house. There was a bit of an unsavory snafu when the keys to the house weren't presented at closing (The Mister's dreams of that first-time-home-buyer photo-op were dashed...to bits...you do not want to know how long it took for the keys to finally be popped into his perfect nail-bitten hands.)...but, the point is, the house was CLOSED UPON. There is a house. In the Mister's name. I am so proud of him! And, by the time he was allowed into the house the night he closed, I think he was pretty happy, too.
The full-on giddiness didn't commence for The Mister until the next day when he took a full day off of work to mow the lawn. I gave him my credit card that I paid off with teaching money (what, I'm proud of paying that ho off!) to purchase a (what he assures me is) fabulous Honda motored lawn mower.
So, in the meantime, I started teaching my first-ever in person college class. Go. Me. My students are darling...all cute, no really, and I'm ridiculously enthused about teaching grammar to them (I think I'm channeling one of my favorite professors ever and a member of my thesis committee on that one!). I have one kid who falls asleep in his hand, so I'm sure he's equally excited. Que Sera, Sera. At any rate, my Tuesdays and Thursdays and gone from keeping me from home for eight hours to eleven. Balls, Man.
A week later, I started teaching an online class for extra swag. Busy as a bee my arse. More like, "What does a stroke feel like again?" busy, if you ask me! At any rate, my online kids are adorable, too...so motivated (most of them).
Over Labor Day weekend, instead of anything that even remotely hovered in the realm of fun, the Mister and I started painting the interior of the house. Well, on Saturday, I helped by painting the exterior around the door frame. Then, we moved inside...not before his (wonderful) family dropped by for a visit.
They all met my daddy (one down...three to go...that's mom, Oma, and the Boy, my brother, mind), which was a delightful time, especially for me, as I giggled myself silly over the fact that my fiance's family could just not get over my daddy's likeness to former President Clinton. And yes, for the record, Dad does look a lot like Clinton. Same hair type / style, piercing blue eyes, and a muscular build. In fact, I learned that random strangers will approach my dad and ask for a photo because he looks so similar to Clinton. Wow.
We painted, painted, and painted allllll weekend. Well, let me back up...the Friday before our alleged holiday, I booked the tickets for our HONEYMOON! Yes, The Mister and I are going to CIAO Italia for our post-nuptial celebration.
Because tickets are cheaper, we are flying in to Milan. We will leave Mobile in the afternoon on the day after our wedding and go to Dallas to Madrid and finally, to Milano. We will leave Milano and take a three hour train to Roma. By the time we will be in Roma, it will be March 28, the Mister's 26th birthday. We will enjoy Tuesday and Wednesday in Roma (Wednesday, the Pope usually appears)...that will be the substitute celebration day for my then-husband (but he doesn't know that yet...don't worry, he doesn't read these blogs unless I send them to him!...I plan to make plans!). Thursday, I would like to see Pompeii...our subsequent plans involve a day in Tuscany (my birthday gift to myself!), two to three days in Florence and the same in Venice. We will most likely spend the Friday before we return home in Milano so we can catch our flight back to London and then the U.S. of A. on Saturday morning. What a whirlwind! My heart races at the thought!
So, anyway, not to be a Debbie Downer (in the words of The Mister), I booked the tickets, and the travel agent charged me twice. BAAAAALLLLLS. Who has that kind of money just laying around!? I know I don't! Grrr....
A long weekend later and Tuesday night, the evil extra charge dropped off, so all is finally right with the world.
Tonight, I'm meeting with a volunteer agency to work on a grant with a feral / homeless cat spay/neuter program (please, pray Mobile gets this grant...these poor kitties need to be fixed so they don't continue to breed wild, homeless cats!) and then, finish painting the casa!
Life is good, ladies and gentlemen. The Mister is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on (honestly, I tell him all the time that there just isn't enough time in the world to just look at him), we're going to get married, we'll be hopping a plane to Italy in no time, and it's practically the holiday season...sorry, but I get pee-my-pants excited for the holis! Nothing like a delicious cinnamon apple or spiced cider scent to set the mood...a freshly carved jackolantern on the front porch...and then, I can unleash the Bath and Body Works fresh Balsam scent for Christmas. Yes, I am a nerd. Send money.
For one, The Mister closed on the house. There was a bit of an unsavory snafu when the keys to the house weren't presented at closing (The Mister's dreams of that first-time-home-buyer photo-op were dashed...to bits...you do not want to know how long it took for the keys to finally be popped into his perfect nail-bitten hands.)...but, the point is, the house was CLOSED UPON. There is a house. In the Mister's name. I am so proud of him! And, by the time he was allowed into the house the night he closed, I think he was pretty happy, too.
The full-on giddiness didn't commence for The Mister until the next day when he took a full day off of work to mow the lawn. I gave him my credit card that I paid off with teaching money (what, I'm proud of paying that ho off!) to purchase a (what he assures me is) fabulous Honda motored lawn mower.
So, in the meantime, I started teaching my first-ever in person college class. Go. Me. My students are darling...all cute, no really, and I'm ridiculously enthused about teaching grammar to them (I think I'm channeling one of my favorite professors ever and a member of my thesis committee on that one!). I have one kid who falls asleep in his hand, so I'm sure he's equally excited. Que Sera, Sera. At any rate, my Tuesdays and Thursdays and gone from keeping me from home for eight hours to eleven. Balls, Man.
A week later, I started teaching an online class for extra swag. Busy as a bee my arse. More like, "What does a stroke feel like again?" busy, if you ask me! At any rate, my online kids are adorable, too...so motivated (most of them).
Over Labor Day weekend, instead of anything that even remotely hovered in the realm of fun, the Mister and I started painting the interior of the house. Well, on Saturday, I helped by painting the exterior around the door frame. Then, we moved inside...not before his (wonderful) family dropped by for a visit.
They all met my daddy (one down...three to go...that's mom, Oma, and the Boy, my brother, mind), which was a delightful time, especially for me, as I giggled myself silly over the fact that my fiance's family could just not get over my daddy's likeness to former President Clinton. And yes, for the record, Dad does look a lot like Clinton. Same hair type / style, piercing blue eyes, and a muscular build. In fact, I learned that random strangers will approach my dad and ask for a photo because he looks so similar to Clinton. Wow.
We painted, painted, and painted allllll weekend. Well, let me back up...the Friday before our alleged holiday, I booked the tickets for our HONEYMOON! Yes, The Mister and I are going to CIAO Italia for our post-nuptial celebration.
Because tickets are cheaper, we are flying in to Milan. We will leave Mobile in the afternoon on the day after our wedding and go to Dallas to Madrid and finally, to Milano. We will leave Milano and take a three hour train to Roma. By the time we will be in Roma, it will be March 28, the Mister's 26th birthday. We will enjoy Tuesday and Wednesday in Roma (Wednesday, the Pope usually appears)...that will be the substitute celebration day for my then-husband (but he doesn't know that yet...don't worry, he doesn't read these blogs unless I send them to him!...I plan to make plans!). Thursday, I would like to see Pompeii...our subsequent plans involve a day in Tuscany (my birthday gift to myself!), two to three days in Florence and the same in Venice. We will most likely spend the Friday before we return home in Milano so we can catch our flight back to London and then the U.S. of A. on Saturday morning. What a whirlwind! My heart races at the thought!
So, anyway, not to be a Debbie Downer (in the words of The Mister), I booked the tickets, and the travel agent charged me twice. BAAAAALLLLLS. Who has that kind of money just laying around!? I know I don't! Grrr....
A long weekend later and Tuesday night, the evil extra charge dropped off, so all is finally right with the world.
Tonight, I'm meeting with a volunteer agency to work on a grant with a feral / homeless cat spay/neuter program (please, pray Mobile gets this grant...these poor kitties need to be fixed so they don't continue to breed wild, homeless cats!) and then, finish painting the casa!
Life is good, ladies and gentlemen. The Mister is the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on (honestly, I tell him all the time that there just isn't enough time in the world to just look at him), we're going to get married, we'll be hopping a plane to Italy in no time, and it's practically the holiday season...sorry, but I get pee-my-pants excited for the holis! Nothing like a delicious cinnamon apple or spiced cider scent to set the mood...a freshly carved jackolantern on the front porch...and then, I can unleash the Bath and Body Works fresh Balsam scent for Christmas. Yes, I am a nerd. Send money.
Friday, August 27, 2010
When One Should Get Married --Most Reliable Quiz Ever
If you find yourself pondering whether or not you're ready to get married but aren't sure, I've developed a simple quiz that will help you determine what you should be doing in life.
1 - The idea of being in a committed relationship makes you feel...
A. Like you should be committed (to a mental hospital)
B. A tad nervous
C. Warm and fuzzy like kittens
2 - You're left along for the night. You do which of the following?
A. Rally the troops and head downtown
B. Meet friends for dinner
C. Marathon Season 1 of The Nanny in your pajamas (not that I'm talking about anyone particular...)
3 - The idea of having children is...
A. More terrifying than facing death. Literally facing death
B. Something you'll do later
C. You're already picking out Halloween costumes for when they're babies
4 - You base your decision as to what to eat on...
A. What you're in the mood to eat
B. Usually what you're in the mood to eat, but sometimes you consult your mans
C. You make suggestions for things to cook, and make your decision based on how long he hesitates before responding to each dish
5 - You shave your legs...
A. Daily
B. Every few days
C. Uhhhhh...
If you answered mostly As, you're probably still enjoying singledom, which is a good thing. There's nothing wrong with going out, meeting people, dating, kissing, hanging out with friends and so on unless you're already in a relationship, and then it's wrong. Cheating is wrong.
If you answered mostly Bs, you may be in a relationship that you're relatively happy in but it may not be "the one." Stay tuned.
If you answered mostly Cs, please get out of my house. Seriously, if you answered mostly Cs, you're probably in a committed relationship and are ready to get married and start having dem babies.
It's weird for me to feel this way...not the committed relationship thing, but to start getting excited about kids. I'm definitely still in the idealized stage of my envisioning children, kind of the way I was about marriage five years ago.
You know how it is...when you idealize marriage, all you think about are you and your husband snuggling in front of a fire in the winter, grilling wieners for the neighborhood block party, matching furniture, a savings account, snazzy dinners for two...that kind of thing. You don't think about the day-to-day stuff...sitting on the couch watching TV while picking at your teeth, the first time he farts in front of you, bickering about money...but those are important to think about. Marriage isn't a fairy tale; it's a full-time job.
Kids are the same way. Right now, I'm picturing babies dressed up as little pumpkins for Halloween, surprising kids with Christmas gifts, reading to the kids before they fall asleep, teaching them how to paint, and dumping them on their grandparents so The Mister and I can take a weekend away.
I'm still blocking the reality...babies crying all night, drool, poopy diapers, the baby's first curse word (at which point I clobber The Mister), fighting with The Mister over parenting techniques, trying to get The Mister to read parenting literature, trying to get a toddler out of a car seat at the grocery store in the rain, never sleeping, and exchanging my exotic cheeses for Kraft (whimper).
It should be interesting. I'm definitely ready for the next phase of my life. In just 31 days (I think), we will be six months away from our wedding. In a few years, I feel like The Mister and I will be ready to have kids. I really want twins, but I'm not going to cheat and take any kind of supplement --I don't want to end up with a genetically mutated litter like that Octodevil in California. The Mister thinks I'm barking for wanting twinsies, but I just love the idea of having two children who look the same, speak their own funny language, and can mind read. Oh, imagine the possibilities! Babies' first Halloween will be priceless!
Even if we don't have twins, I know we still want to have kids in rapid fire succession. I really don't want to have one and then 10 years later have another one. I know it happens to loads of people, and it isn't the end of the world, but I definitely liked growing up close in age to my brother. I could have crushes on his friends, and it wasn't creepy. We always had someone to play with, which was nice... we'll see.
Come on, doubles!
By the way, I know this blog makes it look like I'm obsessed with Halloween; I promise, I'm not. I just get ridiculously enthusiastic about the Holiday Season (October - December). About 75% of my excitement comes from childhood holiday memories...the bags full of candy, Thanksgiving, decorating the house for Christmas, the cats and Barney sleeping on the glassed in porch on cold nights, getting tinsel all over the house, fires in the big orange fireplace, and the culmination of anticipation on Christmas morning. The other 25% has to do with Bath & Body Works seasonal scents. Love, love, love candles, and I only like to burn them throughout the holiday season. Yep, I'm a nerd. I want a house mostly so I can try to make it look like simple, chic, southern living and make it smell yummy!
Home sweet home!
We close Monday, August 30 at 4 p.m.
1 - The idea of being in a committed relationship makes you feel...
A. Like you should be committed (to a mental hospital)
B. A tad nervous
C. Warm and fuzzy like kittens
2 - You're left along for the night. You do which of the following?
A. Rally the troops and head downtown
B. Meet friends for dinner
C. Marathon Season 1 of The Nanny in your pajamas (not that I'm talking about anyone particular...)
3 - The idea of having children is...
A. More terrifying than facing death. Literally facing death
B. Something you'll do later
C. You're already picking out Halloween costumes for when they're babies
4 - You base your decision as to what to eat on...
A. What you're in the mood to eat
B. Usually what you're in the mood to eat, but sometimes you consult your mans
C. You make suggestions for things to cook, and make your decision based on how long he hesitates before responding to each dish
5 - You shave your legs...
A. Daily
B. Every few days
C. Uhhhhh...
If you answered mostly As, you're probably still enjoying singledom, which is a good thing. There's nothing wrong with going out, meeting people, dating, kissing, hanging out with friends and so on unless you're already in a relationship, and then it's wrong. Cheating is wrong.
If you answered mostly Bs, you may be in a relationship that you're relatively happy in but it may not be "the one." Stay tuned.
If you answered mostly Cs, please get out of my house. Seriously, if you answered mostly Cs, you're probably in a committed relationship and are ready to get married and start having dem babies.
It's weird for me to feel this way...not the committed relationship thing, but to start getting excited about kids. I'm definitely still in the idealized stage of my envisioning children, kind of the way I was about marriage five years ago.
You know how it is...when you idealize marriage, all you think about are you and your husband snuggling in front of a fire in the winter, grilling wieners for the neighborhood block party, matching furniture, a savings account, snazzy dinners for two...that kind of thing. You don't think about the day-to-day stuff...sitting on the couch watching TV while picking at your teeth, the first time he farts in front of you, bickering about money...but those are important to think about. Marriage isn't a fairy tale; it's a full-time job.
Kids are the same way. Right now, I'm picturing babies dressed up as little pumpkins for Halloween, surprising kids with Christmas gifts, reading to the kids before they fall asleep, teaching them how to paint, and dumping them on their grandparents so The Mister and I can take a weekend away.
I'm still blocking the reality...babies crying all night, drool, poopy diapers, the baby's first curse word (at which point I clobber The Mister), fighting with The Mister over parenting techniques, trying to get The Mister to read parenting literature, trying to get a toddler out of a car seat at the grocery store in the rain, never sleeping, and exchanging my exotic cheeses for Kraft (whimper).
It should be interesting. I'm definitely ready for the next phase of my life. In just 31 days (I think), we will be six months away from our wedding. In a few years, I feel like The Mister and I will be ready to have kids. I really want twins, but I'm not going to cheat and take any kind of supplement --I don't want to end up with a genetically mutated litter like that Octodevil in California. The Mister thinks I'm barking for wanting twinsies, but I just love the idea of having two children who look the same, speak their own funny language, and can mind read. Oh, imagine the possibilities! Babies' first Halloween will be priceless!
Even if we don't have twins, I know we still want to have kids in rapid fire succession. I really don't want to have one and then 10 years later have another one. I know it happens to loads of people, and it isn't the end of the world, but I definitely liked growing up close in age to my brother. I could have crushes on his friends, and it wasn't creepy. We always had someone to play with, which was nice... we'll see.
Come on, doubles!
By the way, I know this blog makes it look like I'm obsessed with Halloween; I promise, I'm not. I just get ridiculously enthusiastic about the Holiday Season (October - December). About 75% of my excitement comes from childhood holiday memories...the bags full of candy, Thanksgiving, decorating the house for Christmas, the cats and Barney sleeping on the glassed in porch on cold nights, getting tinsel all over the house, fires in the big orange fireplace, and the culmination of anticipation on Christmas morning. The other 25% has to do with Bath & Body Works seasonal scents. Love, love, love candles, and I only like to burn them throughout the holiday season. Yep, I'm a nerd. I want a house mostly so I can try to make it look like simple, chic, southern living and make it smell yummy!
Home sweet home!
We close Monday, August 30 at 4 p.m.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Reality of Singletons --Houston, We Have a Delusion
Envy. It comes in many shades of green, most notably, pea. The notion seems to stem from the belief that, despite what everyone tells you, the grass is always greener on the other side.
If I jumped the fence to the other side of engagement, job security, and buying a house, I suppose I would be some kind of free-agent, freelance artist type who was backpacking around Europe. In my dreams.
No, last night while The Mister was at a BBQ for a friend's birthday (it was in Mississippi), I returned home from teaching class. I made a little grilled tomato, basil, and three cheese sandwich, heated the rest of my tomato, fennel, and dill soup and sat down at the coffee table in front of the TV to watch The Nanny. Envy me, please.
So, reality check, Amy. You would not be jetsetting, painting portraits of rock star's and celebrity's babies, or sipping pinot grigio outside of a cafe in Sicily.
Eek. What a horrible thought. So, now that I know what the grass really looks like, I can say with complete confidence and alacrity that it is indeed not greener on the other side. (Admittedly, I chose The Mister over my imaginary luxury life in Europe long before we got engaged...I dug my heels into the pasture in which I was currently residing rather than brushing against the fence.) Still, it's nice to have these little reminders.
On the bridal front, I haven't logged onto the Knot.com in Lord knows how long. The Mister scheduled our first retreat thing for November. Kinda interested in how that's going to be. Much like my other fantasies, I am desperately hoping the Catholic retreat is like some kind of spa get-away where our pillows are fluffed, white-coated chefs serve us wild game over seasonal veggies and desserts too exotic to pronounce, we can swim in Holy water, and there are little cross-shaped Andes mints in the bathrooms.
Realistically, I'm sure the pillow will be of airplane quality at best (they even suggested bringing one's own pillow as "that is the most comfortable pillow." I beg to differ...they've never used my cheapo pillows). The food will probably be made my Phyllis in the cafeteria ... mystery meat perhaps? Sweet tea and water will dominate as beverage options. I already know we'll be expected to write down what we want out of the marriage and our expectations for our partner. This will also include private time where we can journal on our own.
**crickets chirp**
I know this is important, I know this is important, I know this is important...I hope I don't have papers to grade while I'm off on this oh-so-magical get away.
All right, all sarcasm aside, if this retreat helps make The Mister's and my marriage solid as a rock and rainbows, sunshine, and giggles from that point onward, then I'm all for it. After that, we'll have a natural family planning class to attend (I think it's just one of those) after the new year, then by the powers vested in The Mister's church, we can get married.
I have to admit, I'm kind of nervous that they're going to ask me questions about how I believe, and if they don't like my answer, they won't marry The Mister and me. The Mister thinks I'm being an idiot for worrying about such things, but I can't help it.
At this point, I imagine some kind of darkened FBI-like interrogation facility in which robed Holy men are shining flashlights in my face and asking things that if I answered truthfully, they would probably throw me in a volcano. Eek. I could just pretend to be an idiot.
"How do you feel about marriage?"
"I feel good."
instead of,
"I feel marriage is an equal partnership in which trust, communication, and respect are valued. Each partner should contribute equally to the relationship. If a partner damages that trust and the other partner can no longer trust their spouse, then the relationship ends."
Okay, so I don't see that conversation going that way, but the thing is, Catholic religion doesn't believe in divorce, but if I ever did something horrible to The Mister, I would understand if he could never trust me again and left me. I just think divorce is permissible in some instances. What if, in 20 years, I find out The Mister is a serial killer? Is divorce still not okay?
But, enough of divorce, I definitely feel like we're in it for the long haul. The Mister is my best friend...he's sweet, fun, funny, clever, loving, generous, hard working...as long as he doesn't lose his looks, we should be fine! ;)
Also, the Bible says --and this is of all Christian denominations, that the wife should bow down to her husband. Hmmm...okay, but what if the "leader" of my household is a raving lunatic who spends money like it's going out of style and hits me? Or what if the "leader" of my household is an indecisive ninny who couldn't make a decision if you put a gun to his head? What if the "leader" of my household has some strengths, like he can fix a car, light a propane tank, and patch the roof, but he has weaknesses in others, "Yes, but do you really need the motorcycle (another bill) right now?" and "Why is there a whole chicken boiling in a pot of frozen carrots?"
The Mister and I make some decisions together, which makes for a great partnership. I definitely need more Biblical clarification on this whole "bow down" thing, because I kind of don't agree. Unless, of course, by "bow down" it means be supportive of the sane, responsible things your husband does, which then it would make sense, and I would be compliant. After all, what happens if your hubby goes nutters and ends up on some drug-addicted binge for nine years of your marriage. "Yes, dear, I will eat the dry wall because you told me to. And it is good. Amen." Plfart.
Well, we'll just see about that.
I'm still most definitely looking forward to marrying The Mister...the grass couldn't be any greener where I'm standing, and as long as I don't offend anyone during camp, we should be fine! :)
If I jumped the fence to the other side of engagement, job security, and buying a house, I suppose I would be some kind of free-agent, freelance artist type who was backpacking around Europe. In my dreams.
No, last night while The Mister was at a BBQ for a friend's birthday (it was in Mississippi), I returned home from teaching class. I made a little grilled tomato, basil, and three cheese sandwich, heated the rest of my tomato, fennel, and dill soup and sat down at the coffee table in front of the TV to watch The Nanny. Envy me, please.
So, reality check, Amy. You would not be jetsetting, painting portraits of rock star's and celebrity's babies, or sipping pinot grigio outside of a cafe in Sicily.
Eek. What a horrible thought. So, now that I know what the grass really looks like, I can say with complete confidence and alacrity that it is indeed not greener on the other side. (Admittedly, I chose The Mister over my imaginary luxury life in Europe long before we got engaged...I dug my heels into the pasture in which I was currently residing rather than brushing against the fence.) Still, it's nice to have these little reminders.
On the bridal front, I haven't logged onto the Knot.com in Lord knows how long. The Mister scheduled our first retreat thing for November. Kinda interested in how that's going to be. Much like my other fantasies, I am desperately hoping the Catholic retreat is like some kind of spa get-away where our pillows are fluffed, white-coated chefs serve us wild game over seasonal veggies and desserts too exotic to pronounce, we can swim in Holy water, and there are little cross-shaped Andes mints in the bathrooms.
Realistically, I'm sure the pillow will be of airplane quality at best (they even suggested bringing one's own pillow as "that is the most comfortable pillow." I beg to differ...they've never used my cheapo pillows). The food will probably be made my Phyllis in the cafeteria ... mystery meat perhaps? Sweet tea and water will dominate as beverage options. I already know we'll be expected to write down what we want out of the marriage and our expectations for our partner. This will also include private time where we can journal on our own.
**crickets chirp**
I know this is important, I know this is important, I know this is important...I hope I don't have papers to grade while I'm off on this oh-so-magical get away.
All right, all sarcasm aside, if this retreat helps make The Mister's and my marriage solid as a rock and rainbows, sunshine, and giggles from that point onward, then I'm all for it. After that, we'll have a natural family planning class to attend (I think it's just one of those) after the new year, then by the powers vested in The Mister's church, we can get married.
I have to admit, I'm kind of nervous that they're going to ask me questions about how I believe, and if they don't like my answer, they won't marry The Mister and me. The Mister thinks I'm being an idiot for worrying about such things, but I can't help it.
At this point, I imagine some kind of darkened FBI-like interrogation facility in which robed Holy men are shining flashlights in my face and asking things that if I answered truthfully, they would probably throw me in a volcano. Eek. I could just pretend to be an idiot.
"How do you feel about marriage?"
"I feel good."
instead of,
"I feel marriage is an equal partnership in which trust, communication, and respect are valued. Each partner should contribute equally to the relationship. If a partner damages that trust and the other partner can no longer trust their spouse, then the relationship ends."
Okay, so I don't see that conversation going that way, but the thing is, Catholic religion doesn't believe in divorce, but if I ever did something horrible to The Mister, I would understand if he could never trust me again and left me. I just think divorce is permissible in some instances. What if, in 20 years, I find out The Mister is a serial killer? Is divorce still not okay?
But, enough of divorce, I definitely feel like we're in it for the long haul. The Mister is my best friend...he's sweet, fun, funny, clever, loving, generous, hard working...as long as he doesn't lose his looks, we should be fine! ;)
Also, the Bible says --and this is of all Christian denominations, that the wife should bow down to her husband. Hmmm...okay, but what if the "leader" of my household is a raving lunatic who spends money like it's going out of style and hits me? Or what if the "leader" of my household is an indecisive ninny who couldn't make a decision if you put a gun to his head? What if the "leader" of my household has some strengths, like he can fix a car, light a propane tank, and patch the roof, but he has weaknesses in others, "Yes, but do you really need the motorcycle (another bill) right now?" and "Why is there a whole chicken boiling in a pot of frozen carrots?"
The Mister and I make some decisions together, which makes for a great partnership. I definitely need more Biblical clarification on this whole "bow down" thing, because I kind of don't agree. Unless, of course, by "bow down" it means be supportive of the sane, responsible things your husband does, which then it would make sense, and I would be compliant. After all, what happens if your hubby goes nutters and ends up on some drug-addicted binge for nine years of your marriage. "Yes, dear, I will eat the dry wall because you told me to. And it is good. Amen." Plfart.
Well, we'll just see about that.
I'm still most definitely looking forward to marrying The Mister...the grass couldn't be any greener where I'm standing, and as long as I don't offend anyone during camp, we should be fine! :)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Parenting --Oh, Mother.
Remember that rhyme you used to sing when you were a child about the adventurous couple kissing in the tree where first came love, marriage, and then whoever the song was about with a baby carriage? Well, as it turns out, things still work that way. The Mister and I will be getting married in less than eight months (I think), and after that, at some point, we'll have kids (God willing).
I'm 99.9% confident I'll be an overprotective mother based solely on the fact that I'm mortified by 110% of what is published, produced, and marketed to children these days. Someone, please tell me why a 10 year-old needs a cell phone with texting and/or Internet functions? My child will use the Internet for three things:
(1) School work
(2) To send emails to grandma
(3) To place shopping orders online when Mommy's busy
I've seen kid movies from when I was a rug rat, and I'm like, "Oh, wow, check out that subversive political agenda!" Admittedly, as a child, I was totally unaware of any hidden messages, so I assume my kids will be, too...I hope.
I just want my child to be a child for as long as possible. The world is a smutty, slutty, and deviant place...lets let kids be kids. That's right, dear, boys do have cooties (which get worse as they get older, as it turns out).
So, plans to shield my child from humanity already forming, I think of my own childhood. Like a series of really bad clips put to music like America's Home Painfullest Videos, images of the Boy and me wrestling the Martin twins on the trampoline come to mind, sword fighting with tree branches in the woods like extras from Lord of the Rings, fighting with the Boy in the pool, trying to beat the snot out of the Martin twins, thinking being tagged in baseball meant just hitting the batter with the ball (luckily, despite that, my cousin can reproduce), hanging upside down off of rope swings after jumping out of a tree...yessssss...either my mother was insane for letting me out of the house or she was a genius for looking the other way.
I'm going with genius. I know my children are going to try to beat each other to death, fall of the trampoline, knock themselves unconscious on fallen tree branches (don't ask), fall on their heads (repeatedly), try to drown one another, tell one another that the other was adopted (ironically, more traumatizing to me than was all of the physical abuse. Hello, Therapist?)...the list goes on.
The fact that I survived childhood with no broken bones or a criminal record is remarkable.
With fitness taken care of (or something like that), I concern myself with my childrens' nutrition. What will they eat? Are hot dogs still okay to give to little noshers? Should I cook with butter? Mom and Dad fed us like normal parents would for the most part. We had parental-regulated meals and snacks. We were not allowed to go near the fridge and/or pantry without permission. Rarely were we able to actually touch or get anything ourselves. It was like there was an invisible kiddie fence around the food.
Naturally, this is why going to our neighbors house was such bliss. It was Willy Wonka's vacation house. Everything Little Debbie made, they had, freshly baked brownies, fried chicken, pizza, and pop were everywhere all of the time. Best of all, my neighbor could get things whenever she wanted. It was paradise, Baby.
I'm sure my Mom knew the Boy and I were secretly snacking our sugar-starved brains out at the neighbor's house. Still, I think Mom had the right idea...more nutritious options with the occasional sweet.
I loved it when Mom broke the rules...it happened like, once, that didn't involve birthday cake (during birthdays, all bets were off as we ordered a Buttercream Dreams cake and ate portions so large, I'm surprised we weren't arrested by the American Heart Association). As cakes were so rare to come by in the Brown household, the nature and allure of canned icing was highly seductive to the Boy and me (especially me). After much begging, Mom finally conceded to let us eat our own can of frosting. No cake. Just a spoon. I think I was nine, and I will forever remember that day as one of the single most magical of my childhood. You know you've wanted to just crack out on some cake icing without feeling ashamed. Unless you're one of those genetically blessed people who metabolizes like a humming bird, eating an entire can of icing guilt free can only happen when you're a child. I feel like one of God's chosen people. Amen.
Like my Mum, I plan to keep a good eye on the fridge, but unlike her, I plan to turn my children in to little culinary snoots. I want them to be like The Mister and eat until they're full...not treat meals like a race, and to know what they're eating. It's not cheese. That's like pointing to someone's Beagle and calling it 'dog' and then to a Chihuahua and calling it too a 'dog.' Bonks, people. If someone tries to sell you something and calls it cheese, run. It's either gouda or fontina or provolone or American or cheddar or Swiss or Guyere. But, bloody H, it's not cheese. Those Laughing Cow things terrify me. They say cheese, but what kind? And don't tell me herb and garlic. That's the flavor they put in there to disguise the fact that you're probably eating some kind of government issued sterilizer. Ewe.
Next, I ponder my child's education. The Mister and I have vastly different goals for education. I'm OCD and stake my entire existence on the beautiful assessments provided only by higher education. Sure, as a kid in school, I wasn't super motivated. Middle school sucked ... I got picked on, blah, blah, blah...by high school, I was thoroughly driven by dance and the belief that my future lie in that; ergo, what was the point of wasting precious sleep hours on academics?
The Mister, on the other hand, is smart but has never (from what he tells me) been academically motivated. I therefore wonder what our combined DNA will look like in the form of a child in school who is attempting to do homework.
Dear God, Please make my future babies smart. ...and motivated. Amen.
Mom used to do an hour a day of "summer school" with us when we were kids...a little English, some Spanish, a little math, typing, and a science project. Yes, this is what life was like being the daughter of a school teacher. Oh, I hated, hated, hated it. I bitterly resented having to do school work on the days when I was supposed to be running around and getting bumps, bruises, and more freckling.
In hindsight, I'm one heckuva typist. My accuracy is pretty good, and I can type very quickly. Forget math. I only remember learning el caballo (sp?), which is the horse or the walk or the road in Spanish...I just have a visual recollection of the flash card.
I'm pretty sure that early torture helped contribute to my academic success and lack of need to put a lot of effort into things in school later in life. Studies now show that children who are exposed to education during breaks tend to retain more of what they learned the previous year. Go figure.
Will I force my kids to do an hour of school during the summers? Well, if I'm working, they'll just have to stay with their grandmother...and she can do it. :) Muahahaha...
So...kids....it's going to be interesting. I'm sure every parent, parent to be, and very long distant parent to be (like me) feels the same way. "I hope I don't screw this up."
I'm 99.9% confident I'll be an overprotective mother based solely on the fact that I'm mortified by 110% of what is published, produced, and marketed to children these days. Someone, please tell me why a 10 year-old needs a cell phone with texting and/or Internet functions? My child will use the Internet for three things:
(1) School work
(2) To send emails to grandma
(3) To place shopping orders online when Mommy's busy
I've seen kid movies from when I was a rug rat, and I'm like, "Oh, wow, check out that subversive political agenda!" Admittedly, as a child, I was totally unaware of any hidden messages, so I assume my kids will be, too...I hope.
I just want my child to be a child for as long as possible. The world is a smutty, slutty, and deviant place...lets let kids be kids. That's right, dear, boys do have cooties (which get worse as they get older, as it turns out).
So, plans to shield my child from humanity already forming, I think of my own childhood. Like a series of really bad clips put to music like America's Home Painfullest Videos, images of the Boy and me wrestling the Martin twins on the trampoline come to mind, sword fighting with tree branches in the woods like extras from Lord of the Rings, fighting with the Boy in the pool, trying to beat the snot out of the Martin twins, thinking being tagged in baseball meant just hitting the batter with the ball (luckily, despite that, my cousin can reproduce), hanging upside down off of rope swings after jumping out of a tree...yessssss...either my mother was insane for letting me out of the house or she was a genius for looking the other way.
I'm going with genius. I know my children are going to try to beat each other to death, fall of the trampoline, knock themselves unconscious on fallen tree branches (don't ask), fall on their heads (repeatedly), try to drown one another, tell one another that the other was adopted (ironically, more traumatizing to me than was all of the physical abuse. Hello, Therapist?)...the list goes on.
The fact that I survived childhood with no broken bones or a criminal record is remarkable.
With fitness taken care of (or something like that), I concern myself with my childrens' nutrition. What will they eat? Are hot dogs still okay to give to little noshers? Should I cook with butter? Mom and Dad fed us like normal parents would for the most part. We had parental-regulated meals and snacks. We were not allowed to go near the fridge and/or pantry without permission. Rarely were we able to actually touch or get anything ourselves. It was like there was an invisible kiddie fence around the food.
Naturally, this is why going to our neighbors house was such bliss. It was Willy Wonka's vacation house. Everything Little Debbie made, they had, freshly baked brownies, fried chicken, pizza, and pop were everywhere all of the time. Best of all, my neighbor could get things whenever she wanted. It was paradise, Baby.
I'm sure my Mom knew the Boy and I were secretly snacking our sugar-starved brains out at the neighbor's house. Still, I think Mom had the right idea...more nutritious options with the occasional sweet.
I loved it when Mom broke the rules...it happened like, once, that didn't involve birthday cake (during birthdays, all bets were off as we ordered a Buttercream Dreams cake and ate portions so large, I'm surprised we weren't arrested by the American Heart Association). As cakes were so rare to come by in the Brown household, the nature and allure of canned icing was highly seductive to the Boy and me (especially me). After much begging, Mom finally conceded to let us eat our own can of frosting. No cake. Just a spoon. I think I was nine, and I will forever remember that day as one of the single most magical of my childhood. You know you've wanted to just crack out on some cake icing without feeling ashamed. Unless you're one of those genetically blessed people who metabolizes like a humming bird, eating an entire can of icing guilt free can only happen when you're a child. I feel like one of God's chosen people. Amen.
Like my Mum, I plan to keep a good eye on the fridge, but unlike her, I plan to turn my children in to little culinary snoots. I want them to be like The Mister and eat until they're full...not treat meals like a race, and to know what they're eating. It's not cheese. That's like pointing to someone's Beagle and calling it 'dog' and then to a Chihuahua and calling it too a 'dog.' Bonks, people. If someone tries to sell you something and calls it cheese, run. It's either gouda or fontina or provolone or American or cheddar or Swiss or Guyere. But, bloody H, it's not cheese. Those Laughing Cow things terrify me. They say cheese, but what kind? And don't tell me herb and garlic. That's the flavor they put in there to disguise the fact that you're probably eating some kind of government issued sterilizer. Ewe.
Next, I ponder my child's education. The Mister and I have vastly different goals for education. I'm OCD and stake my entire existence on the beautiful assessments provided only by higher education. Sure, as a kid in school, I wasn't super motivated. Middle school sucked ... I got picked on, blah, blah, blah...by high school, I was thoroughly driven by dance and the belief that my future lie in that; ergo, what was the point of wasting precious sleep hours on academics?
The Mister, on the other hand, is smart but has never (from what he tells me) been academically motivated. I therefore wonder what our combined DNA will look like in the form of a child in school who is attempting to do homework.
Dear God, Please make my future babies smart. ...and motivated. Amen.
Mom used to do an hour a day of "summer school" with us when we were kids...a little English, some Spanish, a little math, typing, and a science project. Yes, this is what life was like being the daughter of a school teacher. Oh, I hated, hated, hated it. I bitterly resented having to do school work on the days when I was supposed to be running around and getting bumps, bruises, and more freckling.
In hindsight, I'm one heckuva typist. My accuracy is pretty good, and I can type very quickly. Forget math. I only remember learning el caballo (sp?), which is the horse or the walk or the road in Spanish...I just have a visual recollection of the flash card.
I'm pretty sure that early torture helped contribute to my academic success and lack of need to put a lot of effort into things in school later in life. Studies now show that children who are exposed to education during breaks tend to retain more of what they learned the previous year. Go figure.
Will I force my kids to do an hour of school during the summers? Well, if I'm working, they'll just have to stay with their grandmother...and she can do it. :) Muahahaha...
So...kids....it's going to be interesting. I'm sure every parent, parent to be, and very long distant parent to be (like me) feels the same way. "I hope I don't screw this up."
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
An Unrelated Rant --I'm So Vain?
Okay, I know that in buying a house, planning a wedding, teaching a few classes while working full time, more annoying and potentially stressful things will happen to me, for the moment, I would like to unleash my mental anguish on something frivilous. Thank you.
I know that if you're working at a college campus postal office that the dream probably went awry somewhere between high school and not insisting he use protection, but is it really necessary to be stingy over $.39?
I went to mail a package near the time the post office closes, and I took a dollar. I kind of thought a thin flat package weighing less than a hangnail would be less than a dollar to mail. Negative...it's $1.39. The employee disregarded my frustration and the fact that I was out of breath (as I obviously sped walk to get to the post office like Richard Simmons in a new pair of spandex) and gleefully informed me that the post left at 3:30 p.m. anyway.
Right, well, I'm not too concerned about that...what I'm more concerned about is that I just took 10 minutes out of my day to hoof through the blazing heat to mail a package, and I'm 39 cents short. Show some love, lady.
Would it kill her to say, "I'll cover the fourty cents, and you can get me back next time."? (I have no idea how to punctuate that sentence....) Clearly, it would as I paused for at least 30 seconds before leaving. I mean, it's fourty cents. She spends more than that on Spanx, khaki pants, and Bud Light in a day! (Well, from the looks of it, anyway.) I would have lent someone fourty cents...correction, I would have given someone fourty cents.
So, I walked back to my office, panting, annoyed, and wondering if her bank account was overdrawn by fourty cents (wondering, hoping, whatever...I'm going to have to pray a lot after this, I know).
I suppose though, that's the leverage she gets to exude over others. You do not have adequate money for postage...muahahahaha! Be gone from my den of tedium! Slut.
While the thought of returning tomorrow with 39 cents in pennies did cross my mind, I probably won't do it. (I have more important things to do than to count my rainy day vengance pennies.)So, I'm settling for ranting.
Okay, I'm calmer now.
Thanks for letting me vent, blog.
I know that if you're working at a college campus postal office that the dream probably went awry somewhere between high school and not insisting he use protection, but is it really necessary to be stingy over $.39?
I went to mail a package near the time the post office closes, and I took a dollar. I kind of thought a thin flat package weighing less than a hangnail would be less than a dollar to mail. Negative...it's $1.39. The employee disregarded my frustration and the fact that I was out of breath (as I obviously sped walk to get to the post office like Richard Simmons in a new pair of spandex) and gleefully informed me that the post left at 3:30 p.m. anyway.
Right, well, I'm not too concerned about that...what I'm more concerned about is that I just took 10 minutes out of my day to hoof through the blazing heat to mail a package, and I'm 39 cents short. Show some love, lady.
Would it kill her to say, "I'll cover the fourty cents, and you can get me back next time."? (I have no idea how to punctuate that sentence....) Clearly, it would as I paused for at least 30 seconds before leaving. I mean, it's fourty cents. She spends more than that on Spanx, khaki pants, and Bud Light in a day! (Well, from the looks of it, anyway.) I would have lent someone fourty cents...correction, I would have given someone fourty cents.
So, I walked back to my office, panting, annoyed, and wondering if her bank account was overdrawn by fourty cents (wondering, hoping, whatever...I'm going to have to pray a lot after this, I know).
I suppose though, that's the leverage she gets to exude over others. You do not have adequate money for postage...muahahahaha! Be gone from my den of tedium! Slut.
While the thought of returning tomorrow with 39 cents in pennies did cross my mind, I probably won't do it. (I have more important things to do than to count my rainy day vengance pennies.)So, I'm settling for ranting.
Okay, I'm calmer now.
Thanks for letting me vent, blog.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Pandora's Box --Multitasking at Its Finest
Last night I had a nightmare that it was the day before the wedding, and The Mister and I still hadn't decided on our music for the wedding. (I also dreamed we were getting married in chest-deep water and that The Mister saw me in my wedding gown before the wedding. Chez horrible!) The nightmare prompted me to strike up the Pandora's radio on my computer so I can pick out potential wedding songs while working. (In my dream, I was trying to find something from Vivaldi's Seasons.)
Based on my genre of preferences, I would do well to get married in a Baroque parlor somewhere. (Ironically, as I write a sale for hotels in Roma and Venezia pop into my email...sono persona fortuna!)
Either way, the return of the nightmares about wedding planning are prompting me to act (get off my back, subconscience). What's left to plan? Oh, everything? Check.
In all seriousness, we need to secure the location for the rehearsal dinner, select the invitations, pick out The Mister's tux, find a florist for the wedding party flowers, formally book the reception site, let the bridesmaids know about their dresses, inhale, exhale, rob a bank....
And, of course, figure out the deal for the reception food. Are we going to go rogue and try to fix everything ourselves? Are we going to pay for a service? (Pandora's piano crescendos as I write with increasing fervor.) What are we going to do? Food is important. I should know this as after attending any event, I start by describing the food in loving detail (boring my friends to tears). (I'm a foodie, what can I say!?)
Anyway, so, I guess the dust has adequately settled after my MOH's wedding, so I should get back on the proverbial ball.
Speaking of balls...I feel like I'm in a one-woman work-circus. I look forward to inadvertently starving off 20 lbs this month though, because between the wedding ball, I'm also juggling teaching two online college classes, one traditional college class, volunteering for a grant, possibly working side-jobs on two grants, illustrating something for my boss (no pressure), moving, and getting in the application for my PhD program before time expires on that. Never mind that I would like to finish editing my book since I was (much to my delight) struck with an idea for another book while having a walk the other day.
So, upward and onward...what to do first, I don't know. I think I'll just look forward to dinner for now.
Based on my genre of preferences, I would do well to get married in a Baroque parlor somewhere. (Ironically, as I write a sale for hotels in Roma and Venezia pop into my email...sono persona fortuna!)
Either way, the return of the nightmares about wedding planning are prompting me to act (get off my back, subconscience). What's left to plan? Oh, everything? Check.
In all seriousness, we need to secure the location for the rehearsal dinner, select the invitations, pick out The Mister's tux, find a florist for the wedding party flowers, formally book the reception site, let the bridesmaids know about their dresses, inhale, exhale, rob a bank....
And, of course, figure out the deal for the reception food. Are we going to go rogue and try to fix everything ourselves? Are we going to pay for a service? (Pandora's piano crescendos as I write with increasing fervor.) What are we going to do? Food is important. I should know this as after attending any event, I start by describing the food in loving detail (boring my friends to tears). (I'm a foodie, what can I say!?)
Anyway, so, I guess the dust has adequately settled after my MOH's wedding, so I should get back on the proverbial ball.
Speaking of balls...I feel like I'm in a one-woman work-circus. I look forward to inadvertently starving off 20 lbs this month though, because between the wedding ball, I'm also juggling teaching two online college classes, one traditional college class, volunteering for a grant, possibly working side-jobs on two grants, illustrating something for my boss (no pressure), moving, and getting in the application for my PhD program before time expires on that. Never mind that I would like to finish editing my book since I was (much to my delight) struck with an idea for another book while having a walk the other day.
So, upward and onward...what to do first, I don't know. I think I'll just look forward to dinner for now.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
My Best Friend's Wedding --Hitched without a Hitch
It's impossible for me to say, think, or rhyme with the words 'my best friend's wedding' without my brain invariably cuing scenes from the Julia Roberts movie that otherwise influenced me to turn my life into a disaster when I was in 9th grade. Unlike the film, however, my best friend's wedding did not involve a forged e-mail, a sordid love triangle, Cameron Diaz, an ice-sculpture, or theft of a bread truck (although, we did come awful close to hijacking a luggage cart...ah, memories). The wedding was, however, for lack of a better word perfect. The grass was green, the sky was blue, the dress was white, and wine was red. Yes, for a brief and shining moment in Charlottesville, VA, God smiled and made a perfect day for my best friend and her now-husband, who, by the way is so perfect for her it makes Norman Rockwell paintings seem like a misrepresentation of ideal American life.
Because the bride in question is my best friend, I was thrilled beyond words and often moved to tears that things were so perfect on her wedding day (admittedly, if it was someone I didn't like, I would be less thrilled, ... of course, then I would feel guilty about having bad thoughts, pray about it, feel bad for still having some misgivings and then sod the whole thing over a bloody mary).
I also acknowledged on this beautiful, do-we-have-to-go-home occasion a few other things. The first is that my wedding will by no means be this classy, elaborate, or beautiful. And, second, everything north of Georgia makes Alabama suck. Come on, Mobile, get your head in the game!
Moving along (hopefully sooner than later), did anyone other than me realize that being in the wedding party is totally not like attending the wedding? Oh. My. Lawd. Seriously, though a total blast and I would not replace being in my bestie's (is that how you spell that possessively?) for the world, my "week o' vacation" was not a vacation in its entirety. Here's how...
Tuesday:
Leave Mobile and drive to Atlanta after work. (obvious, driving)
Wednesday:
Leave Atlanta and drive to Charlottesville. (obvious, driving)
Thursday:
Bachelorette party.
All right, before you attack me with torches, let's hold the phone, Mabel. The bachelorette party itself --a vineyard tour in Virginia wine country and a stay at a lux resort-style hotel (also the location of the reception) was fun. Making sure things went off without a hitch --exhausting.
Early Thursday morning, I awoke, readied myself, and packed a back for the night knowing that Friday night, we would be sleeping in the bridal suite to ready ourselves for Saturday's wedding. Cool. Not giving much away, I told the bride to pack lots of things --a bathing suit, something fancy, something casual, something comfortable, and, not to err on the side of caution, toiletries. The bride is confused. Perfecto!
We arrive at the Boar's Head 30 minutes early (so I jumped the gun a little...) to wait for the other girls and Don, our wine-tour guide. (There was a hot air balloon ride in front of the hotel when we arrived...I soooo should have kept the bride in psychological limbo thinking that was for us, but I didn't...like throwing darts a foot away and still missing.) We check our bags, and I situate the bride-to-be on a bench and go tell the concierge that a man will come in looking for us for a wine tour...we are outside.
As I walk out, I notice a bloke walking inside, and I kind of think...I wonder if that's Don, but I don't say anything. I walk back and sit next to Becca. The bloke walks up a few minutes later. "I'm guessing," dramatic pause, "y'all are here for a wine tour." (My mental avatar commits suicide.) Nooooooooo! The bride pipes up, though cheerfully, "You weren't supposed to tell!" No, Don, you weren't. I should have wrapped the bride in a bubble. The other girls, G and S arrive, and we're on our merry way.
The wine tour was fun. The bride was pleased that we opted for wineries that focused more on white wines than red wines --she doesn't like reds: the histamines in them give her a headache. (Speaking of headaches, I had aspirin with me...my goal for the day was to make sure she didn't get a headache for her bridal luncheon and rehearsal the following day. **Spoiler Alert!** Mission Accomplished.)
Back at the Boar's Head, we enjoyed a lovely view of the parking lot (who's stealing my rims!?) while relaxing before deciding to go to an Asian tapas bar near UVA (I think...I just used the GPS the whole time...woman's voice still penetrates my dreams...::shudder::).
Afterward, we enjoyed an evening of karaoke* (*except when I sang).
Friday
Bridal Luncheon, Rehearsal, Rehearsal Dinner:
The following day was a delicious bridal luncheon (I'm so trying to teach myself how to make curried chicken salad as we speak...in theory), the rehearsal, and the rehearsal dinner, which involved a speech.
I do not like speaking in front of people. Albeit, I'm a total ham (always have been), I'm still shy when my brain is working (easily rectified problem). Since I found out my bestie was engaged, I'd been mentally planning "the perfect speech." Should I memorize a poem? Recount one of our most ridiculous memories for laughs? Hmmm...
Suddenly, Friday night, I'm at this restaurant (with horrible bloody marys but good everything else) and I realize, five months ago when I started planning the bachelorette, I stopped planning my speech. Oh. Lawd.
What to say!? What to say!? I mentally flip through the diary she and I completed as kids...there's the inside joke about the nice young man with the gun ... the sheepheads of Leonardo Di Caprio (when the concept of cloning was first realized) ... singing Ace of Base at the top of our lungs in her dad's car (sorry, Charlie) ... playing Indian poker at Perdido, ... that time she said my glasses made my butt look big at Lens Crafters ... every memory, I realized would (1) take wayyyyyy too long for a sane/logical sounding explanation, and (2) would convince everyone that we should both be institutionalized without delay.
I love to make a room laugh, really, really do, and usually, it's through freak accident (see the love scene I wrote for screenwriting for details), but I went sentimental. Everyone said it went well, but who would tell me in my state otherwise? (Note: If you know and/or feel otherwise, please do not tell me. I prefer to live the lie.) :)
Saturday:
Uniting the happy couple in Holy Mattress Money...I mean, Matrimony
Saturday was THE BIG DAY. We all got our hair done (me thanks to the bride's mom and her generosity for giving me an appointment) and then went for lunch and then it was time to get ready. Everytime I looked at my best friend, the urge to cry crept upon me. I now know exactly how a leaky faucet feels. (On the plus, I burned ~560 calories just by clenching my teeth to hold back the waterworks.)
The wedding was held in the small but beautiful chapel on UVA's campus. The musical trio was elegant, our black dresses, classy, the vows, some of the most eloquent words spoken by lovers; it was wonderful. (Even our tears of joy were appropriate.)
The reception was festive, well-timed, and elegant on the sprawling lawns of the Boar's Head, which overlooked the lake. The music, old jazzy tunes sung by Etta James, Diana Krall, and Louis Armstrong set a perfect stage for the bride and groom's first dance to "What a Wonderful World." Noticing the atmosphere set by the mood, I nudged The Mister...this was the same style of music we wanted and that we would most likely want to set the stage for our first dance. G agreed (she was next to The Mister) that a wedding like our friend's was a great place to pick up tips: "Yes, this is something I would want."
It's three days after the wedding, and my mind is still gormlessly wrapped up in last week's affairs. Simultaneously, they're tied into my own thoughts about my own wedding plans. Comparing is not an option.
My goal is to take what she did, take it down a big notch, and still keep it simple and classy. Hmmm....
Because the bride in question is my best friend, I was thrilled beyond words and often moved to tears that things were so perfect on her wedding day (admittedly, if it was someone I didn't like, I would be less thrilled, ... of course, then I would feel guilty about having bad thoughts, pray about it, feel bad for still having some misgivings and then sod the whole thing over a bloody mary).
I also acknowledged on this beautiful, do-we-have-to-go-home occasion a few other things. The first is that my wedding will by no means be this classy, elaborate, or beautiful. And, second, everything north of Georgia makes Alabama suck. Come on, Mobile, get your head in the game!
Moving along (hopefully sooner than later), did anyone other than me realize that being in the wedding party is totally not like attending the wedding? Oh. My. Lawd. Seriously, though a total blast and I would not replace being in my bestie's (is that how you spell that possessively?) for the world, my "week o' vacation" was not a vacation in its entirety. Here's how...
Tuesday:
Leave Mobile and drive to Atlanta after work. (obvious, driving)
Wednesday:
Leave Atlanta and drive to Charlottesville. (obvious, driving)
Thursday:
Bachelorette party.
All right, before you attack me with torches, let's hold the phone, Mabel. The bachelorette party itself --a vineyard tour in Virginia wine country and a stay at a lux resort-style hotel (also the location of the reception) was fun. Making sure things went off without a hitch --exhausting.
Early Thursday morning, I awoke, readied myself, and packed a back for the night knowing that Friday night, we would be sleeping in the bridal suite to ready ourselves for Saturday's wedding. Cool. Not giving much away, I told the bride to pack lots of things --a bathing suit, something fancy, something casual, something comfortable, and, not to err on the side of caution, toiletries. The bride is confused. Perfecto!
We arrive at the Boar's Head 30 minutes early (so I jumped the gun a little...) to wait for the other girls and Don, our wine-tour guide. (There was a hot air balloon ride in front of the hotel when we arrived...I soooo should have kept the bride in psychological limbo thinking that was for us, but I didn't...like throwing darts a foot away and still missing.) We check our bags, and I situate the bride-to-be on a bench and go tell the concierge that a man will come in looking for us for a wine tour...we are outside.
As I walk out, I notice a bloke walking inside, and I kind of think...I wonder if that's Don, but I don't say anything. I walk back and sit next to Becca. The bloke walks up a few minutes later. "I'm guessing," dramatic pause, "y'all are here for a wine tour." (My mental avatar commits suicide.) Nooooooooo! The bride pipes up, though cheerfully, "You weren't supposed to tell!" No, Don, you weren't. I should have wrapped the bride in a bubble. The other girls, G and S arrive, and we're on our merry way.
The wine tour was fun. The bride was pleased that we opted for wineries that focused more on white wines than red wines --she doesn't like reds: the histamines in them give her a headache. (Speaking of headaches, I had aspirin with me...my goal for the day was to make sure she didn't get a headache for her bridal luncheon and rehearsal the following day. **Spoiler Alert!** Mission Accomplished.)
Back at the Boar's Head, we enjoyed a lovely view of the parking lot (who's stealing my rims!?) while relaxing before deciding to go to an Asian tapas bar near UVA (I think...I just used the GPS the whole time...woman's voice still penetrates my dreams...::shudder::).
Afterward, we enjoyed an evening of karaoke* (*except when I sang).
Friday
Bridal Luncheon, Rehearsal, Rehearsal Dinner:
The following day was a delicious bridal luncheon (I'm so trying to teach myself how to make curried chicken salad as we speak...in theory), the rehearsal, and the rehearsal dinner, which involved a speech.
I do not like speaking in front of people. Albeit, I'm a total ham (always have been), I'm still shy when my brain is working (easily rectified problem). Since I found out my bestie was engaged, I'd been mentally planning "the perfect speech." Should I memorize a poem? Recount one of our most ridiculous memories for laughs? Hmmm...
Suddenly, Friday night, I'm at this restaurant (with horrible bloody marys but good everything else) and I realize, five months ago when I started planning the bachelorette, I stopped planning my speech. Oh. Lawd.
What to say!? What to say!? I mentally flip through the diary she and I completed as kids...there's the inside joke about the nice young man with the gun ... the sheepheads of Leonardo Di Caprio (when the concept of cloning was first realized) ... singing Ace of Base at the top of our lungs in her dad's car (sorry, Charlie) ... playing Indian poker at Perdido, ... that time she said my glasses made my butt look big at Lens Crafters ... every memory, I realized would (1) take wayyyyyy too long for a sane/logical sounding explanation, and (2) would convince everyone that we should both be institutionalized without delay.
I love to make a room laugh, really, really do, and usually, it's through freak accident (see the love scene I wrote for screenwriting for details), but I went sentimental. Everyone said it went well, but who would tell me in my state otherwise? (Note: If you know and/or feel otherwise, please do not tell me. I prefer to live the lie.) :)
Saturday:
Uniting the happy couple in Holy Mattress Money...I mean, Matrimony
Saturday was THE BIG DAY. We all got our hair done (me thanks to the bride's mom and her generosity for giving me an appointment) and then went for lunch and then it was time to get ready. Everytime I looked at my best friend, the urge to cry crept upon me. I now know exactly how a leaky faucet feels. (On the plus, I burned ~560 calories just by clenching my teeth to hold back the waterworks.)
The wedding was held in the small but beautiful chapel on UVA's campus. The musical trio was elegant, our black dresses, classy, the vows, some of the most eloquent words spoken by lovers; it was wonderful. (Even our tears of joy were appropriate.)
The reception was festive, well-timed, and elegant on the sprawling lawns of the Boar's Head, which overlooked the lake. The music, old jazzy tunes sung by Etta James, Diana Krall, and Louis Armstrong set a perfect stage for the bride and groom's first dance to "What a Wonderful World." Noticing the atmosphere set by the mood, I nudged The Mister...this was the same style of music we wanted and that we would most likely want to set the stage for our first dance. G agreed (she was next to The Mister) that a wedding like our friend's was a great place to pick up tips: "Yes, this is something I would want."
It's three days after the wedding, and my mind is still gormlessly wrapped up in last week's affairs. Simultaneously, they're tied into my own thoughts about my own wedding plans. Comparing is not an option.
My goal is to take what she did, take it down a big notch, and still keep it simple and classy. Hmmm....
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Corner Bar Superlatives --Part II
Chronic Blues, a local band that gets together occasionally to play some of the best rock and roll this side of freedom, entertained the natives at a little place called The Corner Bar in Mobile last Friday night.
Though not a venue I would ever venture into without the seductive melodies of Chronic Blues luring me like the Sirens in Odyssey, Corner Bar has once again proven to be the best place to people watch in town.
Maybe they should blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol, but there is just something about these young 20-somethings in their come-shag me heels and "my father owns a yacht" tucked-in button downs and Docksiders that makes me giggle every time* (*a total of twice now).
So, without further adieu, The Corner Bar Superlatives for Friday, July 30, 2011
Best Reunion: The Band, duh. Chronic Blues getting together is like an eclipse or Shark Week. It's awesome, so be there. Runner up for best reunion is definitely when two girls I danced with, Brandy Hattenstein and Lindsey Ankerson, came into the joint and were appropriately NOT wearing stripper heels (they're natural beauties).
Most Entertaining Dancer: Best dancer goes to random polo-sporting preppy guy whose signature move involved doing a full-on African modern dance style squat and waving his hands in front of him. Unfortunately, I didn't get Alvin Ailey out of his dancing as much as I got constipated on a camping trip. Whoops, better luck next time, Guy.
Mr. Nice Guy: Mr. Nice Guy award goes to the young man who sat with a gaggle of lip-gloss lovin' ladies' Charlotte Russe totes while their owners floated around the bar to find men who would treat them like crap (they need something to complain about on Facebook!). Just because you might finish last, Mr. Nice Guy, doesn't mean you should walk the race.
Best Dress: Best dress goes to the girl who looked like an Oscar. A skinny brunette sporting a bronze colored drapey dress had me thisclose to following her out of the bar to confirm the ensemble came from Charlotte Russe (sorry, but I assume everyone under the age of 23 treats CR like their shopping Mecca).
Family of the Year: My family and I like to go to church on Sundays and then have dinner. Compared to the rest of society, I thought we were doing pretty good on keeping the knitting from unspooling. I was wrong. Is it a mother / daughter? Maybe...but definitely family of the year goes to the sister act, one girl clearly in her 30s the other having just come of age from the look of it, both wearing white denim skirts (the older girl's skirt appropriately, knee length) and blue tops. Welcome to Mayberry.
The party got started with this family after the sisters downed a few beverages with older sister Sarah leading Little Sister Libby to the dance floor (I just named them). Sarah and Libby danced and jiggled their junk for the band. I think it was the cover to Steve Miller band's The Joker that really got their party started.
While Sarah danced with some random with abandon, her husband took snaps of her dancing (with the CB bass player posing hilariously in the background while still rocking the crowds' socks) and then several of Libby who was trying to dance, pose, and pout simultaneously. All right, little Libby, that's enough kissy faces at your sister's balding husband. Luckily, there's no need to indicate a party foul as Libby looked very friendly with a guy her own age before The Mister and I left the Corner Bar.
I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.
Congratulations, Corner Bar, without you or your never-ending supply of alcohol I don't think the kids would be nearly as interested in trying to look sexy and posh in your dank, cement walls, would dance, or would bring their family's for little Libby's first lap dance.
The End...
Or is it...
Before I go, one of my fabulous bridesmaids reminded me of the REAL reason we say "Tito" instead of the "Theodore."
This bridesmaid and I went to Murphy High together. To rally the Panther's spirits before a football game against the Theodore Bobcats, the cheerleaders put on a Jeopardy-style skit of Murphy vs Theodore. The question, "Can you spell the name of your school?" The Theodore girl says, "That's easy! Just three letters! T-D-O. TDO!"
...Thank God at least one of us paid attention in high school!
Though not a venue I would ever venture into without the seductive melodies of Chronic Blues luring me like the Sirens in Odyssey, Corner Bar has once again proven to be the best place to people watch in town.
Maybe they should blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol, but there is just something about these young 20-somethings in their come-shag me heels and "my father owns a yacht" tucked-in button downs and Docksiders that makes me giggle every time* (*a total of twice now).
So, without further adieu, The Corner Bar Superlatives for Friday, July 30, 2011
Best Reunion: The Band, duh. Chronic Blues getting together is like an eclipse or Shark Week. It's awesome, so be there. Runner up for best reunion is definitely when two girls I danced with, Brandy Hattenstein and Lindsey Ankerson, came into the joint and were appropriately NOT wearing stripper heels (they're natural beauties).
Most Entertaining Dancer: Best dancer goes to random polo-sporting preppy guy whose signature move involved doing a full-on African modern dance style squat and waving his hands in front of him. Unfortunately, I didn't get Alvin Ailey out of his dancing as much as I got constipated on a camping trip. Whoops, better luck next time, Guy.
Mr. Nice Guy: Mr. Nice Guy award goes to the young man who sat with a gaggle of lip-gloss lovin' ladies' Charlotte Russe totes while their owners floated around the bar to find men who would treat them like crap (they need something to complain about on Facebook!). Just because you might finish last, Mr. Nice Guy, doesn't mean you should walk the race.
Best Dress: Best dress goes to the girl who looked like an Oscar. A skinny brunette sporting a bronze colored drapey dress had me thisclose to following her out of the bar to confirm the ensemble came from Charlotte Russe (sorry, but I assume everyone under the age of 23 treats CR like their shopping Mecca).
Family of the Year: My family and I like to go to church on Sundays and then have dinner. Compared to the rest of society, I thought we were doing pretty good on keeping the knitting from unspooling. I was wrong. Is it a mother / daughter? Maybe...but definitely family of the year goes to the sister act, one girl clearly in her 30s the other having just come of age from the look of it, both wearing white denim skirts (the older girl's skirt appropriately, knee length) and blue tops. Welcome to Mayberry.
The party got started with this family after the sisters downed a few beverages with older sister Sarah leading Little Sister Libby to the dance floor (I just named them). Sarah and Libby danced and jiggled their junk for the band. I think it was the cover to Steve Miller band's The Joker that really got their party started.
While Sarah danced with some random with abandon, her husband took snaps of her dancing (with the CB bass player posing hilariously in the background while still rocking the crowds' socks) and then several of Libby who was trying to dance, pose, and pout simultaneously. All right, little Libby, that's enough kissy faces at your sister's balding husband. Luckily, there's no need to indicate a party foul as Libby looked very friendly with a guy her own age before The Mister and I left the Corner Bar.
I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.
Congratulations, Corner Bar, without you or your never-ending supply of alcohol I don't think the kids would be nearly as interested in trying to look sexy and posh in your dank, cement walls, would dance, or would bring their family's for little Libby's first lap dance.
The End...
Or is it...
Before I go, one of my fabulous bridesmaids reminded me of the REAL reason we say "Tito" instead of the "Theodore."
This bridesmaid and I went to Murphy High together. To rally the Panther's spirits before a football game against the Theodore Bobcats, the cheerleaders put on a Jeopardy-style skit of Murphy vs Theodore. The question, "Can you spell the name of your school?" The Theodore girl says, "That's easy! Just three letters! T-D-O. TDO!"
...Thank God at least one of us paid attention in high school!
The Wedding Planner --A Rose by Any Other Name...
Based on the past two months alone, I think "wedding planner" is the most difficult job in the world (move over, Mr. President). Now, I'm possibly giving this former cheerleader/beauty queen/business major too much credit because I'm working a full time job, planning a class to teach, clipping recipes, and cooking fabulous dinners on top of moving and planning a wedding (Think "I'm a Woman" by Peggy Lee) because I'm like Atlas but with breasts, high heels, and the world is made of Chantilly Lace. I'm sure that if you check "wedding planner" on your taxes every year, you're not trying to write a novel and save the world one NSF grant at a time. Still, planning a wedding is tough.
Right now, my brain is consumed by the following: rehearsal dinner site, reception food, booking reception hall before some other conniving woman gets it, will the editor like my article (unrelated to wedding), oh dear Lord, I need to edit my book (in the far corners of my mind), gotta meet Becca's dad at 7 for dinner and to get the luggage, finish packing for Becca's wedding, finish tidying apartment so Mom doesn't see the hole the hookah burned in the rug when she comes to feed the cats (long story that can be summarized as "Amy's an idiot"), get a slip from Target, so excited...Becca's wedding, no, focus you idiot, music for your wedding....
And then, like an A-bomb, my brain just erupts in a mushroom cloud and I decide to do something totally pointless, like tomorrow's NY Times crossword puzzle from my desk calender or contribute to this blog with absolutely no new and relevant information.
The only thing new --which isn't really that new, is that I hate trying to please people. Pleasing others is like a really bad math equation where you lose every time.
Case and point: Person A is unhappy. Person B is moderately happy, and Person C is happy. I make person A happy. Person A is happy, meanwhile, person B is twice as unhappy as person A was before I made any changes. Person C who was happy initially is now neither happy nor unhappy. Person me is effed.
Ironically, this delightful chain (sans third person) seems to happen entirely in my family tree. Normally, brides are bending over backward to appease their respective Mister's side of the familia, but lucky for me, The Mister has a great family with whom I get along; things are relatively easy going.
My mom is great, too. Mom is funding the honeymoon, the invites, and the reception location. Above and beyond, Moo.
Dad is, well, Dad, and his involvement is limited to getting a tux and walking me down the aisle. (No jorts, Dad.) (By the way, I'll feel really triumphant if I get Dad to do all of that.)
My brother, the Boy, lives in Tallahasse and is studying business and law...he doesn't have time to opine.
This leaves, well, my Oma who loves fresh flowers more than Harry loved Sally. Oma has generously offered to help with the catering for the wedding and the flowers for the reception.
***
***
***
I could be vastly off on my estimation of things, but catered yummies are not cheap (right now, Oma thinks they're about $1000, but I know the catered yums will be $1500 to $2000 because our "small" wedding isn't that small (big family), so food is going to be a tad pricey. Flowers are ridiculously expensive...even for the wedding itself (my bouquet, bride's bouquets, man flowers, and flowers for our mums), I read that they can be upwards of $750. Gaaaawwwwly. God, I wish we could elope. I don't think The Mister's church permits eloping though.
So, to my Oma who loves flowers, how do I explain that I would prefer her help with catering and not the flowers without hurting her feelings? I feel like by saying anything it would be to bite the hand that feeds you (and decorates you in this case). The Mister and I were already looking to spend at least $500 on decorations between the church and the reception site, and flowers weren't a part of that...they're just too costly.
So, is asking her to not worry about flowers for the reception a good tactical move? Is asking her to put some of that down toward the catering appropriate? And, whyyyyyyy can't we just elope?
Right now, my brain is consumed by the following: rehearsal dinner site, reception food, booking reception hall before some other conniving woman gets it, will the editor like my article (unrelated to wedding), oh dear Lord, I need to edit my book (in the far corners of my mind), gotta meet Becca's dad at 7 for dinner and to get the luggage, finish packing for Becca's wedding, finish tidying apartment so Mom doesn't see the hole the hookah burned in the rug when she comes to feed the cats (long story that can be summarized as "Amy's an idiot"), get a slip from Target, so excited...Becca's wedding, no, focus you idiot, music for your wedding....
And then, like an A-bomb, my brain just erupts in a mushroom cloud and I decide to do something totally pointless, like tomorrow's NY Times crossword puzzle from my desk calender or contribute to this blog with absolutely no new and relevant information.
The only thing new --which isn't really that new, is that I hate trying to please people. Pleasing others is like a really bad math equation where you lose every time.
Case and point: Person A is unhappy. Person B is moderately happy, and Person C is happy. I make person A happy. Person A is happy, meanwhile, person B is twice as unhappy as person A was before I made any changes. Person C who was happy initially is now neither happy nor unhappy. Person me is effed.
Ironically, this delightful chain (sans third person) seems to happen entirely in my family tree. Normally, brides are bending over backward to appease their respective Mister's side of the familia, but lucky for me, The Mister has a great family with whom I get along; things are relatively easy going.
My mom is great, too. Mom is funding the honeymoon, the invites, and the reception location. Above and beyond, Moo.
Dad is, well, Dad, and his involvement is limited to getting a tux and walking me down the aisle. (No jorts, Dad.) (By the way, I'll feel really triumphant if I get Dad to do all of that.)
My brother, the Boy, lives in Tallahasse and is studying business and law...he doesn't have time to opine.
This leaves, well, my Oma who loves fresh flowers more than Harry loved Sally. Oma has generously offered to help with the catering for the wedding and the flowers for the reception.
***
***
***
I could be vastly off on my estimation of things, but catered yummies are not cheap (right now, Oma thinks they're about $1000, but I know the catered yums will be $1500 to $2000 because our "small" wedding isn't that small (big family), so food is going to be a tad pricey. Flowers are ridiculously expensive...even for the wedding itself (my bouquet, bride's bouquets, man flowers, and flowers for our mums), I read that they can be upwards of $750. Gaaaawwwwly. God, I wish we could elope. I don't think The Mister's church permits eloping though.
So, to my Oma who loves flowers, how do I explain that I would prefer her help with catering and not the flowers without hurting her feelings? I feel like by saying anything it would be to bite the hand that feeds you (and decorates you in this case). The Mister and I were already looking to spend at least $500 on decorations between the church and the reception site, and flowers weren't a part of that...they're just too costly.
So, is asking her to not worry about flowers for the reception a good tactical move? Is asking her to put some of that down toward the catering appropriate? And, whyyyyyyy can't we just elope?
Friday, July 30, 2010
No Such Thing as a Low Maintenance Wedding --Is This the End of the Blog?
Like a speeding boat that reached a no-wake zone, the wedding plans are now floating placidly in the watershed that is my life. I'm hoping they'll have a peaceful docking as The Mister and I try to book a caterer and rehearsal dinner site this weekend (of course, as my MOH told me, everything involving 'wedding' is at least twice as hard as it normally would be).
I can see that...wedding planning comes with an exponential Murphy's Law clause (anything that can go wrong, will go wrong...repeatedly).
As the wedding plans prepare to take a temporary break from my brain, house and moving plans are accelerating, and I'm being dragged along behind them --excuse me, my life vest is filled with rocks. Property of Virginia Woolf. Oh. Crap.
In all seriousness, I'm excited about moving. My living room is filled with boxes, my books have all been lovingly packed, organized by how much I love them and their function in my life. Women and literature first!
So, there's a lot going on. How am I coping?
One - I stopped lying to myself. There's no such thing as a "low maintenance" wedding unless you elope, do a destination wedding, or have no family or friends whatsoever (which would really suck)
Two - I've taken to making lots and lots of meaningless lists. (Making lists is so comforting.) I've made a list of things we'll need for the housewarming party, a list of things to get before I go to Virginia for my best friend's wedding next week, a list of things to pack for her wedding (MOH dress...check.), and I just thought of another list...possible color combinations for the kitchen/living/dining rooms. Interestingly, I have yet to make a list of "items to register for."
Three - I started painting while listening to books on tape. I'm pretty sure this behavior is just a hope, skip, and a can opener away from being a crazy cat lady, but when I look around my apartment, and I see my books are gone, boxes everywhere, and I think, boy, I really need to finish that list of wedding guests, I feel helpless, so I go to my happy spot and paint while listening to how Harry Potter and the gang solve another mystery.
It's interesting that I've just admitted there's no such thing as a "low maintenance" wedding. Should the blog continue? Have I gone from having fairly decent advice on keeping things cheap and easy to just making vague references to pulling my hair out while my internal organs quietly shut down? Well, duh.
Let's review...
-Two months ago, The Mister and I got engaged.
-A day later, we picked (and ultimately settled on) March 26, 2011 for the big day.
-We picked our attendants and other wedding party members.
-I started the guest list (which ends up being a ladies job...ladies...oh, just, um...well, good luck.)
-Under the impression we'd be paying for the wedding ourselves, we set our budget to $5,000 and made plans to cater our own wedding.
So, just over two months later, where are we now?
-The Mister's family is hosting the rehearsal dinner (yay!) and my family is catering the reception.
-The cake and photography were almost twice as much as we originally budgeted for (balk)
-The guest list is ~1/3 larger than we anticipated
...Hm...I guess that's all...the stressors are mostly financial. But, to help those of you who might be planning a wedding and have the desire to rip your hair out, here's my two cents.
1-Choose your battles. If it's not the most important thing in the world, let it go. (PS: Your life will be easier the less the most important things in the world are) Keep perspective...it's one day out of your entire life. Do you want to start the rest of your life with someone who thinks you're a mega be-yotch because you just had to have an outdoor wedding with your 12 "closest" friends in it?
(In our case, the Mister actually was the one who wanted more people than I did in it --not that I don't love my friends, but I know weddings are pricey for friends and family of the happy couple, but it was more important to The Mister TO have people in it than it was for me NOT to, so I just said, "Let me know how many people you want in it.")
2-Splurge on the important things and skimp a little on the rest. No, really, brides-to-be, not everything is critically important. Mine were easy to pick --dress, photography, and cake. For The Mister, location and cake were important. So, we made sure the ceremony was where it needed to be for The Mister, and we got a pretty nice photography package ($1295 for 10 8x10 prints, ~60 4x6 prints, and an engagement session) that's still really well-priced, and the cake...it's going to be soooo good! I got a beautiful dress for less than $300, so a little bargain shopping goes a long way.
For the rest of the stuff...the decorations and invitations, which I want to be nice but don't want to break the bank on, I plan to go DIY. The paintings that I've been doing (on 4x6 plywood sheets) while listening to Harry Potter are all going to serve as background color for the reception. A few wildflowers in mason jars and fresh lemon slices suspended in water with white Crape Myrtle blooms dispersed throughout is, to me, a perfectly attractive, natural, and economical solution to decorating.
PS: Even if you have no discernible talented for painting, a nice fabric stretched over a canvas and stapled down makes for really cool background.
All right...I don't want to give it all away up front. That's just to validate the continuation of this blog. Happy stepping! (to tie in the title)
I can see that...wedding planning comes with an exponential Murphy's Law clause (anything that can go wrong, will go wrong...repeatedly).
As the wedding plans prepare to take a temporary break from my brain, house and moving plans are accelerating, and I'm being dragged along behind them --excuse me, my life vest is filled with rocks. Property of Virginia Woolf. Oh. Crap.
In all seriousness, I'm excited about moving. My living room is filled with boxes, my books have all been lovingly packed, organized by how much I love them and their function in my life. Women and literature first!
So, there's a lot going on. How am I coping?
One - I stopped lying to myself. There's no such thing as a "low maintenance" wedding unless you elope, do a destination wedding, or have no family or friends whatsoever (which would really suck)
Two - I've taken to making lots and lots of meaningless lists. (Making lists is so comforting.) I've made a list of things we'll need for the housewarming party, a list of things to get before I go to Virginia for my best friend's wedding next week, a list of things to pack for her wedding (MOH dress...check.), and I just thought of another list...possible color combinations for the kitchen/living/dining rooms. Interestingly, I have yet to make a list of "items to register for."
Three - I started painting while listening to books on tape. I'm pretty sure this behavior is just a hope, skip, and a can opener away from being a crazy cat lady, but when I look around my apartment, and I see my books are gone, boxes everywhere, and I think, boy, I really need to finish that list of wedding guests, I feel helpless, so I go to my happy spot and paint while listening to how Harry Potter and the gang solve another mystery.
It's interesting that I've just admitted there's no such thing as a "low maintenance" wedding. Should the blog continue? Have I gone from having fairly decent advice on keeping things cheap and easy to just making vague references to pulling my hair out while my internal organs quietly shut down? Well, duh.
Let's review...
-Two months ago, The Mister and I got engaged.
-A day later, we picked (and ultimately settled on) March 26, 2011 for the big day.
-We picked our attendants and other wedding party members.
-I started the guest list (which ends up being a ladies job...ladies...oh, just, um...well, good luck.)
-Under the impression we'd be paying for the wedding ourselves, we set our budget to $5,000 and made plans to cater our own wedding.
So, just over two months later, where are we now?
-The Mister's family is hosting the rehearsal dinner (yay!) and my family is catering the reception.
-The cake and photography were almost twice as much as we originally budgeted for (balk)
-The guest list is ~1/3 larger than we anticipated
...Hm...I guess that's all...the stressors are mostly financial. But, to help those of you who might be planning a wedding and have the desire to rip your hair out, here's my two cents.
***FREE ADVICE***
1-Choose your battles. If it's not the most important thing in the world, let it go. (PS: Your life will be easier the less the most important things in the world are) Keep perspective...it's one day out of your entire life. Do you want to start the rest of your life with someone who thinks you're a mega be-yotch because you just had to have an outdoor wedding with your 12 "closest" friends in it?
(In our case, the Mister actually was the one who wanted more people than I did in it --not that I don't love my friends, but I know weddings are pricey for friends and family of the happy couple, but it was more important to The Mister TO have people in it than it was for me NOT to, so I just said, "Let me know how many people you want in it.")
2-Splurge on the important things and skimp a little on the rest. No, really, brides-to-be, not everything is critically important. Mine were easy to pick --dress, photography, and cake. For The Mister, location and cake were important. So, we made sure the ceremony was where it needed to be for The Mister, and we got a pretty nice photography package ($1295 for 10 8x10 prints, ~60 4x6 prints, and an engagement session) that's still really well-priced, and the cake...it's going to be soooo good! I got a beautiful dress for less than $300, so a little bargain shopping goes a long way.
For the rest of the stuff...the decorations and invitations, which I want to be nice but don't want to break the bank on, I plan to go DIY. The paintings that I've been doing (on 4x6 plywood sheets) while listening to Harry Potter are all going to serve as background color for the reception. A few wildflowers in mason jars and fresh lemon slices suspended in water with white Crape Myrtle blooms dispersed throughout is, to me, a perfectly attractive, natural, and economical solution to decorating.
PS: Even if you have no discernible talented for painting, a nice fabric stretched over a canvas and stapled down makes for really cool background.
All right...I don't want to give it all away up front. That's just to validate the continuation of this blog. Happy stepping! (to tie in the title)
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Excuse Me While I Scream --an Aside
So, I'm working on the schedule for the class I'm teaching in the fall, and I thankfully have a sample schedule to follow...naturally, it's going to go with some tweaking. The course I'm teaching is a developmental studies course in English, so we're focusing more on grammar and sentence structure than a traditional EH 101 course.
I was a little confused by the professor whose sample syllabus I was borrowing's desire to quiz students on criteria, the syllabus, etc. I know what she's doing: she's trying to guarantee they read the crap so they know what's going on. I'm sorry, but are these people fetal or are they adults attempting to earn a degree in higher education? Sorry, but I wouldn't give middle schoolers a quiz on the syllabus. Learn some responsibility and pay attention. Welcome to adulthood. So, naturally, those quizes are not on my schedule. (Plus, I feel that perfunctory quizzes create an avenue for undeserving students to pass because if you pass the syllabus quiz (gee, that was tough) but flunk say, parts of speech (yes, despite the efforts of second grade teachers in the public school system, some people do not know the parts of speech).
Now, I'm not even at the best part, the part that made me stop in my tracks, carve WTF into the schedule and write this blog. The exact words for the objective in Week 5 are as follows (please remove glass objects or other items you might be include to use against the computer as a weapon after reading this):
"Students will be able to develop a first draft of their descriptive essay. They will be able to write an introduction, three body paragraphs containing topic sentences, and a conclusion."
Oh. My. aldjfaldjflaksjdflasdjflasjdflsjdflajsdflsdj. Are they really suggesting we teach the 5 paragraph essay to these ADULT COLLEGE STUDENTS!?
In all good conscious, I cannot, I will not teach a five paragraph essay. I will teach these people how to write, oh yes, I'll do that, but I will not perpetuate the childishness of the five paragraph essay. Students should stop learning the five paragraph essay and actually learn to write after 5th grade, maybe sooner!
Look, I'm not going to be Grizelda, Leather Whip Toting Master of English to these students. They'll have a fair shot to learn to write so they can spread their little wings and fly onto greener pastures. But, the five paragraph essay? What am I getting into?
I was a little confused by the professor whose sample syllabus I was borrowing's desire to quiz students on criteria, the syllabus, etc. I know what she's doing: she's trying to guarantee they read the crap so they know what's going on. I'm sorry, but are these people fetal or are they adults attempting to earn a degree in higher education? Sorry, but I wouldn't give middle schoolers a quiz on the syllabus. Learn some responsibility and pay attention. Welcome to adulthood. So, naturally, those quizes are not on my schedule. (Plus, I feel that perfunctory quizzes create an avenue for undeserving students to pass because if you pass the syllabus quiz (gee, that was tough) but flunk say, parts of speech (yes, despite the efforts of second grade teachers in the public school system, some people do not know the parts of speech).
Now, I'm not even at the best part, the part that made me stop in my tracks, carve WTF into the schedule and write this blog. The exact words for the objective in Week 5 are as follows (please remove glass objects or other items you might be include to use against the computer as a weapon after reading this):
"Students will be able to develop a first draft of their descriptive essay. They will be able to write an introduction, three body paragraphs containing topic sentences, and a conclusion."
Oh. My. aldjfaldjflaksjdflasdjflasjdflsjdflajsdflsdj. Are they really suggesting we teach the 5 paragraph essay to these ADULT COLLEGE STUDENTS!?
In all good conscious, I cannot, I will not teach a five paragraph essay. I will teach these people how to write, oh yes, I'll do that, but I will not perpetuate the childishness of the five paragraph essay. Students should stop learning the five paragraph essay and actually learn to write after 5th grade, maybe sooner!
Look, I'm not going to be Grizelda, Leather Whip Toting Master of English to these students. They'll have a fair shot to learn to write so they can spread their little wings and fly onto greener pastures. But, the five paragraph essay? What am I getting into?
Monday, July 26, 2010
Eight Months Til the Wedding --and a Partridge in a Pear Tree
I've never run a marathon, but on TV, the guy --usually some skinny, hairy scraggly person who looks like he should be stumbling out of a bar, not running a marathon, who wins is always holding his arms up, cheering, getting splashed in the face with water, and then getting handed a trophy that probably has a higher BMI than he does.
So, naturally, after a week of "getting things done" marathon style, I thought I would be lifted onto someone's shoulders, whisked to Sweden for a massage, and toasted with the really good champagne. None of these things happened (although, The Mister and I did get some great kudos on Facebook for getting the house). Nope, at the end of the marathon...there's still more road to run. It's like I crossed the finish line and then realized my car was 26 miles away. Whoooops.
According to TheKnot, there are exactly eight months until The Mister and I get married. That is a happy thought; everything that must happen between now and then is less so.
For one, I still have to work. I think there should be marital planning leave just like maternity leave. Why is this? Because, ladies, you know this, our men could live at home and not have a thought in the world, but they still wouldn't plan the wedding. Why? Because, as The Mister put it the other day, "We don't need those addresses right now...we have eight months, plenty of time." (PS: I'll die ~five years sooner than God intended for suppressing the stroke that I incurred from not shrieking at the top of my lungs when he said that (I was in public).) (Yes, ladies, it's true...they're not ignoring, they just think we're insane and therefore feel no need whatsoever to do the "adorable" and "frivolous" things we beg, grovel, and pray they'll do.)
Moving along...so, there's work, there's moving, there's teaching, there's fixing up the house, there's finishing my book before the world ends (sooner than later, the way things are going), trust me, the list goes on (la de da de da).
It's a lot, but I'm pleased with progress. We're now onto what I consider two of the most important parts of any wedding --food and cake (yes, I know cake technically is food, but it's so important at this event that it deserves its own category).
I'd like to think my bridezilla claws haven't come out...I've been agreeable about the church, open to the kinds of dresses we go with so my attendants can be comfortably accommodated (as much as possible, that is, given no one really wants to just bust out and throw down their hard earned money on something satin), I picked the first dress that fit well (okay, it's beautiful, but that's not the point)...long story short, I've tried to make sailings smooth, but cake, oh cake, cake is important.
The only thing I've ever wanted ever since I was a little girl is to have a wedding cake that looks like a freaking castle. No, I don't literally mean with little bricks and turrets, but I mean just big layer, smaller layer, smallest layer...it makes me want to sing (terrible for everyone). So, that's probably the only thing I'm going to insist on. Oh, and icing. I love enough frosting to kill a pony on cakes...I always have, and I always will. Save me Room 1 at the heartattack hotel, Baby.
That is a funny difference between The Mister and me...he likes sugar much more often than I do, but I like sugar in make-your-leg twitch intensities. Ah, it's so good.
I've got a box of little flavored fudges we're going to put out at the wedding (yeah, forget you too, Jordan Almonds) next to me for The Mister to sample later. I've already had some (my thighs are reproducing in mass by osmosis as I type...I'm globulating as we speak), but the box beckons to me like the Sirens in Odyssey. Oh baby.
So, that's what's going on for tomorrow...cake tasting. Very. Excited.
***And in other local news***
I'm being prepped on marriage in action as most of the ladies I work with are married.
As it turns out, text messaging is not going to guarantee that when you send your man to the grocery store, he will return with anything remotely like what you asked for.
Friday (yes, twice in one day...I'm calling the record book after this blog), I asked The Mister (who took off work to do house stuff) to bring me one of those Starbucks canned Doubleshots. I specifically requested "not light" (they're just kind of gross). Love his little darling man heart if he doesn't show up with two canned Light Doubleshots.
As soon as he saw me, he realized and he apologized profusely, explained he'd seen the correct item, but got distracted by his chocolate milk he was going to buy and grabbed the wrong item. It's hard to complain since he's coming out of his way to do me a favor, but didn't he look at it again between the counter, paying, and toting it? At all?
Case 2: At lunch I said I needed chicken and sundried tomatoes. He requested a text of these requests. Hours later, I get to my apartment, and he delivers beefsteak tomatoes and chicken. He thought that 'sundried' said 'sundries' or that I was just being cute or something like that....
Dear self, behold the future.
(I have a one-shot plan to see if I can't teach The Mister the importance of paying attention to detail...(he giggled when I told him my plan...don't worry, I'm confident he only paid attention to half of it.) My plan is to, next time he asks me to go to the store, is to get his request half right...so, instead of brown-sugar honey ham, I'll get ham, instead of honeywheat bread, I'll get bread, instead of strawberry jam, I'll get marmalade...and so on. Okay, I won't really do these things, and his hysterical laughter when I threatened to was enough to hope that he might, just might, go 3/4 the way next time.)
So, naturally, after a week of "getting things done" marathon style, I thought I would be lifted onto someone's shoulders, whisked to Sweden for a massage, and toasted with the really good champagne. None of these things happened (although, The Mister and I did get some great kudos on Facebook for getting the house). Nope, at the end of the marathon...there's still more road to run. It's like I crossed the finish line and then realized my car was 26 miles away. Whoooops.
According to TheKnot, there are exactly eight months until The Mister and I get married. That is a happy thought; everything that must happen between now and then is less so.
For one, I still have to work. I think there should be marital planning leave just like maternity leave. Why is this? Because, ladies, you know this, our men could live at home and not have a thought in the world, but they still wouldn't plan the wedding. Why? Because, as The Mister put it the other day, "We don't need those addresses right now...we have eight months, plenty of time." (PS: I'll die ~five years sooner than God intended for suppressing the stroke that I incurred from not shrieking at the top of my lungs when he said that (I was in public).) (Yes, ladies, it's true...they're not ignoring, they just think we're insane and therefore feel no need whatsoever to do the "adorable" and "frivolous" things we beg, grovel, and pray they'll do.)
Moving along...so, there's work, there's moving, there's teaching, there's fixing up the house, there's finishing my book before the world ends (sooner than later, the way things are going), trust me, the list goes on (la de da de da).
It's a lot, but I'm pleased with progress. We're now onto what I consider two of the most important parts of any wedding --food and cake (yes, I know cake technically is food, but it's so important at this event that it deserves its own category).
I'd like to think my bridezilla claws haven't come out...I've been agreeable about the church, open to the kinds of dresses we go with so my attendants can be comfortably accommodated (as much as possible, that is, given no one really wants to just bust out and throw down their hard earned money on something satin), I picked the first dress that fit well (okay, it's beautiful, but that's not the point)...long story short, I've tried to make sailings smooth, but cake, oh cake, cake is important.
The only thing I've ever wanted ever since I was a little girl is to have a wedding cake that looks like a freaking castle. No, I don't literally mean with little bricks and turrets, but I mean just big layer, smaller layer, smallest layer...it makes me want to sing (terrible for everyone). So, that's probably the only thing I'm going to insist on. Oh, and icing. I love enough frosting to kill a pony on cakes...I always have, and I always will. Save me Room 1 at the heartattack hotel, Baby.
That is a funny difference between The Mister and me...he likes sugar much more often than I do, but I like sugar in make-your-leg twitch intensities. Ah, it's so good.
I've got a box of little flavored fudges we're going to put out at the wedding (yeah, forget you too, Jordan Almonds) next to me for The Mister to sample later. I've already had some (my thighs are reproducing in mass by osmosis as I type...I'm globulating as we speak), but the box beckons to me like the Sirens in Odyssey. Oh baby.
So, that's what's going on for tomorrow...cake tasting. Very. Excited.
***And in other local news***
I'm being prepped on marriage in action as most of the ladies I work with are married.
As it turns out, text messaging is not going to guarantee that when you send your man to the grocery store, he will return with anything remotely like what you asked for.
Friday (yes, twice in one day...I'm calling the record book after this blog), I asked The Mister (who took off work to do house stuff) to bring me one of those Starbucks canned Doubleshots. I specifically requested "not light" (they're just kind of gross). Love his little darling man heart if he doesn't show up with two canned Light Doubleshots.
As soon as he saw me, he realized and he apologized profusely, explained he'd seen the correct item, but got distracted by his chocolate milk he was going to buy and grabbed the wrong item. It's hard to complain since he's coming out of his way to do me a favor, but didn't he look at it again between the counter, paying, and toting it? At all?
Case 2: At lunch I said I needed chicken and sundried tomatoes. He requested a text of these requests. Hours later, I get to my apartment, and he delivers beefsteak tomatoes and chicken. He thought that 'sundried' said 'sundries' or that I was just being cute or something like that....
Dear self, behold the future.
(I have a one-shot plan to see if I can't teach The Mister the importance of paying attention to detail...(he giggled when I told him my plan...don't worry, I'm confident he only paid attention to half of it.) My plan is to, next time he asks me to go to the store, is to get his request half right...so, instead of brown-sugar honey ham, I'll get ham, instead of honeywheat bread, I'll get bread, instead of strawberry jam, I'll get marmalade...and so on. Okay, I won't really do these things, and his hysterical laughter when I threatened to was enough to hope that he might, just might, go 3/4 the way next time.)
Friday, July 23, 2010
Home Sweet Home --Finally, a Reprieve
One week ago, The Mister and I became discouraged with ever finding the house for us in MiMo...if there was a garage, there was no space in the house, if the house was okay, there was no space...and, when we finally did find a house, it was overpriced and would be impossible for us to be birthing babies and live comfortably in (fiddle dee dee).
Our realtor suggested we go look at a foreclosure in her part of town, way out in West Mobile --technically Theodore (other aliases include Teedo, Tito, Thee-doh, etc.). We climbed into my 2006 silver Scion TC with the white fleur de lys decal on the back (WHO DAT!?) and followed our realtor to the foreclosure in question.
"All of the houses are starting to run together for me," I lamented. And it was true. How could an entire section of the city where the real estate was valued for its charm and uniqueness start to bleed together?
"I agree. It's the same wood floors, old kitchens, and no garages," said The Mister. (Okay, he didn't actually say that...it just sounded good to go with what I was saying.) Long story short, we were on the same page. Midtown just wasn't scratching our nest itch.
Two days later, we arrived in TiTo. Before pulling up, the home had an advantage: the location shaved 10-20 minutes off of The Mister's daily commute to and from Biloxi, MS (opinion withheld).
Upon first sight, the home had two other advantages: it was brick, and there was a two car garage. The excitement was palpable.
Inside, we were thrilled to find what I consider a much more luxurious interior than the typical brick family home exterior suggested: vaulted ceilings in the living room, an open kitchen with a counter bar, and large breakfast area. The previous owners had been considerate enough to leave their wall mount for the TV. The fireplace was a gas fireplace...yes, this was quite nice! Not only that, the home has a full laundry room (i.e., future home of the litter box), three bedrooms plus and office that could easily be a bedroom, and two full baths.
It took a total of 20 seconds (3 of which were eye contact between The Mister and me) to know we found the house. It had it all: garage, kitchen, space to grow into in case the economy continues to fail (opinion withheld).
By Monday, The Mister was ready to make an offer. Here's how we compliment each other...I like to do a lot of reading and research and ask a lot of questions, and The Mister likes to get things done, so luckily, we didn't sit on the decision to put down an offer.
Tuesday night, we put in a really sweet offer then went and had dinner/hookah at Ollies (sorry, had to put that in there...seriously, I love hookah).
Wednesday, we got a phone call from the realtor saying that there were "multiple offers" on the home and we needed to come back with our best offer. This terrified me.
***An aside*** I've learned that pressure makes me incredibly skittish, like a cat that was raised with toddlers who were allowed to play with the vacuum. I get nervous, tense, and panicky. There's no time to do my beloved research and read up on this situation? I have to make a decision now? Why not just cut my toes off, too!?! Lucky for me, The Mister had a number in mind, which I couldn't even process because I was too freaked out over having to make a decision on le spot. Also, it helped that The Mister wanted the house with the same passion in which he wants a Harley...when The Mister wants something, I find it hard to argue. So, I said, somewhat out of breath, "Sure," to the offer. Now, someone get me a paper bag. ***Aside over***
Thursday, just after noon, I got an e-mail from The Mister. "We got the house." (He was on the phone with the realtor or he'd have called.)
Now all we have to do is the inspection. If everything is clear, we can close and start cleaning it up.
It's still incomprehensible. After being a nomad since I moved out of my parent's house in 2006, living in a different apartment year to year, it's weird to think that this is permanent. Kind of exciting, too.
It's definitely the country. I used to pick on The Mister when we first started dating because he lived in an apartment in the middle of the city (city as in traffic, stuff to go, see, do, etc.), and whenever he went to Wal Mart (just up the road), he would say, "I'm going to town." (I call Wal Mart 'town' now.) But, now that we're living in TiTo, it really will be going to town when we go to the store.
When we go out? Fuggidaboutit. That's going to be a stinkin' event! But, we can always take the motorcycle when we go out on "the town" and have a good time with it.
Greenacres, we are there....
Our realtor suggested we go look at a foreclosure in her part of town, way out in West Mobile --technically Theodore (other aliases include Teedo, Tito, Thee-doh, etc.). We climbed into my 2006 silver Scion TC with the white fleur de lys decal on the back (WHO DAT!?) and followed our realtor to the foreclosure in question.
"All of the houses are starting to run together for me," I lamented. And it was true. How could an entire section of the city where the real estate was valued for its charm and uniqueness start to bleed together?
"I agree. It's the same wood floors, old kitchens, and no garages," said The Mister. (Okay, he didn't actually say that...it just sounded good to go with what I was saying.) Long story short, we were on the same page. Midtown just wasn't scratching our nest itch.
Two days later, we arrived in TiTo. Before pulling up, the home had an advantage: the location shaved 10-20 minutes off of The Mister's daily commute to and from Biloxi, MS (opinion withheld).
Upon first sight, the home had two other advantages: it was brick, and there was a two car garage. The excitement was palpable.
Inside, we were thrilled to find what I consider a much more luxurious interior than the typical brick family home exterior suggested: vaulted ceilings in the living room, an open kitchen with a counter bar, and large breakfast area. The previous owners had been considerate enough to leave their wall mount for the TV. The fireplace was a gas fireplace...yes, this was quite nice! Not only that, the home has a full laundry room (i.e., future home of the litter box), three bedrooms plus and office that could easily be a bedroom, and two full baths.
It took a total of 20 seconds (3 of which were eye contact between The Mister and me) to know we found the house. It had it all: garage, kitchen, space to grow into in case the economy continues to fail (opinion withheld).
By Monday, The Mister was ready to make an offer. Here's how we compliment each other...I like to do a lot of reading and research and ask a lot of questions, and The Mister likes to get things done, so luckily, we didn't sit on the decision to put down an offer.
Tuesday night, we put in a really sweet offer then went and had dinner/hookah at Ollies (sorry, had to put that in there...seriously, I love hookah).
Wednesday, we got a phone call from the realtor saying that there were "multiple offers" on the home and we needed to come back with our best offer. This terrified me.
***An aside*** I've learned that pressure makes me incredibly skittish, like a cat that was raised with toddlers who were allowed to play with the vacuum. I get nervous, tense, and panicky. There's no time to do my beloved research and read up on this situation? I have to make a decision now? Why not just cut my toes off, too!?! Lucky for me, The Mister had a number in mind, which I couldn't even process because I was too freaked out over having to make a decision on le spot. Also, it helped that The Mister wanted the house with the same passion in which he wants a Harley...when The Mister wants something, I find it hard to argue. So, I said, somewhat out of breath, "Sure," to the offer. Now, someone get me a paper bag. ***Aside over***
Thursday, just after noon, I got an e-mail from The Mister. "We got the house." (He was on the phone with the realtor or he'd have called.)
Now all we have to do is the inspection. If everything is clear, we can close and start cleaning it up.
It's still incomprehensible. After being a nomad since I moved out of my parent's house in 2006, living in a different apartment year to year, it's weird to think that this is permanent. Kind of exciting, too.
It's definitely the country. I used to pick on The Mister when we first started dating because he lived in an apartment in the middle of the city (city as in traffic, stuff to go, see, do, etc.), and whenever he went to Wal Mart (just up the road), he would say, "I'm going to town." (I call Wal Mart 'town' now.) But, now that we're living in TiTo, it really will be going to town when we go to the store.
When we go out? Fuggidaboutit. That's going to be a stinkin' event! But, we can always take the motorcycle when we go out on "the town" and have a good time with it.
Greenacres, we are there....
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Last Weekend --These Are the Days
You ever notice how life never comes at you in a nice, even pace? It's always a placid sea (or in my case, a puddle) of boredom that you can nary make a splash in, or it's a tidal wave of doom that pillages your village with more vigor than the Vikings (like all those 'v' words? Watch "V for Vendetta" where you'll veritably have a very valuable and virtuous visual...oh, I give up).
I know my blogs have conveyed nothing but a serene calm (like sipping iced lemonade on a fall afternoon), but in reality, I've been a tad overwhelmed. At some point between keeping up at work (which has been freakishly busy lately), buying a house, not going broke, planning a wedding, and keeping The Mister informed. I wish I was lying when I could say that I will tell him things, and he will immediately ignore me and promptly proceed to do the wrong thing.
Ex: (Me via text) "Dear, please call the following family members on your side and ask for their addresses. Here's the list." (submitted via text...it's written down).
Hours later, we see each other... (Him) "Darling, I called my cousin in Tennessee, and she said she already gave you her address via Facebook."
It's just so hard not to have a stroke in that fraction of a second where you have to decide whether or not to explain that he clearly did NOT read your text based on the fact that he chose to contact the ONE family member in Tennessee for whom you already have an address or throw yourself out the window.
The Mister giggled the entire time I explained. (I chose poorly.)
We are now in the process of buying a house. He's making an offer tonight. The house is fabulous. It's got everything we wanted...kitchen, garage, location (he can get to work easier), and it's a foreclosure, so there's a greater likelihood that we'll profit on the resale. I've explained a lot to The Mister lately --and he asks a lot of questions despite the fact that I'm also a first time home buyer (the fact that he asks solidifies my belief that women are much, much more resourceful than men), and he doesn't absorb a thing I say and write about escrow/earnest money or closing costs or loans or what have you. Thank God he's so dang cute. Because, I know what's going on, I'm mentally panicking because I'm convinced we're walking into a financial booby trap the likes of which James Bond couldn't escape, meanwhile The Mister's mentally packing the garage with expensive motorized vehicles.
This is why I made a PDF of the expenses we should be able to deduct from the total cost of the home, and it's also why I'm in charge of the contingency basis of the offer. All this and I get to have a job, plan a wedding, and consciously* (*is there such a thing at this point?) remain a size 2 so I don't out-fat my wedding dress.
Ooh! Speaking of that...I found a dress! Yes, to hop on to a happier train of thought, last weekend was the most nuptually productive weekend thus far (as I gleefully termed it on Facebook). The Mister and I found the house we wanted and both knew it was "right" for us within 20 seconds of viewing, I found/purchased my wedding dress for a total of $286 after taxes, I booked the photographer, and with the help of my adorable 5'2" mother, we booked the reception/rehearsal location. Ahhhhhh.... I even squeezed in time to show Mom and Dad the house.
If I did anything else last weekend, I surely don't remember. Oh, I did remove myself from the David's Bridal e-mail list. Now that's a good feeling.
I know my blogs have conveyed nothing but a serene calm (like sipping iced lemonade on a fall afternoon), but in reality, I've been a tad overwhelmed. At some point between keeping up at work (which has been freakishly busy lately), buying a house, not going broke, planning a wedding, and keeping The Mister informed. I wish I was lying when I could say that I will tell him things, and he will immediately ignore me and promptly proceed to do the wrong thing.
Ex: (Me via text) "Dear, please call the following family members on your side and ask for their addresses. Here's the list." (submitted via text...it's written down).
Hours later, we see each other... (Him) "Darling, I called my cousin in Tennessee, and she said she already gave you her address via Facebook."
It's just so hard not to have a stroke in that fraction of a second where you have to decide whether or not to explain that he clearly did NOT read your text based on the fact that he chose to contact the ONE family member in Tennessee for whom you already have an address or throw yourself out the window.
The Mister giggled the entire time I explained. (I chose poorly.)
We are now in the process of buying a house. He's making an offer tonight. The house is fabulous. It's got everything we wanted...kitchen, garage, location (he can get to work easier), and it's a foreclosure, so there's a greater likelihood that we'll profit on the resale. I've explained a lot to The Mister lately --and he asks a lot of questions despite the fact that I'm also a first time home buyer (the fact that he asks solidifies my belief that women are much, much more resourceful than men), and he doesn't absorb a thing I say and write about escrow/earnest money or closing costs or loans or what have you. Thank God he's so dang cute. Because, I know what's going on, I'm mentally panicking because I'm convinced we're walking into a financial booby trap the likes of which James Bond couldn't escape, meanwhile The Mister's mentally packing the garage with expensive motorized vehicles.
This is why I made a PDF of the expenses we should be able to deduct from the total cost of the home, and it's also why I'm in charge of the contingency basis of the offer. All this and I get to have a job, plan a wedding, and consciously* (*is there such a thing at this point?) remain a size 2 so I don't out-fat my wedding dress.
Ooh! Speaking of that...I found a dress! Yes, to hop on to a happier train of thought, last weekend was the most nuptually productive weekend thus far (as I gleefully termed it on Facebook). The Mister and I found the house we wanted and both knew it was "right" for us within 20 seconds of viewing, I found/purchased my wedding dress for a total of $286 after taxes, I booked the photographer, and with the help of my adorable 5'2" mother, we booked the reception/rehearsal location. Ahhhhhh.... I even squeezed in time to show Mom and Dad the house.
If I did anything else last weekend, I surely don't remember. Oh, I did remove myself from the David's Bridal e-mail list. Now that's a good feeling.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wedding vs. House --Which is more frustrating? Smackdown!
The Mister and I are juggling planning a wedding and buying a house. I'm still deciding what's more unpleasant. When the results are in, I'll disseminate the information far and wide to young house hunters and to the betrothed. I expect it to be a close race.
Here's what sucks about planning a wedding:
You want to make everyone happy.
My advice: You can't. Save yourself. You want to keep things cheap. My advice: You can't. Pick and choose your expenses. The reception and rehearsal dinner --things that have nothing to do with the wedding itself, will be what cost you the most. If you want a cheap wedding, don't have one.
Elope, come back, throw a BYOB beach party and spring for some cake and a boom box.
You have an ideal location in mind.
My advice: Only have one ideal whether it's the dress, the location, or the date...there's no way you can have it all unless you start planning this thing when you're five. If you're like me, you also thought that no one else would have chosen your wedding date (how could they!?), and yet, you will find that reception halls book up years in advance. I don't care if my daughter has
nine toes on one foot, weighs 700 pounds and has back hair, I'm booking at least one reception hall before she graduates high school.
You will have to ask a man to do leg work.
My advice: Remember the axiom: If you want something done right (or in this case, in
the same season you made the request), do it yourself. You love your man. I love my man. I love him so much that when he comes to my apartment, gets ice cream and then leaves the cabinet door, spoon drawer, and microwave open, I just smile and close them, shaking my head thinking men. (The Mister is so cute, he gets away with it by making an adorable "who me?" face, and I can't get mad at him.)
But, as lovable as they are, when it comes to say, getting addresses or making phone calls, you may as well be shouting into the wilderness.
And Ladies, it's not because they don't love you. It's because they think you're insane, you're making a big deal out of nothing and that they have plenty of time. Okay, we know better, which is why God put women in charge of planning weddings. Imagine how weddings would be if men were put in charge to plan: they would call all of their friends an hour before, they would "forget" to call your mother, he would wear whatever smelled okay in the hamper and would specifically request you not buy anything new for the occassion. Instead of a ring, he'd just give you a firm pat on the bottom to confirm ownership. The reception would be at Wings and would consist of chicken on a stick and beer. The event would conclude with all of the men beating their fists on their chests and howling like Tarzan. Your ovaries would explode out of fear.
So, to conclude, the stress of weddings is that while technically you don't "have" to plan it all yourself, you really do, unless you don't want ovaries.
Biggest Plus of a Wedding
You only have to do it once.
My advice: thank God.
Pretty heavy stuff. So, can buying a house compete with the turmoil of buying a wedding? I have to admit, the knowledge that I'll only have to go through planning a wedding once (my daughter's on her own, Man...that's Mommy point-and-laugh and be glad-it's-not-me time) is like a refreshing, salty breeze after a hurricane.
(Side note: Moms do mock you. Not only have I had to spend my entire life hearing about how mom paid for her 1981 wedding for like, $100 or something insanely cheap like that, but I also had the thrill of finding out --once I'd started to plan this wedding by myself, of course, that she'd sprung for a wedding planner ($75 at the time), and it was the best decision she ever made. Thanks, Mom. Way to hold out on me.)
So, back to houses...this is what sucks about buying a house
You have to learn a lot of new terms
My advice: Buy a book and study it. You are juggling with all of the money you have. My advice: Proceed with caution. Everyone has a different opinion of good. My advice: Get what you want, but make sure it doesn't have structural or other major problems first (i.e., flood zone, is it termite bonded, what's the crime like, what are the school zones like, when will you want to resell it?, what's your resell market?) My dad thinks The Mister and I are dumb as cows for wanting an old fashioned home in midtown. Hey, the heart knows what it wants. We know
we're putting down extra swag for location instead of space.
You have to ask lots of questions.
My advice: get a book and do a checklist
Math is involved. My advice: get a calculator, cry often.
There will be pressure.
My advice: don't make any decision based on guilt. It doesn't matter that the realtor has shown you 600 houses and you decided not to bid on one or you didn't accept the seller's terms, so everything stalemated. You are the only one looking out for 100% of your interests in this process. Your realtor wants to help you find a house, but they also want to make money. The seller wants to do the same thing as you...get a good deal on the sale. Do your homework. Go in with a realistic knowledge and understanding of the process. Did I mention, get a book?
What's Great about Buying a House?
Having a house; you might get on HGTV! (Yes, can I speak with Holmes on Homes?)
So, right now, The Mister and I are juggling, we're working on it...planning the wedding, discussing the house options. It's scary when people start reaching for your bank account!!! I've grown to like my savings....
I guess the wedding is a little tougher because there's not as much time to decide (SMACKDOWN!). Do you want this photographer? Yes or no! Hurry up! He might be gone tomorrow! On the plus, you only have to do it once, and if you're lucky, you'll have a Mister like mine (but not mine, he's, well, mine) who will at the very least love you and find you charming even when you ask him to fax over a Vicodin (or whatever they use for anxiety patients).
Here's what sucks about planning a wedding:
You want to make everyone happy.
My advice: You can't. Save yourself. You want to keep things cheap. My advice: You can't. Pick and choose your expenses. The reception and rehearsal dinner --things that have nothing to do with the wedding itself, will be what cost you the most. If you want a cheap wedding, don't have one.
Elope, come back, throw a BYOB beach party and spring for some cake and a boom box.
You have an ideal location in mind.
My advice: Only have one ideal whether it's the dress, the location, or the date...there's no way you can have it all unless you start planning this thing when you're five. If you're like me, you also thought that no one else would have chosen your wedding date (how could they!?), and yet, you will find that reception halls book up years in advance. I don't care if my daughter has
nine toes on one foot, weighs 700 pounds and has back hair, I'm booking at least one reception hall before she graduates high school.
You will have to ask a man to do leg work.
My advice: Remember the axiom: If you want something done right (or in this case, in
the same season you made the request), do it yourself. You love your man. I love my man. I love him so much that when he comes to my apartment, gets ice cream and then leaves the cabinet door, spoon drawer, and microwave open, I just smile and close them, shaking my head thinking men. (The Mister is so cute, he gets away with it by making an adorable "who me?" face, and I can't get mad at him.)
But, as lovable as they are, when it comes to say, getting addresses or making phone calls, you may as well be shouting into the wilderness.
And Ladies, it's not because they don't love you. It's because they think you're insane, you're making a big deal out of nothing and that they have plenty of time. Okay, we know better, which is why God put women in charge of planning weddings. Imagine how weddings would be if men were put in charge to plan: they would call all of their friends an hour before, they would "forget" to call your mother, he would wear whatever smelled okay in the hamper and would specifically request you not buy anything new for the occassion. Instead of a ring, he'd just give you a firm pat on the bottom to confirm ownership. The reception would be at Wings and would consist of chicken on a stick and beer. The event would conclude with all of the men beating their fists on their chests and howling like Tarzan. Your ovaries would explode out of fear.
So, to conclude, the stress of weddings is that while technically you don't "have" to plan it all yourself, you really do, unless you don't want ovaries.
Biggest Plus of a Wedding
You only have to do it once.
My advice: thank God.
Pretty heavy stuff. So, can buying a house compete with the turmoil of buying a wedding? I have to admit, the knowledge that I'll only have to go through planning a wedding once (my daughter's on her own, Man...that's Mommy point-and-laugh and be glad-it's-not-me time) is like a refreshing, salty breeze after a hurricane.
(Side note: Moms do mock you. Not only have I had to spend my entire life hearing about how mom paid for her 1981 wedding for like, $100 or something insanely cheap like that, but I also had the thrill of finding out --once I'd started to plan this wedding by myself, of course, that she'd sprung for a wedding planner ($75 at the time), and it was the best decision she ever made. Thanks, Mom. Way to hold out on me.)
So, back to houses...this is what sucks about buying a house
You have to learn a lot of new terms
My advice: Buy a book and study it. You are juggling with all of the money you have. My advice: Proceed with caution. Everyone has a different opinion of good. My advice: Get what you want, but make sure it doesn't have structural or other major problems first (i.e., flood zone, is it termite bonded, what's the crime like, what are the school zones like, when will you want to resell it?, what's your resell market?) My dad thinks The Mister and I are dumb as cows for wanting an old fashioned home in midtown. Hey, the heart knows what it wants. We know
we're putting down extra swag for location instead of space.
You have to ask lots of questions.
My advice: get a book and do a checklist
Math is involved. My advice: get a calculator, cry often.
There will be pressure.
My advice: don't make any decision based on guilt. It doesn't matter that the realtor has shown you 600 houses and you decided not to bid on one or you didn't accept the seller's terms, so everything stalemated. You are the only one looking out for 100% of your interests in this process. Your realtor wants to help you find a house, but they also want to make money. The seller wants to do the same thing as you...get a good deal on the sale. Do your homework. Go in with a realistic knowledge and understanding of the process. Did I mention, get a book?
What's Great about Buying a House?
Having a house; you might get on HGTV! (Yes, can I speak with Holmes on Homes?)
So, right now, The Mister and I are juggling, we're working on it...planning the wedding, discussing the house options. It's scary when people start reaching for your bank account!!! I've grown to like my savings....
I guess the wedding is a little tougher because there's not as much time to decide (SMACKDOWN!). Do you want this photographer? Yes or no! Hurry up! He might be gone tomorrow! On the plus, you only have to do it once, and if you're lucky, you'll have a Mister like mine (but not mine, he's, well, mine) who will at the very least love you and find you charming even when you ask him to fax over a Vicodin (or whatever they use for anxiety patients).
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Weighing Is the Hardest Part --Diet Tips
The reason brides try to revert back to their former, unachievable, high school-skinny selves is so the photos will last a lifetime look smashing. Please, do not lie and pretend that you're dieting for something superficial like your health. Women diet to look good.
As a woman, it's come to my attention that, while I'm (for once) a desirable weight, there are some loose ends (specifically, mine).
There are many courses of action to rectify this problem. Some brides employ a personal trainer to assist them in their Jello-to-hello! quest. I'm too poor. So, today, I invented a diet.
My new diet is called: drop half your food on the floor diet. This diet came to me as I was eating a York patty in my car after stopping by CVS during lunch (mmm...nutritious errands). Half the patty sat on my thigh (ironically, not a deterrent), and as I turned the corner, the patty slid off of my leg and into the crevice between the seat and the console. Balls. When I finally removed the patty, it was covered in lint and God-knows what. Que disappointment.
The pitfalls of this diet are of course that you'll quickly not be welcomed back into restaurants once they realize you throw half of your dinner to the ground.
My other diet idea is called Pavlov's Diet. The success of this diet is contingent on you training yourself to run every time you smell food. Admittedly, I feel that running one's self to death might occur in extreme cases.
Okay, so personally devising a diet plan---not always the best idea, but hey, it's a start.
As a woman, it's come to my attention that, while I'm (for once) a desirable weight, there are some loose ends (specifically, mine).
There are many courses of action to rectify this problem. Some brides employ a personal trainer to assist them in their Jello-to-hello! quest. I'm too poor. So, today, I invented a diet.
My new diet is called: drop half your food on the floor diet. This diet came to me as I was eating a York patty in my car after stopping by CVS during lunch (mmm...nutritious errands). Half the patty sat on my thigh (ironically, not a deterrent), and as I turned the corner, the patty slid off of my leg and into the crevice between the seat and the console. Balls. When I finally removed the patty, it was covered in lint and God-knows what. Que disappointment.
The pitfalls of this diet are of course that you'll quickly not be welcomed back into restaurants once they realize you throw half of your dinner to the ground.
My other diet idea is called Pavlov's Diet. The success of this diet is contingent on you training yourself to run every time you smell food. Admittedly, I feel that running one's self to death might occur in extreme cases.
Okay, so personally devising a diet plan---not always the best idea, but hey, it's a start.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wife Log --261 Days to Go
According to the Knot, I have 346 things to do and 43 items overdue. Thank you, Internet.
Last night, I was cooking dinner --turkey sausage tossed with garlic, extra virgin olive oil, sauteed red pepper, and red onion served over angel hair pasta, while one of my fabulous bridesmaids had me help her with a job application on the computer. The Mister came over while I was cooking. Here's what happened:
The Mister comes in the kitchen to see me.* (*because there's food)
The Mister identifies the top of the red bell pepper that has been severed from the rest of the pepper and says, "Ooh."
"Don't touch it."
"Are you going to cook with it?"
"I was."
"No one cooks that part of the pepper." He's already reaching for it.
"Fine, take it."
The Mister takes the pepper to the side counter. He goes to the fridge. Without turning around I say, "Stay away from the butter."
Grinning like a child, The Mister ignores me and takes the tub of butter to the pepper top, which he promptly dips in the butter.
The Mister takes the buttered pepper tops to the salt and pepper next to the stove where garlic is heating in oil. After sprinkling salt and pepper on top of the pepper, The Mister dusts the remaining salt and pepper over the otherwise pure olive oil and garlic skillet. I scream.
Giggling and pleased, The Mister eats his peppers and dashes out of the kitchen.
"Butter?" I ask as the tub of Country Crock is still sitting on the counter where The Mister abandoned it.
"I thought you wanted me to get out of the kitchen," The Mister says using my own words against me.
I look at my bridesmaid, "Do you really want this?" I'm referring of course to a man, which my friend says she wants, but let's face it, a relationship isn't all dinner for two and dates of dancing the night away. No, that time in a relationship passes all to quickly, usually while you're still trying to figure out if you like your name with his last name.
"I have to go," my friend says quickly and leaves even faster.
Welcome to the rest of your life.
Those of you who know The Mister are probably laughing because you can see this happening, in fact most of you have probably already seen it happen! It really doesn't bother me too much when The Mister creeps into my tiny kitchen to snack while I'm cooking (admittedly, closing the fridge, putting things away, rinsing used silver, etc., would be welcome changes). When we get our house, get married, and live together, we'll have a lot more space for him to move around and snack indiscriminately while I cook.
The only other thing I worry about is the terrible influence he'll have on our future children.
Last night, I was cooking dinner --turkey sausage tossed with garlic, extra virgin olive oil, sauteed red pepper, and red onion served over angel hair pasta, while one of my fabulous bridesmaids had me help her with a job application on the computer. The Mister came over while I was cooking. Here's what happened:
The Mister comes in the kitchen to see me.* (*because there's food)
The Mister identifies the top of the red bell pepper that has been severed from the rest of the pepper and says, "Ooh."
"Don't touch it."
"Are you going to cook with it?"
"I was."
"No one cooks that part of the pepper." He's already reaching for it.
"Fine, take it."
The Mister takes the pepper to the side counter. He goes to the fridge. Without turning around I say, "Stay away from the butter."
Grinning like a child, The Mister ignores me and takes the tub of butter to the pepper top, which he promptly dips in the butter.
The Mister takes the buttered pepper tops to the salt and pepper next to the stove where garlic is heating in oil. After sprinkling salt and pepper on top of the pepper, The Mister dusts the remaining salt and pepper over the otherwise pure olive oil and garlic skillet. I scream.
Giggling and pleased, The Mister eats his peppers and dashes out of the kitchen.
"Butter?" I ask as the tub of Country Crock is still sitting on the counter where The Mister abandoned it.
"I thought you wanted me to get out of the kitchen," The Mister says using my own words against me.
I look at my bridesmaid, "Do you really want this?" I'm referring of course to a man, which my friend says she wants, but let's face it, a relationship isn't all dinner for two and dates of dancing the night away. No, that time in a relationship passes all to quickly, usually while you're still trying to figure out if you like your name with his last name.
"I have to go," my friend says quickly and leaves even faster.
Welcome to the rest of your life.
Those of you who know The Mister are probably laughing because you can see this happening, in fact most of you have probably already seen it happen! It really doesn't bother me too much when The Mister creeps into my tiny kitchen to snack while I'm cooking (admittedly, closing the fridge, putting things away, rinsing used silver, etc., would be welcome changes). When we get our house, get married, and live together, we'll have a lot more space for him to move around and snack indiscriminately while I cook.
The only other thing I worry about is the terrible influence he'll have on our future children.
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