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.

***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)

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?

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.)

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....

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.

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).

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.

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.

Textual Harrassment --I'm Running for the Hills As We Speak

Like many new brides finding their way through a white gossimer whirlwind that will last approximately 9-12 months, I got on the internet and signed up for e-mail updates from a few bridals sites. Would I like to know when sales are? Sure. How about special coupons and shopping opportunities? Yeah, sounds great. Would I like to win a free wedding dress or my bridesmaids gowns? Would I!? Sign me up!

Most sites send a standard one or two e-mails a week (they have to remind you that they're there in case you were thinking of shopping with someone else), but there's one site that, if it were an actual male, I would slap it with a restraining order and start carrying a tazer. Sorry, David's Bridal, but between multiple daily e-mail updates (yes, I know you're having a $50 off $300 sale, but I'm at work! Can we please discuss this later?) and now the four page text message, I think we should start seeing other people. (I discovered the text after returning from a meeting with a woman who is the literal third heat of my stress. She makes Haiti look organized.)

Scenario: After a long Tuesday where Amy, instead of taking a lunch, opted to go to the bank to discuss lending options and get pre-approved for a home where she and the Mister can nest and possibly hatch an egg or two, Amy looks forward to meeting Daniela --the friend who broke the news on JaMarcus Russell in Mobile, at Zeas after work. Throughout the day, David has chimed into Amy's busy schedule: once to remind her of a discount sale and once to let her know there was a $99 gown sale.

"Wow, really? $99? David, that's awesome. Tell me more!" Amy asked, enthused this somewhat suffocating relationship was finally taking a turn for the better.

"Oh, well first, let me show you our fabulous modern and chic collection!" David gushed while showing off a lovely $499 gown.

"David," Amy deadpanned, "I want to see the $99 gowns first."

"But those are so not up your alley!" David insisted.

Amy rolled her eyes and shut David out.

Later that day, after a meeting, one of David's friends sent her a text message --at text message (how invasive!), telling her about what a super-great guy David was and how Amy really should contact him for all of her needs. Wink, wink.

Thus far, Amy had ignored these communications and hoped David would get the hint and leave her to make her decisions on her own. Look, it's not like she didn't like David, it's just that she didn't know him that well, and he had a bit of a reputation. David was very popular with the brides, and Amy kind of wanted to see if there was something a little more unique.

While at Zeas with Daniela, Amy got a communication from David. "Amy, you've got to check out my new advice for brides!"

Unfortunately, David sent this communication before Amy could have solids for the day (the appetizer of fresh, homemade, would-amputate-a-toe-for-it guacamole had yet to arrive). Her last straw snapped, Amy said, "You know what, David, why don't you take your generic services elsewhere. This bride-to-be deserves something exotic, something unique, and I'm willing to wait for it!"

Looking both hurt and flabergasted, David left.

(Months pass)

It was January, and Amy hadn't heard from David since their fight. Not only had Amy not heard from David, Amy had also failed to find a dress that she could afford. Suddenly, $499 didn't seem so expensive. Maybe she should have heard David out. There's nothing sadder, after all, than a lonely bride without a dress.

---To be continued.

Okay, obviously that didn't all happen (everything before Zeas is true, and I do plan to go to Zeas today). I realize that if I send David away, he'll be the only person trying to help me and save me money in the long run, after all, that's why so many brides use David's services. Seriously though, these e-mails are ridiculous, and now text messages? Is Florence from the viels, stocking, and garter department going to phone me? Show up on the porch with a singing telegram?

I shudder to think. So, I'm not throwing the bridal shop out with the couture garter, but I am going to find a dress ASAP so I can click the magical, "remove from e-mail list" on all those pesky bridal e-mails. Ah, accomplishment.

What a Way to Make a Living --The Road to M.R.S.

I was born to retire. As a lefty who enjoys painting, cooking, art exhibits, and pursued a Master's in English Creative Writing, it's like God may as well have stamped my baby bottom with 'future house wife' on it that fateful day in 1983. (It would have said 'trophy wife' but I'm neither platinum blond, born into money, 5'5" and 98 lbs, tactful or graceful, like a gazelle. My weak wrists could never hold a tennis racket, and try as I might, I have arm fat.)

So, I'm definitely not going to be a trophy wife, but everything I've done thus far in my life is building momentum like a steam engine for me to stay at home and birth babies. Fiddle-dee-dee. The thing is though, in this time in America's history, both the husband and wife need to work in order to effectively support a household.

Here's how I'm perfect for being a working stay at home mom (thanks, internet): I can write books and grants from home. I can freelance articles from home. I can paint from home. Are you following me? Here's where this all goes downhill: to do these things, one must be motivated. I am a terrible, terrible self motivator.

Since The Mister and I are well over three years away from having children, this isn't an issue, is it? Yeah, unfortunately. These horrible thoughts --and the need to take a break, came up today while I was trying to edit my book, which in my opinion is a 468 page (blank) show. I finished writing it; I'm trying to come up with a frame for editing it, and it is not going well.

I'm giving myself options:
1-Edit the book and overhaul it...fix what needs fixing, remove what needs removing (~150 pages), and correct the grammar by Sept. 1.
2-Edit grammar, change names, and send it to an editor and wait for the criticisms to pour in.
3-Turn it into a screenplay. Cry self to sleep at night.

There are pros and cons to all of these. I'm going to persevere and go with option 1. I'm giving myself until Sept 1 because my Lord, if not now, then when? Option 2 might work, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Option 3 is just ghastly. I took a screen writing class...twice. I'm terrible at it. I was assigned a part of the script that involved writing a love-making scene. When we did a cold reading of the script in class, it got laughs. Hysterical laughs. People were crying. For several minutes. It was one of those hard, long laughs where you have a throbbing heading afterward as a result. That. Bad.

So, while the dream is to become the kind of wife who can raise da babies, keep things clean, and bring home the bacon, I feel like I'm falling short at the get-go. The Mister is doing his part: he wants to be a pilot. I hear they do well, but if we're going to be able to afford The Mister's Harley, Jeep, dream gun collection, and garage complete with Jay Leno, I'm going to have to step in...because, I want my kitchen, art studio, and vacations....