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.)
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