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.

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! :)

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."

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.

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.

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....

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!

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.

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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?