I Hate Planning My Wedding

Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone

2009-05-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm a terrible person. I dropped off the face of the Earth leaving what appears to be throngs, indeed hordes, well, at least 27, brides-to-be in agony by failing to recount how my wedding actually turned out. After a year of complaining about every single moment leading up to the wedding, I never told you how the wedding went.

I am a horrible person.

But I have a great excuse!

No, I really don't. My excuse is that I have been doing nothing but eating and watching TV lately. And not thinking about weddings. Most especially, my weddings.

But here I am! Five pounds heavier and with a mind full of useless plot twists on Grey's Anatomy.

And I am ready to go back to part II of my wedding day....

Where did I leave off? Oh yes, dancing with Mr F, my husband-to-be, during the time we should have been taking family photos.

(By the way, while attempting to take you back in time, in my head I keep hearing the "da da da" noise with the wavy motion of hands, a la "Wayne's World" which I can only assume most of you are too young to have actually seen. But it's a great movie. Watch it.)

We were dancing.

And then, moments later, Mr F realized we were awesome at dancing and we were totally going to rock the first dance. I was given permission abandon dance practice and move on to the family photos.

Which I have to admit, didn't go as planned.

Because we were a half an hour behind and were on a seriously tight schedule to begin with.

Weeks earlier, at our final meeting, Big Hugs recommended we take the pictures in The Library, a lovely room which was, in fact, a library. Or might have been at one time since there weren't books in sight. But there were old pieces of distinguished furniture, and a fireplace, and richly colored walls. So I can believe it may have housed books at one point and can justly be called said library.

I told the photographer the plan the week before the wedding and so that afternoon we herded everyone into the room. As the photographer began frantically snapping photos, taking pictures of me and my mom, my dad, me and my brother, Mr F and my parents, and every iteration in between, I could feel myself tensing up. This was taking forever.

And then the next group moved toward me and Mr F - my father's family. And within moments, it became readily apparent that the Library was not nearly big enough for all of the people.

Oh Big Hugs, I knew you would fail me miserably. And before we even said "I do."

It was E&E in the Library with the candlestick.

At which point the photographer proposed we move elsewhere, to a bigger room, but a quick glance at the clock made us realize that this was not an option. So we pressed on, taking pictures of grown men and women squeezed together like they were high school cheerleaders about to throw their teammate up into a double cupie.

And while I was happy and excited, honestly, this part kind of sucked. I couldn't let go of the knowledge that we needed to take all of these photos but that we only had a certain amount of time. The only thing that made me feel better was the knowledge that this seems to happen at most weddings. (Or at least at my family's - since I distinctly recalled having little to no time to take the pictures at my brother's wedding the year before).

We took photos of about 40 people in about half as many minutes.

And having now seen those photos, I can assure you - no miracle happened. Those photos kinda suck. At least someone has their eyes closed in every one. But you get what you allot time for, and at least we have pictures, right? Even if they will probably only be used as expensive kindling on a very cold, very drafty night.

So as the pictures were winding up, I was thinking about the next step, which was in fact, the final step before the really final step. Confused yet? The signing of the ketubah was next, which I was (if I can admit) a little apprehensive about. Although I very much liked our officiant, she mentioned during our meetings that we should "leave the ceremony during the ketubah signing up to her." Hmmm. I don't leave much "up" to anyone. And certainly when there is not the possibility that lots of Jewishy religious things that I don't believe in could occur.

But I pushed that out of my mind as I asked one of my bridesmaids to check that the hall was clear so we could make our way over to the Boardroom, the room that we set aside for the ketubah signing.

I chose that room because there was an amazing Rembrandt (yeah, like the toothpaste, only older and more like a REAL FRICKIN Rembrandt) hanging over the board table and there was a gorgeous ceiling with beautifully intricate detail.

My bridesmaid came back looking a little confused. "Uhm, the Boardroom is locked. Big Hugs has your ketubah and stuff in another room...." her voice trailed off, clearly scared of what was in store for Big Hugs.

This was the Hug that broke the camel's back. "Well tell her to open the goddamn door on the double, because that's where we are supposed to have the signing!" And with that, badly beaten down bridesmaid disappeared back across the hall.

I don't know what transpired, but what I do know is that five minutes later we made our way over to the board room like nothing had happened. I have great friends.

Until someone stepped on the train of my dress and my body yanked backwards. I spun around ready to yell at whoever the perpetrator was.

It was Mr F.

Lord, it was going to be a long life.

I shot him a look from hell.

We started walking again at which moment I once again felt a yank from behind and almost tumbled backwards.

Once again I spun around and was face to face with my soon to be husband.

"MIIIIISSSSTTTEEERRRR FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF! GET OFF MY DRESS!"

A silence fell over the crowd as Mr F meekly stepped off of my dress and moved next to me (instead of behind me which seemed to be what was tripping him up, literally).

I smiled sheepishly, realizing I was acting like a crazy person and turned to my husband-to-be. "I know you didn't mean to do it. Sorry....we're just a little behind and I want this all to go so perfect." I took a deep breath and smiled at him.

Mr F came over to me and took my hand and we walked to the Boardroom together. And I have to tell you (because I'm sure you're wondering if I managed to sabotage my WHOLE wedding, or just the parts leading up to it), I didn't lose my temper, yell at anyone, act crazy or freak out another single moment after that. Really.

And as we walked into the Boardroom, I suddenly felt the most calm I had all weekend.

There were no more items to check off the "to do" list. (Which is what getting the family portraits felt like.)

Our Cantor brought us over to the ketubah (the Jewish marriage contract, traditionally promises to each other for the couples' life together; signed at the same time as the marriage certificate, prior to the ceremony). And she gathered our parents near us as well and began to discuss our future together and said a Hebrew blessing.

She smiled as she praised Mr F's ability to give the best hugs ever (take THAT, Big Hugs) and explained that the fact that I asked so many questions was actually a good thing and not a bad one in Jewish tradition (I knew I liked this chick). We were surrounded by just our parents and the wedding party as we signed the contract and promised to honor and love each other for life. It was a great moment.

And then it was time to walk down the aisle.

We were ushered into a holding area where the wedding party lined up in couples.

Big Hugs asked if we were ready. I was ready. I heard the notes of the pianist playing the recessional music. Let's get this thing going.

Mr F's father was not ready.

He needed to use the bathroom.

Really? Now?

He returned to his place in line and Big Hugs asked if we were ready.

We weren't.

Mr F had to use the bathroom. Like Father, Like Son.

I was thinking we should have changed the vows to include loving your significant other through bladder issues. (Although in reality, I'm pretty sure Mr F gets the short end of the stick on this one since I get up every night at about 3 a.m. to go to the bathroom. But I suppose we can discuss bladder issues another day.)

Finally, we were all ready. Properly lined up, our wedding party began to walk two-by-two down the aisle. Like burgundy-colored species boarding a gardenia covered ark.

I was so happy. Honestly, I felt like I was experiencing an out-of-body experience. As if I could float up above my body and look down at the luckiest girl in the world. I had both of my parents there to walk me down the aisle. Both of whom loved me, each other and wanted only the best for me. (Even if sometimes the way they expressed that wasn't what I had hoped).

And I told them that.

At which point my Dad started to cry.

OH NO.

And then my Mom started to cry. OH NO OH NO.

We were just moments before stepping down the aisle. And I was at a loss. There was a giant lump in my throat and butterflies in my stomach.

Luckily, Mom put the kibosh on any more displays of emotion and we all snuffled our tears back and somehow became clear-eyed in a matter of moments. (OK, well I didn't actually cry, because I never cry at happy events. Even my own wedding. But I felt like I could cry, if I was that kind of person. Sorry, but I feel like I need to explain the lack of tears since just about anyone else would have been bawling at that moment.)

I heard the first few notes of "In My Life" play on the piano and I felt like I could barely breathe around the lump that was in my throat. But I had to smile as my father managed to swap tears for his OCD and began to count "1-2-3..." to ensure we all started on the same foot and walked in unison.

As we proceeded down the aisle I grinned. And looked straight at Mr F. (who I always envisioned locking eyes with as I made my way down the aisle, he being unable to take his eyes off his beautiful bride as his eyes brimmed with tears at my loveliness).

But Mr F was scanning the crowd.

Uhm, I'm right HERE! I used Jedi mind tricks to make him look at me. And then I remembered. Months earlier, he had told me one of his "friends" gave him the great advice to make sure you "take it all in" and see all the people in the crowd who were there for you.

Typical Mr F.

I'm pretty sure the "friend" did not mean when YOUR BRIDE WAS WALKING DOWN THE AISLE.

And finally he looked at me and grinned. And I grinned. I was grinning so wide my teeth felt dry and I had to keep swallowing. I was just so...HAPPY.

Stay tuned. I promised to finish this up in the next few days. (No, really.)

I Bought A Toothbrush, Some Toothpaste, A Flannel For My Face

2009-03-13T09:06:00.000-07:00

ACT II. The Wedding Day. (To clarify, that would be the first Wedding Day.)

Act II, Scene I. The Morning.

INT. A swanky hotel room. E&E awakens to a ringing telephone, an early wake up call. Despite her exhaustion, she pops out of bed.

Actually.

Let's back up.

Before we explore the morning of The Wedding Day, can I take a moment and gloat about two decisions I made the night before my wedding? Decisions I actually made without the advice of Martha Stewart and/or that editor chick from the Knot with the sassy blond haircut, my bridesmaids, my Mom, and/or the consultation of any blogs? (Ultimately shocking me with the conclusion that perhaps people were once able say their vows and get married without media assistance.)

Hearing no objection, I shall proceed.

Awesome Decision Number #1 - The night before The Wedding, I took a high-powered blissfully sleep-inducing Ambien pill. That white little pill (and the four glasses of wine I had before it) put me to sleep quicker than C-Span's Book Notes (sorry, I love to read, but dammit if that show isn't boring as hell).

Drugs are awesome, kids. Little miracles ground up into potent powder and molded into gifts from God, bestowed solely upon those who can afford them. Or are smart enough to live in upstate New York and travel to Canada for their purchase.

Awesome Decision Number #2 - I spit on tradition and forced my fiance to sleep over in my hotel the night before. We snuggled in our sin (and 400 thread count sheets). It was warm and cozy; and for me, it made me calmer and saner.

Granted, Mr F actually wanted (and intended) to bow to tradition and stay separately (he in our apartment and I in the giant hotel suite).

So I got him drunk so that he was unable drive home and had to stay with me. Less romantic, but same outcome.

Anyway, back to the Wedding Morning.

For some reason, when I pictured my Wedding Morning I thought I would be transformed into Juliet (with a sprinkle of Cinderella). I don't know where I conjured this image from. (Well, actually I guess I sort of do....I mean, come on, it's a day where I am flanked by ladies in waiting and corseted into a large ballgown - my only experience with these events hereto are Disney movies and William Shakespeare.) But I envisioned myself awaking in a lovely silk chiffon full length nightgown and the birds and mice (cute speaking germ-free mice, not dirty city mice) would bring me over the clothes I would be wearing for the day. I would sweep down the stairs (or uhm, hotel elevator) and be a princess.

Much to my surprise, when I looked down I was still wearing my pink Hello Kitty fleece pajama pants. When I looked in the mirror I also saw I had a pimple. And Mr F was groaning that it was too early as I tried to roll him out of the bed before my Mom arrived.

I don't recall Cinderella wearing Japanese anime. And there were no mentions of blemishes in Juliet's soliloquies. Death, yes; skin irritation, no.

So maybe I wasn't an actual heroine per se.

But whatever. I was too tired to really belabor the fantasy.

Luckily my mom and my darling bridesmaids knew that I may not be a character from the page of literature, but I am indeed a woman of chemical substance, and so no less than three people brought me coffee.

Now, that's what I call Princess for a Day.

And a good thing too. Because as my harem of bridesmaids accompanied me down to the bridal dressing room, we realized that we were locked out.

At 8 a.m.

And we couldn't find anyone to let us in.

So I did what any rational Bride would do. I called my wedding coordinator, Big Hugs.

Who answered the phone and promptly yawned.

"Oh, did I wake you? I'm sooooo sorry!" (I was in no way sorry.)

In her sleepiest voice: "That's okayyyyy." (Clearly, she was not okay with my wake up call.)

"We are locked out of the Bridal Room." (And if you don't solve this soon, I'm going to freak the frack out.)

"I'll take care of it." (Spoiled princess.)

"Thanks! I'll see you later!" (You better not mess up my wedding, dum dum.)

"Can't wait!" (I don't get paid enough for this crap.)

Within five minutes someone appeared and let us in. (Well, not before accidentally bumping into me and the wedding dress and having it crash to the floor and get smooshed by a door. Well, it was ruched. No one would notice, right?)

And then, the next 3 hours were generally a blur. I made myself relax and sat around and chatted with my bridesmaids until they got their hair done. I had a great time.

We had sandwiches, we read trashy magazines (do you think Tony Romo really cheated on Jessica Simpson...in her own bed?), and I started to get my hair done. Fun all around.

Until.

I looked at the clock and realized Mr F was supposed to be at the hotel in the "Groom's Dressing Room." So I decided to just "check up on him."

I got on the cellphone while the makeup artist began to work on my makeup.

And asked Mr F if he was downstairs.

He was not.

He was at home.

But according to him, he was "leaving momentarily."

Mr F's leaving momentarily is about as likely as a lunar eclipse, peace on the Gaza Strip, JLo having a lasting marriage.

So I hung up while my makeup was being done. I remained calm. Ok, calm-ish.

And then called him back twenty minutes later.

He had not left.

We were supposed to start pictures in 20 minutes.

I had a mini freakout.

Everyone thought I was worried that he wouldn't show.

That was not my fear at all. I knew he would show. I was worried about the timeline.

To which everyone said (in very calming tones) that "I was the bride!" and "The day can't start without me!" But if I can be quite frank, I knew both of those things.

The issue was really this: I knew Mr F was going to marry me. Not concerned at all. But if we started pictures late, then we would have less family portraits (which did end up happening by the way) and we couldn't really be too late making up time taking pictures because I hated the idea of our friends and family waiting for the ceremony to start for more than a half an hour and dammit, I wasn't cutting down that cocktail hour by a single minute. When you're paying like a zillion dollars for that crap, you want people to enjoy every minute you've paid for.

I know, I'm a little crazy, but that's where my neurosis came from. Not that he wouldn't show.

Oh, I knew he would show. That crazy guy loves me.

So what did I do? I delegated.

I got my Mom to call Mr F and tell him to get there pronto, my sister in law to call my brother (a groomsman) to then call Mr F to tell him to ease on down the roo-oad, and Mr F's sister (my bridesmaid) to leave him a stern message telling him to get his ass to the hotel on the double.

And so, only an hour after he was supposed to be there, I learned that Mr F (at that point Mr F-U), had indeed entered the building.

With that burden off my shoulders, I looked in the mirror at my hair and makeup and couldn't believe that they had actually come out so perfect. Un-frackin-believable.

At which point I was told that Mr F asked that I call him immediately.

Stop the presses.

If there is one thing I learned from "Sex and the City: The Movie", it's that if the groom calls you on your cellphone on your wedding day, you'd best be answering that call.

Which is exactly what I said. And so everyone looked at me with inquiring eyes as I called Mr F back.

I listened for his voice, curious to hear the emergency.

Mr F paused for a moment and then said, "Do we have time to practice our first dance?"

Sweet matrimonial dowry, of course we had no time! We were already running late and there was a Schedule to adhere to, for goodness sake.

So what did I say to my husband-to-be?

"Of course, sweetheart. I want you to be happy and comfortable when we do the dance."

And so I stepped into my totally gorgeous silk satin mermaid-bodice gown (which I loved!!! loved! loved! - I was a movie star!) and then got back out of it as I realized I needed to pee.

I ran to use the ladies room. I returned breathless and bladder-empty, and stepped back into my gorgeous silk satin gown and my Mom and bridesmaids buttoned and zipped me up.

I looked in the mirror and loved my whole look. I wouldn't have changed a thing.

And then I said screw it to the Schedule, and went and practiced my first dance with Mr F while the hotel staff set the tables in the reception room around us, so that he too would be happy on our wedding day.

As Mr F twirled me to the clang of charger plates, and dipped me to the clink of wine glasses, I had no doubt it was going to be a wonderful day.

Stay tuned. Act II, Scene II awaits.

I Don't Know Why You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

2009-03-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

I know, I know.

I disappeared.

I fell off the face of the Earth.

And here's the worst part: I haven't even gone on my honeymoon yet.

Clearly I could not anticipate the amount of exhaustion I would feel after attending two weddings.

That were both my own.

But now I'm back and ready to give you the play-by-play on all of my many weddings.

Well, I'm not so much "back" as about to depart for my honeymoon in two days. And I'm not so much "ready to give you the play-by-play," as I have mentally checked out from my job and am sitting at my computer with nothing to do because I need to stay here until 5 p.m.

And by nothing to do I mean that I don't want to write my thank you notes. Because man, those suck.

So, without further adieu....

The Wedding.

A Play in Three Parts. (Or possibly four, depending on how I decide to write this up.)

Act I. "The Rehearsal Dinner"

I've been trying to think of a way to not start this post with the rehearsal dinner, because it was not my proudest moment. But all of the things that happened before that - namely, Mr F not packing up to leave for the hotel until 3:00 because he was watching Sports Center and the hotel only having one person at the check-in desk for a line of 20 people - don't really merit much discussion. They were really just speedbumps along the proverbial wedding road.

Although I suppose that they may have provided a backdrop for what happened next. For it was because Mr F made us an hour late to get to the hotel, and because the check in took another half an hour (since I learned one cannot "cut" in line at a hotel even if one is single-handedly providing them with massive amounts of revenue by filling up 25 guest rooms and also happens to be holding a 10 lb wedding dress), that I only had 20 minutes to get ready for my own rehearsal dinner.

There are entire magazine articles on how to dress for your rehearsal dinner. Some people have their makeup and hair done; others have official photographers.

I was forced to get ready in less time than I do for my job every morning.

This put me on edge.

And so, when at 4:30, the time when I asked my bridesmaids to come over so I could give them their bridesmaid gifts and the time which I rushed my guts out to be ready by, no one showed up at my hotel room, I started to freak out.

And I called one of my bridesmaids.

"Aren't you coming over? Didn't you see The Schedule said to come to my hotel room at 4:30?"

"Uhm...oh. I didn't know we were supposed to. The revised schedule you sent us took that off the schedule. So I didn't know we were supposed to."

And then I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes.

I had stayed up late writing all the thank you notes to each girl and packing their gifts just perfectly and now no one was coming and I didn't know when I would give them their gifts because if it wasn't now, when would it be and how did I take this off The Schedule since I only revised The Schedule to give them more details and I went through all the trouble to get them champagne so we could have a toast and I even got cranberry seltzer for the pregnant girls so who is going to drink the seltzer now?????? My mind was racing, I was sweating and I wanted to cry but I knew that I didn't have time to re-do my makeup. And I hated seltzer.

I was just overwhelmed. Truth be told (and Monday Morning Quarterbacking Be Used), I didn't give a crap about people showing up at 4:30. But this was all too surreal and too much to handle, so my Type A personality focused on The Schedule.

So I sniffled and whined: "That was a mistake! You were all still supposed to come here." And then my voice cracked as I was about to say something else, so I hung up.

Meanwhile, my front door rang and I opened it up to see my Co-Matron of Honor. I practically cross examined her: "You knew you were supposed to be here at 4:30, right?"

She looked confused. "Uhhhh, I thought you changed the schedule. I was just stopping by to say hi."

And then.

I lost it.

I went off on a diatribe, spewing all the words that had been in my head out onto my poor hapless CMOH. Who had come up to my room just to be nice and check on me.

"Well I guess no one really cares then. Since everyone else has already been married it doesn't matter to them about my wedding. They had their day. Who cares if E&E is doing everything herself with no help. And maybe if any of you responded to my emails then someone would have asked if we were still on for 4:30...."

And that was only the half of it.

Somehow during this meltdown there must have been a red wedding bell silhouette beamed onto the TV screens of each of my bridesmaid's hotel rooms alerting Bridal Danger because in the next 5 minutes all of the bridesmaids showed up.

At which point I realized what an idiot I was being and started saying "I'm sorry."

For I realized I had done exactly what I resolved NOT to do.

I let a little bump in the road (well, a few bumps and a few potholes) completely waylay everything.

God damn it.

So I apologized AGAIN. To EVERYONE. Even the girls who were blissfully unaware of my craziness.

I noted to my CMOH that this was my first freakout in 13 months of wedding planning. And didn't I deserve just one? I was no Bridezilla, but couldn't I be a little tiny Tricera-bride? Or a Bride-a-saurus Rex?

I gave them their gifts (which I thought were awesome by the way - in addition to the pashminas, each person got a sterling silver necklace hand crafted by a local Baltimore artisan who made each one unique but generally related to the "branches" motif that we were using).

And then we went downstairs for the rehearsal. As I walked over to the rehearsal space, I cursed myself for my derailment and promised myself I would not let it happen again.

The rehearsal went perfectly.

Sigh of relief.

So I put on my fabulous fancy coat, and we all went on over to the rehearsal dinner. And in the cab I closed my eyes and repeated the words "do not get off course" over and over in my head. (I think saying them aloud might have confused the cab driver, not to mention alarmed Mr F's grandma, who was sitting next to me.)

I resolved that no matter what unexpected surprises came my way the rest of the weekend, I would have FUN.

So when we arrived at the rehearsal dinner restaurant, and I realized they were not serving any of the wines that we discussed at length and ultimately agreed on, I just ignored it and ordered a Chardonnay.

And when the steamed parchment-wrapped fish that we agreed on was not on the menu, I said screw it and ordered the pan-seared bass they substituted without my permission.

Similarly, when I realized that the food was less-than-delicious and barely more than lukewarm (according to Mr F and the untouched portions on everyone else plates), I simply encouraged more booze to our guests.

Moreover, when Baskin Robbins' son ran around the restaurant non-stop for three hours and cried because he could not sit where he wanted to, I simply ran away from him. (OK, and I talked some serious smack to my bridesmaids about the fact that she needs to learn to control her child. But I still consider that a zen moment.)

And finally, at the end of the meal, when the waiter brought us the check and I realized that the restaurant charged us the wrong price per person, we simply paid the bill and decided to call the restaurant and let them know the day after the wedding that they were schmucks and overcharged us.

And so, as we left the restaurant to go meet the rest of our friends at the bar across from the hotel, I didn't have to say my mantra anymore because I was already having a ton of fun and had somehow succeeded in seeing the bumps in the path as unique characteristics making my trip down the aisle special.

Well, at least for that night.

Act II was another story.

But It Ain't No Lie, Baby Bye Bye Bye

2009-02-13T05:37:00.000-08:00

It's 8:30 in the morning on Friday and I have been up an hour already. Luckily, this dovetails nicely with my inability to fall asleep before 2 a.m. last night.

Thoughout this past week everyone asked me: "Are you nervous?" And well, no, I wasn't.

But now I am.

I can't pinpoint what it is. I'm not nervous about marrying Mr F (thank God, one less thing to worry about). And I'm really pretty much done with most (though definitely not all) of the planning required. So I'm not nervous about getting things done. And thankfully, Big Hugs has been in line this week and seemed to be mostly on the ball at our final meeting. So I'm (shockingly) not nervous about her toppling my wedding plans like dominos.

So what is it?

I don't know.

Maybe it's because I haven't had a drink in about two weeks. (No, I don't have "other" news to announce, I just decided that mixing antibiotics, bronchitis, and Chardonnay was likely not doing anyone any favors).

Could the butterflies in my stomach be the flapping of withdrawal?

Doubtful.

No matter the reason, I can't sleep and I just feel nervous and apprehensive.

Maybe it's the general symptom of a Type A personality's awareness that she is placing massive amounts of small tasks in the hands of other people for a very important day and will likely have little to no control over how the events of that day run?

Whatever the cause, I will take slight comfort in the fact that I think Mr F might feel the same way (though he would never admit it) even though he's not the one single-handedly planning a large scale event for 130 people (make that four events, if you count the rehearsal dinner, the gathering after the rehearsal dinner, the wedding itself and the brunch).

My evidence? The other night I got into bed at about midnight and I heard him mumble to me from his slumber, "We gotta practice our dance. We gotta dance."

Nice. I wish I taped that.

But apparently the wedding has invaded his subconsciousness as well.

Anyway, all this leads to the fact that the wedding is on Sunday and it's Friday, so I'm self-suspending myself from blogging until post-wedding. (Holy crap - that means that the wedding is close enough that I can talk about LAW - Life After Wedding). I think I want to focus on my friends, family, and monitoring my tan, instead of blogging.

That being said, I have complete and total faith that I will have a plethora, indeed a boatload, of stories that will spin off from the next 72 hours.

But worry not, I will try my very best to heed all of the advice I have gotten thus far, which for the most part really just echoes good common sense: I plan to simply enjoy everything - come what may - because hell, after the year of craziness that I have experienced, I sure deserve to actually have fun over the next two days.

See you on the other side, kids.

Oompa Loompa Doopity Doo, I've Got Another Puzzle For You

2009-02-11T05:17:00.000-08:00

This may be an anonymous blog (well, anonymous from my family at least), but I will disclose one identifying detail so you can understand my latest plight.

I am pale.

Not pale like the olive-skinned girls who look in the mirror during the winter months and lament in a high pitched voice, "I'm soooo pale!" because their skin has not retained the same bronzy sheen as during the summer. No, I am pale like the gauzy hue of a piece of thin wax paper. Or the almost glowing iridescence of a full moon.

In fact, during the winter, much like a piece of wax paper, I am practically translucent.

I am a natural redhead (or at least, I once was, now it's more auburn) - but my skin has retained its natural paleness. I make Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore look like the Coppertone Girls.

So when I tried on my wedding dress (in ivory) and stood in the dressing room against the white walls, my parents, the seamstress, and I all simultaneously realized that my skin was lighter than both the dress and the walls. I was like a floating head of hair. I was the gecko bride.

Which resulted in a conundrum that I have faced before. But never on such an important day.

How do I get a tan without subjecting myself to cancerous rays of light and/or potentially orange, hand-staining artificial methods?

Now normally, I would just pop on a little Clarins self-tanning lotion (the stuff is the BEST) and end up a nice hue of bronze and accept the corresponding streaks on my hands and deliciously orange color deposits on my knees and elbows. (I chose this path last year for my brother's wedding.)

But on this day, I don't really want to risk orange streaks (or even brown ones, for that matter). I want to avoid the telltale sign of fake tanner which is pools of brown tanner next to pearly white skin. Not to mention, I'm acutely aware that there will be a ton of "hand photos" (that whole wedding ring thing and all) and I don't want to focus on my striped hands when perusing through my wedding album over the next 50 years.

So what to do?

Operation Anti-Loompa. A quest to seek color, but without streaks or orangeness.

Sort of like the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" of the tanning world. All of the taste, but none of the bad side effects. And no Fabio.

I have been in a spray tan booth before, so I knew that while the color could be good, the streaks could be bad. This is why I thought that having someone hand spray me with the stuff (using a machine that is frighteningly like a spray paint gun) would be my best bet.

However, after standing stark naked in front of a bored spa employee who, after spraying my body with a misty substance, left me to stand in all my glory in front of three giant industrial-strength fans (in a room that was about 50 degrees to begin with), I began to doubt my decision. (Or perhaps hypothermia was setting in and my faculties were not functioning properly.)

And right I was. Though the color wasn't bad, my feet looked like I had stepped in cheez whiz and my hands looked like I had dipped them half in orange paint.

It was back to the drawing board.

So I continued to look on the Internet for alternate tan options and found a spa which did a "body bronze." In essence, a woman will actually put the tanning lotion on you (and by having someone else out it on you, it hopefully avoids those pesky spots and stripes).

If nothing else, the application process certainly beats the ice-cold-spray-and-stand I was forced to endure last time. This time I got to lie on a heated spa bed and have some chick rub the lotion onto me. It was basically like a poor man's massage (if a poor man was forced to pay a ridiculous amount of money to turn himself brown). Not bad.

And the results?

Also not bad. I got home and looked at my hands. Nary a stripe. And the color? A nice light brown. Hopefully not overwhelming (since the goal was not so much to have people say "When did you get back Jamaica?" as to comment "Oh, you don't look as sickly as you did last week.").

So I was ready to call this a success.

Until.

I undressed for bed. And I looked down at my stomach, my legs, my arms and my back.

And they were covered with spots. Hundreds, thousands, of SPOTS. Red spots.

I ran into Mr F. "Look at me!! Look at me!!"

"What? I see. You're brown. It's nice."

"No! I'm allergic to the dye! I'm not brown, I'm red. And bumpy!"

He motioned me over to his side of the bed and turned on the light. "Hmmm. Yeah, you're definitely having an allergic reaction."

(OK, I'm not going to say it yet again, but I think I definitely have an Edding-Way Llergy-A.)

I stared at myself in the mirror and counted the days until my wedding. On one hand. Because that's all there was.

Then I popped three Benadryls and slept like a baby.

The next day the red dots had mostly cleared up.

Now I just have to figure out how to avoid turning my ivory wedding dress orange via contact with my artificially-colored skin. But that's another conundrum for another day.

Too bad there are only two more days to figure it out.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right, Here I Am, Stuck in the Middle with You

2009-02-07T20:26:00.000-08:00

Table assignments. Saving the best for last, I suppose? Just when you think you've got this whole "wedding thing" all wrapped up, you're left with this doozy.

I led myself to believe I was going to get a free pass on this one. After all the responses were in, I did some quick math, took out a piece of paper and jotted some names down, and WHALA! (Wala?), I was done! I decided tables of twelve were the way to go (why have two extra tables, when that means spending extra cash on two extra centerpieces and table cloths and everything else?). And besides, I like the idea of people sitting at large tables and getting to mingle with more people.

So the math led me to the conclusion that each branch of the wedding pyramid would get 4 tables to seat (that would be me and Mr F together, my parents and Mr F's parents) with likely a little bit of sharing between the three to fill in tables.

As I said, I jotted our tables down in about 15 minutes. I then dashed off an email to the Mothers asking that they pass along their seating arrangements in tables of 12.

Two days later I got my Mom's list.

5 tables. 8 people at a table.

Needless to say, Mom does not follow directions well.

When I casually mentioned to Mom (ok, so maybe it wasn't so casually) that she exceeded her table allotment, she pulled the Ace card.

She cried.

Time out here. Not to be melodramatic, but shouldn't I be the one crying big elephant tears? Shouldn't the bride be having meltdowns and temper tantrums to get my way? Is this like that book "The Wedding" by Nicholas Sparks (don't judge me for having read it, that's neither here nor there right now) where the Mother is actually the one getting married and not the daughter and it's a giant surprise to the reader and when you finally realize it you're like "Oh my God! It's the MOM!"?

"It's the MOM!"

I'm taking a moment. Hold on.

.........

........

.......

OK. So anyway, Mom is crying and telling me that she can't combine her tables with other random people because she doesn't want her guests to feel like she doesn't care about them. I'm trying to figure out how seating someone with another person translates into anything other than the statement "Math dictates that only 12 people fit at a table so I am seating you with eleven other people to add up to 12."

More importantly, I'm trying to figure out if the antibiotics I'm on will be rendered impotent if I drink a giant goblet of white wine while on this phone call. The orange bottle doesn't have a little sticker that says "don't drink while on this medicine" but I remember hearing that you should never mix antibiotics with alcohol because they won't work (not the alcohol, the antibiotics...I'm pretty sure the alcohol will work even better).

Oh, did I not mention that I have bronchitis and the wedding is a week away? Yeah, well if you didn't think I was allergic to my wedding before, I think we have indisputable proof now.

Since I can't keep my mouth shut, I ask Mom to explain why I should spend hundreds of extra dollars so that her friends and family don't have to break bread with others' friends and family (mind you, the "other" people we are talking about are Mr F's family and my friends - not exactly strangers off the street. Funny how Mom was all "into" the engagement and melding of families, until of course, her niece has to sit with Future Mother in Law's great aunt.)

At which point, Mom changes tactics and goes back to what a Jewish Mom knows best.

She sighs. And pauses. And then says "You do what you want, E&E." Her barely dried tears are still glimmering on her cheeks (and she declines to wipe them away). I recognize this ploy I know so well and greet it accordingly. Hello, Jewish Guilt! How are you today? I, for one, am doing shitty.

So what do I do? I choose the path of least resistance. Which is, believe it or not, just giving in to Mom. I tell FMIL that she must seat all of her guests at three tables and Mr F and I squeeze all of our guests (and some of FMIL's) at ours.

Done.

Or so I thought.

Until Mom gives me a diagram of where she wants her tables to be placed in the reception room.

All by her. At the front of the room. So that all of my friends will be wayyyyy across the room from me.

Keep following the path of least resistance and apparently you end up at the bottom of a lake of quicksand.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Fire Away

2009-02-05T16:59:00.001-08:00

No more Mr. Nice Bride.

I'm too tired and we're getting too close to this silly wedding for me to beg the people I'm paying to...well, to do the frickin jobs that I paid them for.

And that's why Big Hugs, bane of my existence, free wedding coordinator extraordinaire, and likely she who will cause more stress than assistance, received the Wrath of Bride.

I placed calls. I emailed. I simultaneously emailed and placed calls.

And I got no response.

My wedding is just around the corner and the woman who is allegedly supposed to coordinate said event will not give me answers about my menu, the room set up, the number of bars available, what time I will have access to the bridal suite, and other annoying details that I would like to ignore, but unfortunately not only have to deal with but now have to persistently stalk the woman I am paying, to disclose.

Oodles of fun for the whole family.

So finally, I got sick of this shit.

And I called Big Hugs' boss.

And left a message like this:

"Hi, this is E&E - my wedding is on February 15th at your venue. I am working with Big Hugs, the wedding coordinator. I emailed her a few times over the past month and never got a response to my questions. I also called her about 3 times during this period and haven't heard back. This has been going on for about a month now and I haven't been able to get in touch with her. I'm just wondering if this is typical and what I should expect on the wedding day?"

OK, it wasn't the harshest call I've ever made, but I acutely aware that no matter what happens, given the late date, this woman still does hold the timeline of my wedding in the palm of her (very inefficient) hand.

My phone rang back five minutes later.

It was Big Hugs.

Her voice was sweet as pie, telling me she has been "sooo" busy lately and it's been "just so hard!" to return all her emails. And she went on to ask me how she could help me.

I have some ideas.

She could best help me by returning my calls the same day.

It would be helpful if she could remember what food we are planning to have at the wedding instead of asking me "are your guests having the chicken?". (That would be NO.)

And it would be great if she could send me paperwork that was supposed to get to me a month before the wedding, without requiring that I ask two weeks before: "Shouldn't there be some paperwork I should get explaining all this?"

And hells, while we're at it, it would be nice it she took her hug and shove it up her kisser.

(S)he drinks a Whiskey drink, (s)he drinks a Vodka drink

2009-02-03T20:36:00.001-08:00

My bachelorette party was the weekend before last (before last...which is three weeks...crap, time flies. I have like ten posts that I've started and none are finished because I've been so busy *doing* the wedding that I haven't had time for *writing* about said doing).

Anyway, I had a blast. I have ridiculously creative friends. They gave me clues which led to different bars in the city and each bartender had the next clue. Too cute, right?

You know what's not cute?

Hangovers.

I'm never drinking again. OK, that has a slightly false ring to it.

Thus, I must clarify: I am never having another shot again.

Who thought of this thing - shots? And shouldn't an intelligent person be wary of a drink consumed in a form bearing the same name as the artillery fired from a weapon of death?

Needless to say, I haven't had a hangover of this proportion since college. Actually, I take that back. I didn't get hangovers like this when I was in college.

This is actually a new phenomenon and clearly a predominant reason for a severely decreased consumption of multiple glasses of alcohol in one sitting.

Even of my faithful companion, White Wine. Even White Wine has become the friendly neighbor who makes you temporarily happy by plying you with food, until you realize that you are gnawing on a poisonous apple.

OK, that's a stretch and I think mixing some fairy tales with apartment dwelling, but right now my neighbors are having a massive argument and it's giving me a headache so I'm having a hard time separating fact from fiction.

But alcohol now affects me in a way it never did before. It hurts.

A Haiku On Hangovers
O, my dear White Wine,
why do you betray?
Were you not my friend?

Getting old sucks.

Hangovers suck.

Eggs benedict with a side of homefries when you think you're gonna boot in a Murray Hill restaurant with 10 of your closest friends looking at you with concern tinged with pity while in NYC sucks.

But friends who travel from around the country just to go to your bachelorette and watch you make a fool of yourself until you can't remember anything (and then watch you try not to toss your cookies the next morning) are the best.

That sounds an awful lot like a Mastercard commercial, doesn't it? I didn't mean for it to.

Priceless.

I Get A Kick Out Of You

2009-01-23T11:35:00.000-08:00

I have a new best friend: his name is Michael.

I go to his place at least once a week. While I'm at Michael's, I wander around aimlessly. The air is soft and peaceful, thick with the artificial, yet oddly calming, smell of silk flowers and scented candles. I can drift up and down the aisles, gazing at the endless possibilities. I know there are others who love him too; sometimes I catch their eye as we both spy the last silver ink pad at the exact same moment. But we're not competitive. I'm content with buying gold leaf paint and she is just as happy to buy multi-color yarn. We exist together peacefully. Michael has enough room for all of us.

I love the way he cares about me. I know it from the way he offers me deals for just one dollar as soon as I walk in the door. And he reminds me about every upcoming holiday - just in case I was going to forget. Just yesterday he reminded me that Valentine's Day is near and St. Patty's is mere moments later by providing a shelf of pink and red ribbon, with heart wooden boxes and cupid-imprinted stamps. Shamrocks galore wink playfully, begging to be affixed to a decorative bag, should I feel so inclined.

Unfortunately, for all that he does for me, Michael can be hurtful at times. Michael is gifted with the ability to be crafty, whereas I am not. So when I am at Michael's I sometimes find myself moved by the siren song of scrapbooking. Or knitting. Or necklace making. Or perfuming. There are so many appliques you can buy! But I know (from experience) that I will glue my fingers to the cotton with the hot glue gun or drop the fragile glass jar and Michael will be ashamed of me. So I scuttle away, empty-handed and embarrassed.

The other problem with Michael of course is that I suspect Mr F is a little concerned about our relationship. And perhaps he should be. Because I spend a lot of money on my new friend (more than he even knows). But I don't have much to show for it. I have ribbon, and a calligraphy pen, and some cardstock. And moss and flower foam. And a hot glue gun. And 32 glue gun inserts. Which are sitting in my closet. And will make a cameo appearance at my wedding. If I can figure out what to do with them.

But Michael made me bring them home! He knew I would take good care of them. Like he has taken care of me.

I can't wait to visit Michael's again next week. If only his handmaidens of checkout weren't so slow. (Really? Ten minutes to try to wrap a mason jar? Come on, people.)

Papa's Got A Brand New Bag

2009-01-15T10:25:00.001-08:00

A few months ago my Future Mother in Law asked how she could help with the wedding. As I've mentioned previously, to say that my FMIL and I have different tastes would be an understatment. To me, simple is better. To her, simple is just...simple.

So upon the suggestion of my MOH, I decided that a good way for her to "help" would be to lift the mammoth burden of filling the out of town bags from my shoulders (which were carrying so much mental weight these days they made Atlas look like a lightweight). I told her I would create a label that she could just peel and place on the bag. A perfect situation - she would just have to buy the bags and fill them up.

Except that FMIL is rabid. Like a wedding dog. She emailed me asking what exactly it was I wanted to put in the bags. But between holding down a full-time job and rushing back and forth meeting with vendors and mailing out invitations, I didn't have time to focus on the out of town bag contents.

Then she called.

And emailed.

Again.

Asking what I want in the bags.

Mind you, this was months ago, before Mr F and I even bought a wedding band. Or had written vows. Or created programs. In the hierarchy of wedding planning, I firmly believe that out of town bags are somewhere between the color purse I will be holding at the rehearsal dinner (don't know) and the name of the signature cocktail (no idea). Important, but not to be focused on prior to, say, determining what song we will use as a processional.

Nonetheless, I had a general inkling of what I wanted in the bags, so I sat down and spoke with her about precisely what I wanted (which was her request - an exact list).

I wanted to fill our bags with healthier options than the typical "out of town bag" fare. While I love a chocolate molten flourless cake, I loathe vending machine snacks (Twinkies make me ill). So I gave FMIL a list of healthy-ish snacks. I also told her a few items that I would love to include to celebrate the fact that we were getting married in Baltimore; it was a nice way to introduce people to the flavors of the city.

I explained to her that I just wanted to put the stickers I created on a very simple bag - brown, preferably recycled, paper bag. Simple. Low key. Put the stickers on the bag and presto - done.

FMIL visited a couple of weeks ago and excitedly told me that she had gotten "options" for the bags.

My mind tried to comprehend the statement. "Options?" I was pretty sure that there weren't a lot of variations on the brown bag theme. It's brown. It's a bag. The end.

As we are sitting at my kitchen table, she pulls six gift bags out of her bigger plastic bag.

Whoa.

Each bag is more fanciful than its predecessor. One has pearls, another has lace. One is white with some sort of hologram on it (I swear). And the grand finale was a giant shiny white bag with wedding bells on the front in glitter. FMIL's eyes sparked and she grinned. "Aren't they great?"

I looked inside the bag to see if perhaps there was a mini bottle of Stoli. Because that was the only way these bags were going to achieve greatness.

"Uhm. Well, they're very fancy."

I racked my brain for a way to say, "These bags are fugtastic, but you are truly such a sweet and loving mother that I don't want to hurt your feelings or strain our future relationship. But these bags make me want to retch."

I realized there was no way to politely convey this message, so I kept my mouth shut.

She looked at me. I think she looked into my soul. And saw a deep hatred of the wedding aisle at Michael's. Or she wasn't looking at my soul and just saw that I was frowning and giving the glittery wedding bells the evil eye. Which is generally also considered a "give."

"You don't like them?"

"Well...they're just not my 'style'... I prefer a simpler look."

She looked confused. "Less lace?"

"No lace."

A light went on in the attic. "Ohhhhh. Simple. Ok."

So to ensure that she understood what I meant, I went out and bought a bag and put on the sticker and sent it to her back in New Jersey. My aching back was not feeling un-burdened.

A few days ago I got an email that told me the following:

"Honey - the bags are done!! I used the brown bags. I couldn't find all the things you asked for so instead I just bought other things!! I included the following: oreo's, M&M's, potato chips, and peanut butter and cheese crackers."

My cholesterol doubled just reading the email. Hey, what's a little trans-fat between friends?

But the email went on: "I didn't know where to get that Baltimore stuff - so I guess that's out or you can just get it on your own."

Yup. This was helpful. I took out my "to do" list and erased the line I had drawn though "out of town bags" so it could reclaim its rightful spot on the list. Still, I'm awarding FMIL an "A" for effort. Just cause I'm feeling benevolent today.

Time Keeps on Tickin Tickin Tickin....Into the Future

2009-01-15T06:50:00.000-08:00

One month from today.

One month from today at this time I will be sitting in a hotel room chair, having my hair and makeup done by dueling professionals, just hours away from walking down the aisle.

One month from today I will be chugging Red Bull and coffee (though hopefully not together) since I will likely have accumulated only 8 hours of sleep over the previous 7 days (if past insomnia is any indication of the future).

One month and one day from today I can throw out all of the wedding magazines.

One month and one day from today I will have my own Bonfire of the Vanities. I will dispose of the ribbon, the ink pads, and the cardstock. I suspect they will be deliciously flammable.

One month and two days from today I will sleep.

One month and fourteen days from today I will wear my wedding dress for the second time and have a sequel to my wedding.

One month and fifteen days from today I will sit on the couch and eat the top layer of the wedding cake that is supposed to be eaten exactly 13 months from today.

One month and sixteen days from today I will sit on the couch and watch "Say Yes to the Dress" and "Whose Wedding is it Anyway" without anxiety. I will sip Chardonnay as neither a shield nor a sword.

One month and seventeen days from today I will balance my computer on my lap while trying to think of a new name for this Blog.

I can't wait.

My Words, Like Silent Raindrops Fell

2009-01-13T08:14:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about how to write this post for a couple of days now, and I'm still not sure I'm going to do it right. But like everything else in life, you just need to jump in, so I will.

Over the past year, I have heard the same refrain over and over again: "Just relax and enjoy this time", "It will go by so quickly," and most frequently, "In the scheme of things, all the little details aren't important."

I hate when people say that to me.

I would love nothing more than to relax. I would relish the opportunity to not stress. I wish I could heed that advice, but my brain truly won't comprehend it. I just can't, no matter how hard I try, let all the little things go. I try to tell myself that I don't need to create menus (and, intellectually I really know that I don't) but I can't just not do them. I don't know why; it must be the way I'm hardwired (which is apparently with the red and blue wires crossed so that I could blow up at any second).

But this past weekend I actually experienced something that put things more into perspective than all of the advice in the world. It's one thing for someone to tell you that "it's not a big deal in the scheme of things" and it's a whole other to see why it isn't.

On Saturday, my Mom and I were well into Wedding Trial Weekend when we went to the salon where I was to have my makeup trial. I was clutching my file of "wedding makeup looks" which the Makeup Artist suggesting I bring along with me. I was also psyched because the Makeup Artist had told me that she would do my trial for free. (For FREE? This is unheard of in the wedding industry! Even the bridal shows charge a price for tickets. Cake tastings come with the burden of a commitment to order a full cake for $600 and the trial for my hair cost the same amount that my hair will cost the day of my wedding.)

We walked into the salon and I breathed in the wonderfully relaxing smell of eucalyptus (the salon also happens to be a great spa). We sauntered up to the check in desk and mentioned that we were there to see Makeup Artist and we had a 1:30 appointment.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she became silent.

My Mom and I looked at each other.

The receptionist began to speak slowly. "You didn't hear? ... Makeup Artist passed away two weeks ago."

My mouth dropped open and my stomach dipped. I conjured up Makeup Artist's face in my mind - she was a young woman - I was sure of it. Perhaps there was some mistake?

"What...what happened? Are we talking about Makeup Artist? I thought she was young...." I trailed off.

The receptionist's eyes filled with tears. "She was. She was only thirty-two. She died suddenly of an aneurysm the day after Christmas. She left an eleven year old son."

Thirty two. Exactly my age.

My heart started beating more quickly and I started to sweat. I had a lump in my throat that was making it hard to breathe, but I had no right for such sadness - I barely spoke with the woman for more than ten minutes.

I suddenly thought of the phone message I had left last week on her cellphone, reminding her of our appointment. It occurred to me that when I left the message, she was no longer even living. Did her husband watch the cellphone ring and ring, but couldn't bring himself to answer it? It was too horrible to imagine.

We excused ourselves from the salon and sat in the car in silence. I'm not a religious person at all, but I counted my blessings.

Do my parents drive me up a wall? Yes. Am I lucky to have two loving parents? Yes.

Do I think about hitting Mr F over the head with a frying pan at times? Yes. But I'm lucky I will have the chance to walk down that aisle and see him waiting for me at the end of it.

Will I continue to obsess over the little details of this wedding in light of what happened? To be honest with myself, probably yes.

But will I keep the image of this young woman, snatched away from life at the same age I am today, tucked into the corner of my consciousness, ready for recall when I start to dwell on the superficial? Yes. Truly, I will.

When I got home that night, I opened my wallet and pulled out the business card that Erin had given me when we met in mid-December. After a fun conversation about how much we both loved makeup, she scribbled her name and cellphone on the reverse side and the words "free makeup consult" on the front.

As the tragedy of it all bounced around my head, I walked over to the garbage, ready to toss it in. But I decided to keep it.

I placed the card back in my wallet.

http://www.legacy.com/baltimoresun/DeathNotices.asp?Page=Notice&PersonID=121908326

----

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

2009-01-11T16:12:00.001-08:00

My parents came to visit this weekend for the Law & Order of bridal weekends - full of trials. (Yes, I'm fully aware that was a terrible joke. But I just spent 48 hours with my parents and their Catskills-inspired sense of humor is contagious. Like the black plague.)

To clarify, my parents were in town for my floral trial, makeup trial, hair trial and dress fitting (i.e., dress trial). I was definitely nervous about all of the aforementioned trials, especially the hair and makeup since I selected my beauty professionals by closing my eyes and pointing at a listing in the phonebook. (OK, it was more like pointing at the Google results on the computer screen - but you get the gist.) Baltimore is an interesting mix of cultures: while it has a bunch of chic new boutiques, restaurants and bars, there is also a strong blue collar contingent that (let's face it - is less superficial than I am and) prefers spam to spumoni and smokes a pack-a-day instead of working on their six pack each day. I tossed and turned each night as I dreamt of a hair trial that resulted in a John Waters-inspired bee hive hairdo and eye makeup that looked like Cher's Vegas Show team had gone on a rampage.

Thus, I was actually very happy to have my parents coming along on these meetings, if for no other reason than they are certainly not known for keeping their opinions to themselves. (Not so helpful when selecting a wedding venue, very helpful when they need to tell a makeup artist that powder blue is NOT my best color.)

So no sooner had our Marathon Wedding Trial day began, then I found myself sitting in my parents' Volvo on my way to the mall. My mom started asking about her favorite topic - whether Israel is justified in continuing violence against Hamas in the Gaza Strip. No, not really. She started talking about the wedding. Which I must grudgingly admit was justified being that it was Marathon Wedding Trial Day. So we begin to chat about wedding details when she starts asking about my bachelorette party, which is next weekend.

"When are you going into the city? Do you want us to give you a ride?" [Incidentally, The City = New York City. If you grow up in NJ, there is only one City. And it's not Philadelphia or Baltimore.]

I was flabbergasted. It was so nice and so unlike my parents to drive me all the way into the city, only to turn around and immediately drive the hour back to central New Jersey. (They were the parents who used to always say to me when I was younger: "Can't you get someone else's parents to give you a ride to soccer / dance class / drama practice? We always have to drive."). And so, delighted that two old dogs had apparently learned some new tricks, I exclaimed "Yeah! That's so nice of you - to drive me there and then to turn around and go right back! That would be great."

To which my Mother replied breezily, "Oh, we're not going back. We're going to spend the night in the city to belatedly celebrate my birthday."

Oh.

My mother (rightly) took my silence as annoyance so she continued defensively, "There are eight million people in the city."

Indeed, there are. Which I was aware of. But still, when I lived in Manhattan, I always managed to run into ex-boyfriends while I was picking up a whole pizza to eat by myself, obnoxious girls from high school when I was wearing no makeup, and random cousins who I cared little for and wanted to have to pretend to make plans to see even less - all on a regular basis. Eight million is actually kind of small.

But I was determined to remain level-headed. She was right really. It was a big city and somehow I doubted that we would go to the same restaurants (or bars or lounges for that matter). My parents would stick to midtown and the Upper East Side and we would likely be in the Meatpacking district or downtown. I took deep cleansing breaths and began my wedding mantra. It will be ok. It will be ok. It will be ok.

And suddenly I realized...it would be. It's fine.

So I continued to chat with my Mom and realized of course I actually couldn't get a ride into the city because I was going to go early Saturday morning and they were going later in the afternoon. Foiled again. I was immersed in thought, trying to figure out whether I could stomach taking the super cheap and moderately dangerous Chinatown Bus to NYC or if I should just suck it up and pay an obscene amount of money for Amtrak, which was sure to be less dramatic and offered bathrooms and snacks onboard, when suddenly my Mom asked "Whose apartment are you girls staying at?"

I replied, "Oh, well we actually got a hotel because there are so many of us coming in from out of town that we decided it would just be easier and more fun. And besides, we'll all meet there before we go out."

"That's a good idea. Where are you staying?"

"The Murray Hill Shelbourne - I got a great deal on a suite so it worked out really well!"

This is the point where my Mom made what can only be described as a sort of "tsk-ing" sound.

My stomach sank. Was the place a total fleabag motel? I was picturing all of us huddled on a small shabby sofa looking around the room at rodent infestations. Gross.

But she followed up the tsk-ing with the following, "Isn't that funny? That's the hotel that Dad and I are staying at!!"

Eight million people, huh?

I lost it. I would love to say I acted maturely, like a 32-year woman about to get married. But instead I threw a tempertantrum. I'll admit it.

"WHAT?!? Come ON! I TOLD you I would be in the city that weekend! God, I can't get AWAY from you people!! I want to GET AWAY! I don't want to SEE YOU AT MY BACHELORETTE PARTY. Sweet Jesus."

I told you. I lost it.

I knew I was acting like an ungrateful brat and that my parents had just as much right to stay at the hotel as I did, but that didn't diminish the fact that I really didn't want my parents to see me stumble out of the hotel for dinner at 9 p.m. as they were coming home after their 6:30 dinner plans.

But I knew I was acting like a baby, so I shut up and stewed in silence. I had clearly conveyed my displeasure and there was nothing else to say. Well, on my part at least. I was definitely hoping my parents would realize that it was their responsibility to say that they would find another hotel.

Instead, my mother said "We booked this hotel 6 weeks ago."

I put on my Parental Translator Hat and pressed "Start." Just as I had suspected. According to my calculations, that sentence in parent-speak actually meant: "I know you're our daughter, but screw you - we want to stay at this hotel. Go find another one if you're not happy."

So I quietly sulked.

When we arrived at our destination (the mall to look for tuxes for my Dad), I continued to sulk. I placed a quick call to Mr F and told him to look for alternate hotels for me. And then I tried to move on with the day.

My Mother and I were looking at patterns when my Father excused himself (presumably because he cared about tuxes just about as much as Mr F did). About a half an hour later he reappeared and walked over to me.

"Mom and I discussed it and we decided to switch our hotel. So we won't stay at the one you're staying at."

[Pigs flying; Devil wearing snowboots; Cats and dogs living together; LC and Heidi hugging.]

YES!

He continued: "I made a few calls and we got another hotel to stay at..."

Wait for it.

Wait for it....

"... Instead, we're going to stay at the Marriott."

Yup. In an incredible turn of events, I have been saved by my nemesis, mon frere, Le Marriott. I never thought I'd utter such words, but I want to take this opportunity to shout from the cyber-hilltops: "Marriott, I love you!"

Signed Sealed Delivered, I'm Yours

2009-01-07T10:42:00.000-08:00

On Saturday night I once again found myself in New Jersey. Whoever said that "All roads lead to Rome" never had two Jewish mothers and an impending wedding.

As I sat eating pasta, meatballs, chicken, mini hamburgers, and meatloaf and potatoes (a typical Jewish mother's meal for her prodigal children) and drank a large goblet of Cabernet (a typical Jewish daughter's antidote to Jewish mothers) with my Future Mother and Father in Law, and Future Sister and Brother in Law, the conversation meandered on over to the wedding guest list. And by "meandered to the guest list" I mean that from the moment we walked in the door I was pelted by searing nuptially-focused questions and thus, the topic of the group's discussion transitioned only from the food at the wedding to the cocktails for the wedding and from the clothes to be worn at the wedding to the clothes to be worn the night before the wedding. I was an innocent fawn, slowly waking from deep slumber; its tender eyes open to a sunny and quiet meadow, until it's suddenly face-to-face with the first day of hunting season and the double barrel of a shotgun.

I looked down at the bulls eye on my chest as my Future Mother in Law said to me: "How many of our friends have not responded yet?"

I considered my after-life as finely prepared venison at a top restaurant. "Well..."

"Well what?"

"Well actually, almost none of your guests have responded." Anticipating her next question, I said "The responses are due in a week."

She became indignant. "Well if they don't respond, then I'm assuming they're not coming and well, we're not going to be friends with them anymore!"

Now I was the hunter. "What do you mean, you're assuming? Aren't you going to call them to ask if they're coming? You're just going to not talk to them? But we need a definite answer!" I was a hunter whose voice rose a variety of octaves to achieve a piercing decibel during the hunt.

At this moment, FMIL looked at me as though she were indeed welcoming a wild boar into her family. Her look said, now why in the world would I possibly call the people who are my so-called closest friends and those who I insisted we must invite?

OK, maybe her look didn't say that. But that's what I thought. Why in the world would she not call the people who she insisted we must invite because they would be so hurt if we didn't, because they are Such Good Friends? Doesn't she talk to these people anyway (if they are, indeed, such good friends) and is it really a big deal to call them?

Invocations of Verizon and T-Mobile aside, this is really just a symptom of the bigger issue at hand: why oh why, can these people not RSVP to begin with? Dear Lord, my Sauveur, what more can a person do to garner a response then send someone a self addressed and stamped envelope? Is it really such a burden to take a pen to the paper and check off "yes" or "no" and to take the envelope to the mailbox? This seems only moderately more rigorous than other taxing tasks such as breathing, walking, and sleeping. (I do feel compelled here to disclose that apparently there is an in-between option of just sending in the response card with no indication of whether you will, or will not, be attending and/or any corresponding indication of a food choice should you be coming. This possibility was presented to me in the form of a response from one of FMIL's friends who dumped the completely blank response card back in the mail to us. Not a speck of ink on that sucker to be found. I'd give you my two cents on that one, but since I already spent 47 cents on a stamp that served no purpose, I'll keep it to myself.)

Indeed, there is a part of me that is tempted to send over a courier to the homes of those who have yet to respond to solicit a yay or nay from those delinquent invitees - mostly because I am curious if they will respond, or just deem it too difficult to stand up and answer the door for the courier.

I'm aware how obnoxious and impatient this sounds. I assure you that it will sound even more judgmental in light of the following: I've been that person. I am the person who gets the envelope with the stamp on it and puts it aside thinking "I should really decide if I'm going to this wedding." And then I lose the envelope. Or I forget about the reply date. Or I go on a three-week bender and groggily wake up in Tijuana in the bed of a Mexican stripper named Carmen.

Man, I am so craving enchiladas and a margarita (on the rocks, with salt).

Anyway, needless to say, I won't be doing that again any time soon (turning in replies late; you can never be sure you won't find yourself in Tijuana). Go on, invite me to your wedding. Try me.

All that being said, that doesn't solve the problem at hand: my future In Laws apparently feel comfortable just assuming that lack of reply equals non-attendance. I, on the other hand, happen to know that many people believe that it is so obvious that they will be attending that they don't need to turn in an RSVP. Or if they're anything like my parents (which, being my parents' friends, presumably they are), they tend to firmly believe that they have said and done things that they have not, in fact, actually done (i.e., Mom assuring me that she sent me an email telling me the status of said RSVP list, when indeed no such email was ever sent. By the way, here's a hint - thinking about doing something does not actually make it happen. Or, as previously discussed in this blog, were that the case I would have a fridge full of ice cream, a house that sparkled like the Chrysler building and a closet that that boasted more Louboutin shoes than Saks Fifth Avenue.)

So where does this leave me? You guessed it. Eight days away from calling up 30 people I've never met and asking them point-blank if they are high-tailing it down to Baltimore in 40 days to attend my frickin' wedding. Somehow I suspect that this will not lead to much endearment by my In-Laws' friends; similarly, I suspect it will fail to lead to wedding gifts from said friends. Whatever. I didn't need a complete set of martini glasses anyway.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

2008-12-25T10:15:00.000-08:00

I'd heard stories. I'd read the other blogs. But I was hoping it wouldn't start for a few more weeks.

The Nightmares.

I haven't had a good night's sleep in about three nights now. Every night starts the same: I toss and turn a bit until finally I nod off. And then I sleep for a couple hours until I wake up, cranky and out of breath, realizing I've been dreaming of the wedding. I try to return to my slumber-y cocoon only to realize that I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time because like the White Rabbit, the narrative of my dream is on a strict timeline and I'm Late, I'm Late, I'm Late. And dammit, waking up is apparently the surest way to get where I need to go.

Last night it was the DJ. In my dream I was at my wedding dressed in an 80's era prom dress (interestingly, this was not a fact I was upset about). Despite the crinoline and poofy hot pink skirt, it was most definitely my wedding. All of a sudden my heart started to thump (and by thump, I mean I thought that an alien might burst through my sternum at any moment, it was beating so hard); I realized I never had my "final" meeting with my DJ.

And no sooner than this realization came to pass, I heard it - the sounds of "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang. And that's when I ran up to the DJ to tell him he had to stop - he had to play all the carefully-selected songs that I had been collecting for months. But he looked at me as if he had never met me and instead said that he didn't have any of my songs. I felt so betrayed. I thought we had an understanding about my musical tastes. How had I misunderstood?

The Gang wailed on assuring me that indeed a party was going on right here, while I hightailed it to the ladies room and cried my eyes out. In my head (in the dream), I tried to calm myself down telling myself that this was exactly the type of thing that people said would happen - "unexpected problems" that you "just can't plan for" and that you should just "go with the flow" on the day of the wedding and that this would make a GREAT wedding story one day. But my dream self told me dream self's inner voice to shut up and continued to sob in the bathroom stall.

And then I woke up.

It was 3:42 a.m.

The night before the DJ snuck into my bedtime thoughts, the photographer made a cameo appearance. I showed up at the wedding and the photographer didn't pay any attention to me. She didn't seem to know who I even was (admittedly, this is not much of a leap since in fact, she doesn't know who I am - since she's in North Carolina and we've never met).

To make matters worse, it seemed she never got a list of the "must take" pictures, so she just took whatever pictures she wanted. No family portraits. No shots of me and Mr F.

Half way through the wedding I summoned up the courage to go up to her and politely asked her to take some pictures of me and Mr F. Perhaps we might go outside and take a few shots? She declined to do so.

And then the dream somehow magically put the developed photos in my hand (yes, even though the wedding was somehow still going on. (Hey, it's a dream - my subconscious apparently lacks a time/space continuum.)) The pictures were awful - each was blurry and the guests were red-eyed. And as I'd feared, not a single one was of me and Mr F.

I woke up. It was a little after one in the morning.

So today, I'm exhausted. Mentally and physically. I would like to have a sit-down talk with my subconscious and let it know that everything will be alright. No need to worry. Just let the fears settle deep within, sitting numbly next to thoughts about terrorism, the economy, and whether "Heroes" will be renewed for a third season. I wish I could assure my subconscious that I will talk to the DJ and the photographer. And the dress will fit fine. The guests will show up. The officiant will remember our names. There will be no nuts in the food and Mr F will not be rushed to the hospital. There won't be a snow storm. Unfortunately, the list goes on and on and somehow I suspect there's enough fodder here for a nightmare for each of the 47 nights remaining until the wedding.

So if you will excuse me, I think I need to call my primary care physician for a prescription for Ambien. 25 pills. 2 refills.

I Say A Little Prayer For You

2008-12-23T20:28:00.000-08:00

Every day I wish it was already the next day. Because that day would be one day closer to my wedding and the planning would stop. I would have already done what I needed to do or I wouldn't have done what I needed to do, but it would be too late to do it.

Instead, I am just slogging through Operation T-H (Tortoise-Hare, in case you couldn't be bothered to read the post just a mere 5 inches below) in the freezing cold of Baltimore. The wind is so bitter that it cuts through my sneakers and my feet get numb just walking over to the gym. That's just ridiculous. It's no way to live. I am thinking seriously about dumping Mr F and starting Operation C-A, which involves me getting my ass on the first plane back to California and finding some hot surfer who has a lovely beach shack I can live in and eat fish tacos all day with. (Admittedly, I totally should not have watched "Flirting with Forty" during this time off work. Twice. But if you haven't seen it yet - pure Lifetime gold. Heather Locklear gets dumped by husband and meets surfer in Hawaii. Think "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" but with less groove and more white people. And no Taye Diggs. *sigh*)

What I mean to say is, "I love you Mr F." Can't wait to see you at the altar.

Time, Time, Time, See What's Become of Me

2008-12-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

Like a Wedding Superhero, I have been proceeding with OWO at a rapid-fire pace. Wrapped in a DIY Gocco'd cape and armed with a fondant frosting pastry gun, I have been checking tasks off my interminably long "To Do" list more quickly than the dissolution of Kate Walsh's marriage. I selected readings, chose vows, and ordered yarmulkes at lightning speed.

Pleased and proud of my newfound abilities, I christened myself Blasphemous Fiancee, Superhero Extraordinaire.

Until I learned an interesting lesson.

Not only is no man is an island but apparently, no bride can be a solo caped crusader. And when you think about it, even the DC Comics superheroes had to form a Justice League. Because sometimes even Wonder Woman needs to ask the Invisible Man to borrow a stick of butter.

So in hindsight, I wish I had my own League of Women Doters. Because if I did, maybe I wouldn't have sent out Rehearsal Dinner invitations without a date or time.

Oh I'm sorry, do you think I typed that wrong?

No, I didn't. I sent out Rehearsal Dinner invitations without any of the basic information that guests would require, such as a date or a time to attend said event.

How or why did this happen? I don't know. All I know is that superheroes don't have to avenge their evil at midnight or one o' clock in the morning after a full day's work, going to the gym (because you gotta fit into that white superhero satin gown) and making dinner because superheroes do not have to hold down full time jobs. Instead, they're gallivanting around town doing their life-saving between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. and getting a nice good night's sleep at the end of it all. (And Bruce Wayne does not count because he has a trust fund and Superman does not count because his job barely had him sitting in the office like EVER.) Therefore, our crusaders do not make large mistakes because they are getting the required 8 hours of sleep. Not four.

So who's to blame? I could definitely blame my Mom since she was the person who insisted that we must send out invitations for the Rehearsal Dinner instead of emails because "not everyone uses email, just because you do." Or I could blame Mr F, for his lack of interest in the entire wedding generally or more specifically because when I asked him how the invite looked, he glanced at the computer screen for 3 seconds before turning back to the Steelers game on TV and muttering "fine."

But instead, I'll just blame myself. Because it's easier and it dovetails nicely with my new and improved superhero persona: Exhaustia, Tired Bride-To-Be.

Exhaustia sits on the couch downloading into her keen mind the subject of infinite sub-par Lifetime movies and dressed head to toe in her superhero armor of fleece. She captures her enemies in a carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, where she demolishes them with a golden spoon.

To celebrate the valor and bravery of Exhaustia, we hereby abort Operation Wedding Overdrive and commence Operation Tortoise-Hare, a mission focused on both quickly and steadily finishing nuptial details but not at the mercy of large and messy jackrabbit mistakes which may or may not leave guests unsure as to what date and time one's rehearsal dinner is to be held. However, for Exhaustia's dedication to OWO, we pin to her the purple heart, a concoction of one part Chambord and three parts champagne. I'm all for tying that on.

It's Raining (Wo)Men, Hallelujah!

2008-12-16T09:10:00.001-08:00

I bet you are expecting me to tell you that the heinous red rash making its domino effect-like march across my face cleared up in time for my Bridal Shower and that I looked gorgeous and smooth-skinned for my day of raining presents. I'm sorry to inform you (and more sorry to actually be me) that this was not the case. Instead, I pretended I was starring on an eighties nighttime soap and slapped enough beige mortar-like liquid makeup on my face to resurrect the Berlin Wall. (And I finally got to the dermatologist this morning who was oh-so-helpful in her analysis: "It looks like you had an allergic reaction. I'm prescribing you some creme. It should go away in two weeks." Thanks, Doc.)

But back to The Shower.

I have attended many a wedding shower as a guest, but I have to tell you I had no idea what to expect as the guest of honor. And to tell you the truth, I would love to be snarky and tell you it was terrible, but it wasn't. It was lovely (now that I'm a bride I use words like lovely. And darling. My vocabulary is becoming more genteel by the moment. Hold on, I have to go get my crumpets. Whoopsie daisy, I just tripped over the Victorian Era.)

Really though - I was so touched by all of the people who traveled so far to come to my shower. And my bridesmaids really put a lot of thought into details of the shower, making sure that everything matched my wedding colors and picking things that I loved. (Black & white cookies - check! One special salad made just for E&E without strange smelly cheeses (I hate the trifecta of crumbly cheeses, i.e., feta, blue, and goat) - check! Bellinis - check (and praise Jesus!)).

It was a really nice time.

And I think I've adequately conveyed that I'm appreciative and it was a good day, yes? So I'm moving on here.

Because despite the loveliness of the Shower, I have to confess that I still find the tradition of the bridal shower really wacky. I understand that the idea is the bride is "showered" with gifts. But why must she open all of them? As a guest, I always found this weird. Aren't there other nuptial things the group could be doing with the time? Or other non-nuptial things? Or anything? If the whole point of the event is to give gifts and therefore we must acknowledge the presents, er presence, then couldn't we do something more fun with them? Like play gift Jenga and see how tall we can stack them? Or build a present fort covered with 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets?

And now that I have been the Gift Opener, I stand by my feelings. Dude, it's weird. My hands were literally shaking as thirty-five women watched me open the presents they brought. And read cards. No one gave me a primer on the appropriate card-reading-time to gift-opening ratio and within minutes, I felt 70 eyeballs focusing on me and my inability to quickly and masterfully open gifts. (You have to remember that as a Jew, I don't have years of practice ripping open gifts under a Christmas tree. Chanukah was an orderly Type A affair in my house. One night of Chanukah equals one carefully-selected and slowly-opened gift. I've never opened up more than four or five gifts in a row in my life.)

Gauging the crowd's increasing restlessness and my own rapidly overheating forehead (which I hypothetically attributed to the rash, but without a mirror handy, could only assume had taken on scarlet letter-type proportions and had formed a sprawling "B" on my forehead.) Given the heat and the itchiness, I made the executive decision to skip all of the cards (although I did look at the pictures - because in my book, if someone spent $5.95 on an applique card with satin ribbons stuck on the front in the shape of a wedding dress, I assume it's pretty much considered part of the gift).

And so instead of promoting literacy, I just unwrapped the gift and held up the coffee maker / steamer / juicer like it was the Lion King / Holy Grail / a fully formed T-Rex skeleton and announced for each gift that it was "perfect" because "I love coffee" / "Wrinkle-free clothes make me happier than a junkie on a 2-week bender" / "Juice rocks."

Now don't get me wrong. I actually love coffee makers, steamers, and juicers. That's why I registered for these exact items. Myself. Months ago.

Therefore, I found it hard to muster up unique and authentic sounding exclamations for a series of gifts that likely meant I will be doing more cooking and/or cleaning than I ever hoped for and were less of a surprise than the Britney Spears/Kevin Federline divorce news.

Indeed, as a general matter, while I am pleased with the convenience that today's modern day appliances provide a family of two, they don't exactly inspire...well, teary-eyed enthusiasm and jumping up and down along the lines of an episode of Oprah's Big Give. Thus it should be no surprise that two months ago, Mr F and I walked down the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond, and our conversation sounded like this:

"Look. It's a clothing steamer."

"Yeah. That's cool."

"I think we should get it."

"OK."

"OK."

Sorry, that's all I've got for you. If you're looking for a longer trip down memory lane, I'm pretty sure "It's A Wonderful Life" is playing on a loop for the next 5 days on TCM.

Does it matter who said what in this little snippet? No. Because it's a steamer. Will it make my life easier? Absolutely. Does it make me writhe in ecstasy? No.

To summarize: I like gifts. I like getting gifts I have picked out. I do not like pretending to be surprised about said gifts. I also do not like opening said gifts in front of scores of onlookers who expect me to make comments about said unsurprising gifts.

Isn't there a better way? Maybe people should just forgo the paper wrapping. Hasn't anyone noticed that it's crap for the environment? Just bring an unwrapped gift to the party and place it around the perimeter of the room. Then everyone can see all the fabulous gifts and instead of watching someone open presents for an hour, you can put on some Gwen Stefani, break out the lemon drop shots, and dance around the room. Or, if it was like my party and 75% of your guests are post-menopausal, then throw on some Carole King, open up the family photo albums and throw eclairs in your mouth two at a time.

SOS, Please, Someone Help Me, It's Not Healthy

2008-12-12T17:15:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I've been MIA. Although it's not because I'm sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs (though does anyone actually "twiddle" their thumbs? Don't people just sit on the couch and watch bad reality TV or maybe consume too many hot buttered rums while lazily paging through year-old wedding magazines?). Anyway, I have been doing no such things. In fact, it has been quite the opposite.

I have been so busy, I haven't had a moment to complain. Well, on my blog, anyway. I had my first dress fitting (and yes, got a proper bra, complete with groping - but that's another story for another day), created my wedding program, sent out my invites, worked on the out-of-town bags, designed and purchased my rehearsal dinner invites, and no joke, that's not the half of it (and no the other half doesn't include holding down a full time job, because really, my office serves solely as a vestibule to hold all of my wedding projects at this point).

Anyway, this all began because I woke up one morning and I decided that I am done with planning this wedding and that all must be finished so I can go about living my life like a layperson (i.e., one who is not shrouded in alleged pre-nuptial bliss). Thus, I have now commenced Operation Wedding Overdrive (OWO - not to be confused with EVOO, as touted by her perkiness herself, Ms. Rachel Ray, a.k.a. my nemesis (and no, she doesn't technically know she's my arch enemy, but that's because she is so busy being so...smiley. I think my perfect day might start with a Bloody Mary and end with watching Rachel Ray cry hot sad tears because her magazine has folded.).)

But what finally drew me back to the blogosphere amidst the madness of OWO, you might ask?

Well, my wedding shower is in two days.

And of course, there's more.

I have a massive flesh-eating rash pioneering across my forehead.

I kid you not. Ok, it's not flesh-eating (thankfully), but it is a contact dermatitis. If that sounds medical-ish and scary, I assure you it is. My forehead is a DANGER zone. Give me some Cortisone or lose me forever.

Like the first snow of winter, the rash arrived out of nowhere last night. I spent a typical evening on the couch doing wedding-y things with my computer on my lap, Grey's Anatomy on the TV, and a glass of wine balanced precariously on the couch (a bad idea I know, but the couch is brown leather and wipes off easily). After I stayed up far too late I went to wash my face. Before leaning over the sink I glanced at my reflection and EEEGADS!, there was a giant array of red bumps across my forehead.

I immediately run over to Mr F, who is already lying in bed, and show him the rash. He is staring straight at the TV when he goes "don't worry, it's nothing." I turn off the TV and make him stare at my forehead. This time he says "Oh" and raises an eyebrow. And then he's silent. Well, that's not good.

"Can I do anything about it?"

"I think you should just sleep on it and we'll see what it looks like tomorrow."

So I woke up this morning and bounded over the mirror, hoping that like Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, that seven moderately restful hours would provide me with a creamy clear complexion (and perhaps even a line-free face and a coach made out of a pumpkin, or better yet, a Coach bag in a deep pumpkin color).

DOUBLE egads! Someone must have made the rash ANGRY because it had become enlarged and redder and well, bumpier. And it was picking up real estate on my forehead quicker than Donald Trump was buying up the Upper West Side. So I slathered my forehead in Cortisone cream and dammed myself for growing out my bangs for the stupid wedding.

And I closed my office door the whole day so I didn't have to expose my forehead to my co-workers' prying eyes. Which worked very successfully.

Except now I have my shower in two days. In the scheme of things, sure, I understand that a prickly red rash that's slowly making its way around my face isn't the end of the world. People will still be happy to see me (if not eager to hug me). And sure, it would be way worse if I got it for the wedding (assuming it will be gone by then, which at this point, sure as heck ain't a given), but you know, wouldn't it be nice if something were just easy? You know, if Cinderella didn't have to have the coach disappear and the glass slipper fall off and Sleeping Beauty declined luscious fruit offerings from strange elderly women?

But I suppose it's all part of the story that is supposed to lead to Happily Ever After.

Except that I think my Happily Ever After is about to come in ten minutes since I've just taken a Benadryl to stop the itching on my forehead and I already feel some major drowsy kicking in.

The End.

Of This Post.

And You May Ask Yourself, Well How Did I Get Here? (Probably By Using GPS)

2008-11-29T15:40:00.000-08:00

Apologies for my lack of posting. However. I am now less than 4 days away from my first dress fitting. I have eaten barely anything that qualifies as healthy in the last 7 days (unless perhaps pureed carrots with a stick of butter might be healthy? No? Stuffing? No? Pumpkin cheesecake? *sigh*) and I am sipping a glass of two-day old Zinfandel that Mr F actually stuck in the fridge last night and which now tastes like well, refrigerated red wine (which is crap). But that's not even the tip of the iceberg. That would be because I'm sitting at the kitchen table with four boxes of invitations which I am numbering, stuffing and stamping. Alone. (Not to mention that my wine glass isn't even within reach because I'm too nervous that I'll tip it over on the stupid invites, so I've placed it on on the counter - which is a good four feet from the kitchen table - and thus requires that I get up each time I want to take a sip).

Why so surly about sitting home stuffing envelopes (for the third night in a row) and drinking cold red wine? Well, besides the obvious, if you recall (which you probably don't, because this isn't the saga of your life, it's the saga of mine), I was not supposed to be the one to deal with the invites. That was supposed to be My Mother.

And so how did I end up with these little paper cut-inducing bastards sitting on my kitchen table and keeping me apart from my dear (cold) red wine?

Well, it all started with the hotel direction card inserts that I needed to put into the invitations (according to Mom obviously). I couldn't care less about direction card inserts. Honestly, everyone Google Maps everything or more likely, has GPS. So who cares? Well, apparently my Mom does. So I called the venue where I'm having the reception and they told me that they have direction cards already made up that I can use. So before heading on the road to go home for Thanksgiving (chock full of traffic), we swing by the venue and pick up the cards.

Once I get home to my parents' place in NJ, I take a peek at the invitations (which I love by the way) and my Dad turns to me and says: "Mom says you want to make sure that you number the back of the response cards."

Uhm, what?

"Dad, I think you must have heard wrong. Mom said that you guys will actually be taking care of the invitations. Which is why YOUR address is on the back of the cards. Right?"

My Dad looks confused (and scared - possibly because he could see the Devil in my eyes - which must be scary for a parent). "I don't know. You should talk to your Mother about this."

When my Mom came home later, I pounced. "I thought YOU GUYS were doing the invitations! Dad said I'm doing them! And that you said that I need to put numbers on the back. I can't! I have too much to do!"

Mom looked at me like I was someone she did not recognize (though more likely she was thinking about whether she could trade me in for a better, nicer version of a daughter), before responding: "What I meant was that we would do them together this weekend. And that 'we' needed to put numbers on the back."

Hmmm. I didn't know if I could trust this strained explanation. But like a hostage who can only get by on the hope that they will someday be free, I believed her.

The weekend passed. We ate turkey. Drank tequila. (No really - it was quite a Thanksgiving.)And I ate everything put in front of me and well as the contents of the fridge, the pantry, and the local pizza parlor.

Well times flies when you're sleeping in a twin bed and chugging the contents of your parents' liquor stash (it's not really a cabinet, more a grouping of bottles on the floor of the coat closet), and next thing we know, it's time for Mr F and I to go home. In an hour. Of course, the invitations never got done.

So I go downstairs to mention this to my Mom and we pull out the box with the invites. (Which look AWESOME by the way. Did I mention that? Yes, I did. But I love them! Sorry, but I need to dwell on the positive instead of what's coming next, which is....)

I pull out the direction cards that I picked up before we came home and look at them for the first time. Hmmm. Well this is....interesting. Apparently the "direction cards" don't. Actually. Provide. Directions. They just have a little map of the building with the name of the two streets adjacent to it. Perhaps helpful for someone intimately familiar with Baltimore, but not so much for pretty much anyone else. And since 90% of our guests are coming from places that are not Baltimore, this is not helpful. How can anyone in good conscience call this a "direction card?"

I turn to my Mom and show it to her, suggesting that we just forgo the direction card since everyone will figure it out by Googling the address (or they could call me, or my Mom, or Mr F, or they could call the hotel, which is where they are likely staying; or they could look at the Save the Date, which also had the info; or our website, which also...you guessed it...has the information!). So I feel good about skipping the directions.

Apparently, my Mom does not. She is aghast. "You must include directions."

Well, ok then. It's apparently been decided.

"Sooooo....." I began, "how do you want to deal with this? Do you want to just add on the website with a label to the bottom of this card? Or I guess we could just make an all-new card?"

My Mom is silent. (For once.)

More silence.

"Mom?"

"Honey, I'm not good with labels and stuff like that."

This is the point where I realized we could back and forth. I could ask her why she can't just do this herself and go to Kinko's to get printed directions on a new card; I could make the astute observation that it's ridiculous that her name is on the back as the "return address" (i.e., the address it originally came from) if she's not the one sending it out. I could snarkily comment that I secretly suspected she would never take care of this herself no matter what the direction cards looked like. I could remind her how I don't care about the direction cards, but she does, so really it's silly that I'm going to lug them across four states to do them myself when I'm also taking care of every other single thing to do with this wedding. I could say all of these things and indeed, I could say many more. But I can't fight anymore. Perhaps it was the post-Thanksgiving tryptophan kicking in, but I'm just tired. And I know that in the end I'm going to end up stuffing the damn invitations on my own anyway.

So instead I just sighed. And said, "Fine. I'll just do it."

She handed me over the giant cardboard box. I pretended my Mom was handing me a box full of chocolate cake, a bottle of 20-year tawny port, and the first three seasons of "Sex & The City" on DVD. I skip to the car. Until I remember my cardboard box is not filled with these gluttonous goodies. It's filled with heavy, expensive paper. That is not edible. I shove the box in the backseat.

And now I'm sitting at my kitchen table. On phase three of a multi-phase stuffing system. And very far away from finishing. And sadder yet, even further away from my very cold, very sub-par wine.

To The Beanpole Dames In The Magazines, You Ain't It, Miss Thang.

2008-11-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

I got a surprising call while I was at work the other day. Although, as a general matter, I try to avoid answering my cell during work hours since odds are great that it's my Mother or Future-Mother-in-Law and thus, sure only to upset me, I had a moment of temporary insanity and just picked up the phone without thinking.

Much to my delight it was neither of My Two Moms, but my bridal shop, calling to inform me that my Dress (yes, with a Capital "D," entitled thereto for the extra Dollars it costs) had arrived. This was indeed a surprise because they had previously informed me not to expect the Dress until January because I ordered it so late. (Don't judge - some people just don't get "The Feeling That It's The Dress" and instead these people just try on dress after dress (after dress) because everyone keeps telling them they'll "just know" when it's the "right one" (until finally said people realize that they're going to be 32 by the time they get married and perhaps they just aren't the kind of people who ever "just know" when anything is just the "right" one).

Anyway.

I definitely suspected part of that timeline was faux in an effort (that I respect and applaud) to avoid brides calling up every day to ask if their Dress has arrived. However, despite these suspicions, I was pleasantly surprised to get the call. I quickly selected dates for the first two dress fittings and duly jotted down the instructions: each fitting would be about an hour and I needed to bring my shoes and the undergarments I would be wearing the day of the wedding.

One hour time allotted on my calendar = check!

Shoes = check!

Proper undergarments = ch...not so much.

I took a quick look at the calendar and realized I had about two weekends to find the proper "foundations" for my gown. I don't want to reveal too much about the gown's design itself (because Mr F tends to read this Blog), but I can safely say that I felt smug that this would be sufficient time to find some sort of bustier with sufficient underwire to keep the ladies up and adequately unsmooshed (to avoid my tectonic plates creating cleavage longer (and more treacherous) than the San Adreas fault line).

And while there was a small part of me that was starting to stress about whether the Dress would actually fit me, I pushed those nagging feelings deep down to my inner psyche, much like the disaster preparedness kit hidden in the depths of my broom closet.

Instead, I set off on my maiden voyage to the Mall to find a low-backed strapless bra that would hold my mountains in their individual geographic territories and separate time zones.

Unfortunately, after wading through the lingerie departments of three separate stores, I determined that I must be the only large-chested bride in the world, because every strapless bra I tried on seemed to have the sole goal of pushing my lovely lady lumps first together and then up, so as to give them a lovely "orbs floating on water" effect (and a shimmy measure of 9.2 on the Richter Scale). Nice for a Naughty Nurse Halloween costume. Less nice if I want my groom to look at my er, eyes.

So I continued to search for a bra, which somehow seemed to also involve a barrage of insulting insinuations by sales clerks regarding the size of my love handles. Last I checked, if someone asks for a bra, that doesn't directly translate to a request for body armor and unsolicited commentary about the ability of a garment to get rid of my back fat. I understand the holiday bonuses will be slim this year, but is it really necessary to tell me that I'm not...all in the name of a little extra commission cash in the pocket?

The closest I ultimately got to an appropriate undergarment is a $90 sausage casing with underwire. Now I know I should be happy about the full body armor that will "smooth" me (as every single sales clerk touted), but honestly, I think it's going to be difficult enough to go to the bathroom in the wedding dress, I really don't want the extra complication of having to pee through the hole in the bottom of my bodysuit. (Yes, really - Spanx has a goddamn HOLE in the bottom. It doesn't even snap. It's just material you are supposed to move to the side, like the cheap fabric curtain in the hospital, separating the beds.)

So at the end of the day, I drove home armed only with a second spandex skin and a negative body image.

What's funny is that thus far I have been somewhat successful at not being diet-obsessed. For the past ten months, I just focused on being consistent about going to the gym and eating healthy most of the time (dinners of Triscuits and brie aside, and with the caveat that wine is obviously a health food - I swear I read it in Shape Magazine - look it up!). But the point is, I've been mostly healthy and definitely not focused and/or stressed about my waistline.

Until now.

All of a sudden, the message that my dress had arrived seemed to be a wake up call of another kind. It was as if I had received a telegraph that said: YOU CANNOT GAIN ANY WEIGHT. (A cruel telegram indeed.)

Full translation: you are about to be measured for a dress that must fit you the most perfect of any garment you have ever owned because this is the high point of your attractiveness in every one's mind and it's really all downhill from here. If you can't manage to look good on This One Day, then gosh, you're a mess.

Well of course from the moment I realized that I need to actually fit into a garment that now exists in this world (rather than being a hypothetical garment that could be changed in size should need be), I cannot stop thinking about the fact that I should not be EATING EXTRA FOOD. And since I know I should NOT eat extra food, my stomach has grumbled incessantly for the past ninety-six hours. (So yes, perhaps I was an eensy bit sensitive to the sales ladies bringing me in boatloads of completely unsolicited Spanx).

And in fact, after four days of deep thought, I have now come to firmly believe that this is in fact some sort of conspiracy by the dress shop. Full well knowing that Thanksgiving is just around the corner, they are performing some sort of social experiment on me and my stomach (yes, we are two separate entities) to see just how much weight a bride can gain in the weeks between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years (because let's not forget that the joyous holiday trifecta of Egg Nog, Hot Buttered Rum, and Champagne all have calories too).

Sweet Plymouth Rock, people. I'm in for some serious trouble. Maybe I should buy a back-up wedding dress. I've seen Project Runway. They can do amazing things with potato sacks these days.

Talk To Me, Like (Mothers) Do

2008-11-17T20:00:00.000-08:00

Conversation With My Mom. A Play in One Act.

*Ring* *Ring* (Ok, that's not necessarily accurate, since I actually have a ringtone on my cellphone, but I'm not going to write down the lyrics to "Sunshine of My Love" (which makes a GREAT ringtone by the way), so let's all just agree to suspend disbelief and agree to this: someone is calling me. And if you read the sentence above, I have a sneaking suspicion you might know who it is.).

Looking down at the phone, I see it's my Mom (yup, you guessed it). I'm on Amtrak, taking the train home to Baltimore from DC after having a couple of drinks after work. I try to weigh if the combination of two glasses of Chardonnay and being in a public place where screaming hysterically on the phone is woefully inappropriate provide sufficient insulation to deal with whatever my Mom has to say. The loving embrace of the wine makes the scales tipsy, and as I press the green button on my phone, I find myself feeling especially benevolent and patient.

"Hi Mom. How are you? How was France?"

"Hi Honey, I'm good. France was wonderful. [Blah blah blah...France...blah blah]. By the way, I called your Cousin in the Virgin Islands - did you hear they were hit by a hurricane?"

"No, I didn't see it on the news here."

"Yes, they're all right, thankfully. We found out about it the day after we got back from France."

"OK, good - I'm glad they're ok."

"Oh, by the way, I know you don't talk to Cousin that much, but just don't mention that we were in France."

"Uhm, ok, but why??"

"Oh, I don't know. I just don't think they need to know."

"But Mom, that is so random. I don't understand. Why?"

"Not everyone needs to know everything, E&E." I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie and I need to solve the riddle my Mother is saying to exit the rabbit hole. While I'm scratching my head in total bewilderment and wondering if The Matrix might hold a key to this puzzle, she goes on to say, "I got the invitation to your Wedding Shower."

Relieved I can stop thinking about Neo and Alice in Wonderland and how terrible I am at problem solving in general, I responding with an exuberant, "Me too! I think they're really pretty!"

"They're very cute. [She pauses.] By the way you should call Auntie Hostess [i.e., the Aunt hosting my shower. Although upon reflection that makes her sound like an Aunt who has a penchant for Ho-Ho's and Twinkies. Now that would be a Shower I could buy in to.]."

"Uhm...why should I call her?"

"Well, it appears that whichever of your friends sent out the invitation didn't have the right address for her and then didn't ask the right address and didn't send her one. I mean I guess they could have asked for the right address and sent one...but well, they just didn't."

[Incredulous. And back in the rabbit hole.] "Wait, I'm confused - how did that happen? I don't understand."

"Well, I don't know dear. But...[SIGH]...I told her that I would bring along my invitation to the Shower in Long Island and just show it to her so she could take a look at it, but then of course she couldn't keep it since I want to keep my invitation so I would have to bring it back to New Jersey."

[Looking around rabbit hole for mint julep to keep me company while I wander through labyrinth.] "So what are you trying to say?"

"Nothing, dear. You asked me why you should call your Aunt and I was just giving you all of the information."

"So are you trying to say you want her to get an invitation sent? - because you could have just asked me to ask my friends to send her an invitation."

[Mother apparently getting frustrated as well.] "I don't know why everything has to be so difficult. I'm just trying to help: you asked me how things were, so I was just telling you the story of what was going on."

"Yes, except that you really just wanted to tell me that my friends did the wrong thing. You could have just said - 'Auntie didn't get an invite. Send her one.' But instead you had to tell me that everything wasn't perfect. Why do you have to give me all of the unnecessary details which are sure to make me feel guilty? [Pausing] So is her address right or wrong on all of the shower invites?"

"I don't know."

"Well, the address she gave is on the invites to the Shower, the directions to the Shower and her wedding invitation - so if you want her to get a wedding invitation, then maybe you should call her and check all this."

"Well I think you should call her."

"She's your friend." [Auntie Hostess is actually a "fake" Aunt who is Mom's friend from college.]

"Well you need to call her and check that the address is right - it's your Shower."

"I don't understand! How did she tell you that she didn't get an invite because her address is wrong, but then she didn't give you her correct address or confirm that the address on the shower invitation is correct? I don't even know what I'm asking her!"

"I don't know, dear."

"I gotta run Mom. I'll talk to Auntie Hostess and get her an invite. We're coming into my station and I need to grab a cab...I'll be in touch tomorrow."

I shut the phone and stare at it, confused as to what happened and with a hankering for a mint-based cocktail. And then I feel guilty for essentially hanging up on my Mom. This is the essence of every conversation we have had for the last nine months. Is this just generational? To me, the point of the conversation was that Auntie didn't get an invite and I should make sure she gets one. But that was tucked away deep within the enigma that is my Mother's double talk. *Sigh* I'm pretty sure if you print out this conversation and hold it up to a mirror it will show you where the holy grail is buried.

It's A Beautiful Day, Don't Let It Fade Away

2008-11-14T19:24:00.000-08:00

You know what I really dislike? I really despise when people refer to my wedding as "Your Special Day." I have been trying to put my finger on what it is about that phrase that irks me so completely and totally and after I great deal of self-reflection...I don't really know.

I think it's somehow related to my distaste for euphemisms, especially for euphemisms that smack of a good case of the know-it-alls, mixed with just a dash of overly inflated importance.

For some reason, every time I hear the phrase "Your Special Day," I'm somewhat reminded of...and I'm really not sure how to put this delicately, so I guess I just won't...I'm reminded of the day we needed signed permission slips to attend 5th Grade Health Class so we could learn about reproductive systems, puberty, and menstruation. Each time one of those words was mentioned, it was flanked with the words "Your" and "Special." Special, indeed.

And "Your Special Day" also conjures up the very first time I went to the bra store with my Mother and the salesclerk who said "awwww, are you here for your first bra!?! That's so sweet! It's a Special Day!"

I guess perhaps, it's the idea that someone who is somehow older and wiser has the right to label your most personal experiences of maturation as "special" or "important" because they have already been there.

Because if you notice, no bride goes around calling it My Special Day. ("Gosh, I can't believe I only have three months until My Special Day!" or "Hi, I'm calling to make a hair appointment for My Special Day!") Only other people deem it "Your Special Day."

I guess I find something sort of condescending about it. Do I think people are intentionally condescending? No. But that's just how I feel. Go ahead. Disagree. I'm sure many of you do. That's fine.

And heck, while I'm at it, I have to confess that I find something silly about it.

I'm actually not anti-wedding, or anti-wedding-industry or any of those things. Sure, I guess I wish for a simpler day where weddings weren't such a commodity and brides didn't feel compelled to put on a show of their everlasting love or make people feel like flying across the country had to be "worth it" ("worth it" can be defined as offering an open bar or a plated meal or at least 3 passed appetizers). But in the olden days, before weddings were circuses even for the most common of folk (I'm pretty sure the Rockefellers have been whooping it up at weddings for quite some time now), they also didn't have iPods or Spin class or DVR (which ok, I don't have either, but one day I hope I will), so I just consider it part of what the world is now, and something I can choose to accept or reject (or resist or be too wimpy too resist), like so many other things that exist today, created by enterprising individuals who when push comes to shove, I actually admire for their ingenuity and fiscal acumen. (OK, perhaps not their acumen, but I love that word - it conjures up some sort of wise superhero for me - AcuMan! - can solve problems in a single bound!)

Ahem. To regroup - while I don't hate the wedding industry - I feel compelled to note that every single vendor that I have dealt with thus far cannot seem to say the words "Your wedding day" or "the 15th of February" or even "the day you're getting married."

Which is why I also hate the phrase "The Big Day."

For some reason, each vendor must substitute those words: "The Big Day" or "Your Special Day" as if to incessantly remind me why I'm spending obscene amounts of money.

"Hmmm...why am I paying craploads of money for flowers which will likely die in a couple of days...? Oh WAIT! It's because it's a SPECIAL DAY...and in fact, not just ANY special day...but THE Big Day." Whew! The cost is definitely justified now! Glad we've got that settled.

I am actually working with one vendor who puts "Your Special Day" as the actual subject heading in every email she sends me. She's a really nice woman, but I'm about 5 minutes from telling her that I hate her just a little more every time she sends me an email.

I don't know. I think I'm just hungry. I shouldn't blog when I'm hungry. I think I just get extra cranky and I don't censor myself as much as I probably should.

Unfortunately, I am simultaneously mentally reviewing what's sitting in my fridge, and I'm now even crankier because I just concluded there's a whole lot of nothing. I am instead reverting to my favorite daydream, where I walk over to my barren fridge and open it up, but much to my surprise, somehow it has magically been replenished, complete with all of my most favorite items (strawberries, ice cream, and guacamole, oh my!...ok, and a nice sparkling wine from California...with a straw). Yum-tastic. Now that would be A Special Day.

It's My Party And I'll Cry (or Hopefully, Decline to Cry) If I Want To

2008-11-10T20:04:00.000-08:00

I have a sneaking suspicion that this might be A Positive Post! The kind of post that normal carefree radiant brides post all the time on their normal happy blogs. About their dress! Their shoes! Their venue!

I, purveyor of so much wedding rage, will hereby attempt to be like A Normal Bride. Yes, I've tried this before, but I am feeling particularly confident that this time, I can do this!

Let's begin, shall we?

I got home from work today and checked the mail (secretly wishing that a new "Self" magazine might be inside, in the related hope that if it arrived, it would inspire me to get my (Lazy) Self to the gym). As I pulled the mail out of the box, something in the stack caught my eye. What was peeking out at me? No, not "Self" (damn you, Conde Nast!), but a lovely deep purple-colored envelope, addressed to yours truly.

I LOVE getting mail. I especially love getting mail in colored envelopes. Because bills do not come in colored envelopes. And requests from my alma mater boldly soliciting donations (from someone who simultaneously is continuing to pay for said education each month) do not come in pretty purple envelopes. Only invitations, cards, and thank you notes come in colored envelopes.

I ripped open the poor defenseless little envelope quicker than its whiter, more financially fulfilling sister which contained my stimulus check just days earlier.

Ta-da!

It was my Shower Invitation! And honestly, I love it! It's very cute and modern - exactly like something I would have picked out myself. And it even carries through my tree branch theme. (Which, if we get down to it, is not actually a "theme", but more a "symbol" of the fact that I am getting married in the dead of winter and well, nothing is flowering, so all we have left are sad naked branches. But I prefer to think of it more as the simple and organic elegance of the constant change of life and what will soon flourish, rather than...well, a dead tree.)

Anyway, dead tree as a symbol of my impending nuptials aside, I was very excited about the Wedding Shower Invites!

I immediately called my Sister-In-Law (that would be my Brother's Wife), who I knew was responsible for picking out the invites, to thank her profusely for not picking something with wedding bells, wedding dress and/or a house of worship paired with rhyming of any sort. And then I sat down at my computer to type this post. Which is POSITIVE. And NORMAL. And focusing on HOW MUCH I LIKE THE INVITES.

This post is not, I repeat, NOT going to be about the fact that I am a little STRESSED ABOUT MY SHOWER. BECAUSE I AM CLEARLY NOT STRESSED ABOUT MY SHOWER.

This post will NOT quickly degrade into a laundry list of the reasons that I'm extremely apprehensive about the shower and/or why it has been a lightning rod for controversy over the past few months in my household (and by household, I mean two bedroom apartment in Baltimore shared with Mr F).

Indeed looking at my lovely invitation certainly did NOT remind me that the shower itself is likely going to be me, my fabulous matrons of honor, one or two friends who live nearby in New York and its immediately surrounding areas and FIFTEEN of my Mother's friends and TWENTY-FIVE of my future-mother-in-law's friends (not a single one of whom I've met). THIS POST WILL NOT FOCUS ON THAT.

[Awkward silence.]

Or maybe the post won't "focus" on the apprehension "per se," but perhaps it might just dabble in it. Just an itty bitty mention of some less-than-positive feelings, in addition and certainly secondary to, the excitement of the invitation. Just a toe in the shower water, really.

[More silence.]

I think the cat is out of the bag.

I AM STRESSED ABOUT THE GODDAMN WEDDING SHOWER.

There, I said it.

First of all, I feel badly that the burden is on my bridesmaids to plan (and pay for!) this party which is really just an opportunity for my Mom and FMIL to show me off like some sort of show pony and to hang out with their friends.

To be clear, it's not that I don't like show ponies, or non-show ponies for that matter, but the idea of making small talk with hordes (throngs, really) of women who are tennis partners and co-workers of The Moms makes me feel somewhat queasy even in theory (so I have strong concerns about the reality of this event). Three hours of being asked how the wedding planning is going, when are we going to start "trying", and asking me to explain just once more why I'm a lawyer who doesn't practice law, is enough to make me scope out a vineyard, crawl inside a barrel of fermenting Cabernet, and come out, pink and puckered, three months later. (If you think this sounds suspiciously like my hibernation plan, then you would be right.)

Moreover, I'm somewhat embarrassed by the fact that I will have few to no friends at my shower. Although I know in theory I shouldn't be embarassed because my friends live literally across the country (and the shower is a good four hours away from where I even live) and as a result, not everyone can make the trip for both the Shower and then the Bachelorette a month later (and I very clearly conveyed that my preference was attendance at the Bachelorette), none of those very logical reasons comfort me. Instead I am practicing responses to the following questions "are any of your friends coming?" and "Was it just too far for your friends to come to your shower?". As such, I am less-than-giddy about the Shower.

But I suppose that only makes sense, right? This isn't supposed to be fun. Or if it was, why wouldn't they call it the Wedding Shower Party so as to indicate that this is indeed, a party, and thus, by its very definition, intended to be fun? There is the Bachelorette Party (intended to be fun), the Engagement Party (intended to be fun) and hell, even the Wedding Party (damn well better be fun or I'm finding new friends).

Wedding Shower is just so...sterile. Rather than frivolous enjoyment, it seems to be more of a hygiene-focused event. I mean come on, couldn't it least be Wedding Bath? (Conjuring up images of relaxing scented candles, whirlpool jets, soothing music and a good book.)

But no, it's just the Wedding Shower.

Which is why, when asked by my bridesmaids what I "wanted" at my shower, the only thing I requested (and I swear on all that is holy that this is true), was to be "showered" with cocktails. Because I can't deal with fifty menopausal women without a libation.

Umbrella optional.

Today Is The Greatest Day That I Have Ever Known...(Or At Least A Nice Day)

2008-11-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

What is so fantastical about this day?? Well first...I've been "Tagged" by Kelley at My Island Wedding. And then...I got nominated for an "Uber Amazing Blog Award" by Jenny at And She's Just Rambling Again!!

Well first things first. Being tagged apparently means I need to share 7 random facts about me and explain "the rules" of being tagged (mercifully, not to be confused with other rules requiring that you stay aloof and not kiss on the first date).

The rules:

1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.

3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by including links to their blog.

4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog!

5. Eat at least one slice of pizza every day for the next week. (Ok, sorry, that's not in the rules, but shouldn't it be?)

Facts about me (that would be Engaged & Enraged @ I Hate Planning My Wedding):

1. I had to give away my cat because Mr F is allergic and I miss him (the cat, not Mr F) very much.

2. While standing on line at Grand Central Station for the LIRR (that is Long Island Railroad, for those of you not in the know), I once asked Mike Wallace (from "60 Minutes") and his wife to watch my luggage for me so I could go get a coffee and a muffin to nurse my massive hangover. (Hey, they were very nice and standing in front of me - wouldn't you have done the same?)

3. One of my biggest regrets is not studying or living abroad at some point in my life.

4. That being said, I still think on a regular basis about how cool it would have been to have had an EZ Bake Oven as a kid.

5. I secretly think I could compete in a competitive eating contest. Like, really.

6. One day I hope to have a college scholarship named for me.

7. I really like my name. Unfortunately, as this Blog is anonymous, you likely don't know that name. But take it on faith - I like it. First name, nickname derivation, and last name. Good job, Mom and Dad.

Now, I tag (and I apologize in advance if you've already been tagged - I tried to search your blogs to make sure you haven't been yet):

1. Maners, at http://idoyoudowedo.com/

2. Sezzy at http://sufferinglove.blogspot.com/

3. Monkeygirl at http://monkeywed.blogspot.com/

4. Friday at http://fridaysthoughts.blogspot.com/

5. Bailee at http://baileesbride.blogspot.com/

6. http://aweddingonthenines.blogspot.com/

7. Jessica at http://thesensiblebride.blogspot.com/

And to make all of your days - I am also nominating all of you for an "Uber Amazing Blog Award" too! Here is the information for that one:

The Uber (AKA Super) Amazing Blog Award is a blog award given to sites who:

Inspire you...
Make you smile and laugh...
Or maybe gives amazing information...
A great read...
Has an amazing design...

And any other reason you can think of that makes them uber amazing!

The rules of the award are:

Put the logo on your blog or post
Nominate a minimum of 5 blogs
Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog

Share the love and link to this post and the person you received your award from.

Not a bad day!