while i’m on the subject

Listen. I have to come completely clean with you. The wine stoppers? Those weren’t the only DIY I tried. I’m sorry, OK? I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but it’s just that we’ve come to trust each other. I felt I had to tell you… that I also dabbled in tiered dessert stands.

I’ll give you a moment.

No doubt you’ve already seen a version of a DIY dessert stand tutorial floating around the wedding interwebs. Still, in order to help us all heal, I need to talk it through. So I’m gonna tell you, step by step, how I did it.

  1. First, get some plates and glasses. My glasses came from a thrift store. Plus 20 points! But I bought the plates new from World Market. CONVENIENCE PURCHASE ALERT! Minus 1,937 points. Am already flunking DIY school, and I’ve barely begun.
  2. Go the hardware store and buy some goop. Plumber’s Goop. This is different from Plumber’s Crack, which can also be found at the hardware store, provided you are vigilant enough.*
  3. Lay out all your supplies. Ed. note: Glass of booze not pictured.
  4. Play with your supplies. How do you want the glasses oriented? Up? Down? How do you want the plates stacked? Do you feel that the general themes of nineteenth century Russian literature are relevant to today’s society? Don’t you like popsicles?
  5. Eat some leftover frosting.
  6. OK! Here’s the key part: Slather goop all around the top and bottom rims of your glass. Place the glass onto the plate so that it’s centered. Ed. note: Your perception of “centered” may vary depending on the number of glasses of booze heretofore employed.
  7. Carefully set the middle plate on top of the glass.
  8. Slather goop onto the second glass, and repeat the centering thing. Finish with the final plate. Contemplate your troubled relationship with that Ke$ha song “TiK ToK.” Attempt to salvage your indie street cred by vociferously announcing to all in the room, including people you converse with on the phone who may hear it on in the background, that you’re only listening to it “ironically.”
  9. Remember that you have no indie street cred.
  10. OK, good. Now, do not move the dessert stand! Give it 24 hours to finish drying. Which means that you probably shouldn’t have built the stand right there on the dining room table, from which the stand is now emanating fumes. Whoops. Ed. note: That headache eventually goes away.

That’s it! You now have a lovely tiered dessert stand that you can use to display your favorite treats again and again, until the end of time, or at least until it shatters in the car on the way to your party while your mother is holding it in her lap. Seriously. The stems of the glasses just snapped right in half. Utterly destroyed before it even saw its first cupcake.

*throwing hands in the air*

IN SUMMARY: DIY AND I DO NOT GET ALONG. I have subsequently quit DIY and am currently in a 12-step recovery program.

Let us never speak of this again.

THANK YOU AND HAVE A NICE DAY.

_______________________________________________

* Ask for Earl.

DIY hates me, and so can you

Far be it from me to turn this into a “DIY tutorial” blog but, um. That’s what I’m doing today.

See, I made these favors for the bridal shower? They were wine bottle corks. This is pretty much what they looked like when they were done:

I’m going to tell you how I made ’em. In all the gritty, sweaty, unholy* detail. Are you ready? Good. Let’s begin.

  1. The inspiration came when I was browsing an Etsy shop and saw these wine stoppers fashioned from antique knobs. I died, because HOLY BALLSMOKE I was planning on doing a WINE TASTING for the bridal shower, and HOW CUTE AND APPROPRIATELY THEMATIC IS THAT, RIGHT??? The only problem was, they were selling for about $30.** “You know what?” I said to myself. “I bet I could make these much more cheaply. I bet it would be easy.”
  2. In case you are not already hearing an ominous soundtrack in your head, permit me to set the mood: DUN DUN DUN DUNNNN.
  3. I did some research to figure out just how easy making wine stoppers might be. I found one tutorial that was basically like, “Buy corks. Buy knobs. Drill holes in the corks with an electric drill. Screw the knobs into the corks.” What. The. Hell. I could do that in my sleep! Sold.
  4. I went out and bought some drawer knobs from Anthropologie. Oh sure, Anthro can be spendy, but by digging through the sale bins I was able to keep things on the side of reasonably priced. I brought a friend and she helped me pick out a unique knob for every person attending the shower. Then we went for drinks immediately afterwards, because shopping is hard and hurts my soul.
  5. Time to order corks! I even did some research on cork quality and went for a natural cork over a synthetic or agglomerated cork. I treat my peeps right!
  6. I have all my materials four months in advance! I am whip-smart. I am prepared. Call me Martha, bitches.
  7. Three and a half months go by.
  8. Two weeks before the shower, I arranged a wine-stopper-making night. I pre-charged the battery on the cordless electric drill and everything. I pulled out the corks to try them in a wine bottle and… they didn’t fit. At all. SHIT SHIT SHIT. See, I’d gotten these straight corks that can only be inserted into a bottle via a corker. Um. Right.
  9. Turns out I needed tapered cork stoppers. Turns out that tapered corks only come in predetermined widths and lengths ranging from 0000 to 20, and then 22, 24, 26, and 28. No, I do not know why the numbering is this way. Anyway. By making some careful measurements, I found that size #9 fits a standard wine bottle. Size #9 has a top diameter of 0.937” or 24mm, a bottom diameter of 0.734” or 18mm, and a length of 1.125” or 29mm. I ended up buying these.
  10. And oh yeah, speaking of the length of the cork, those knobs I bought at Anthropologie? The screw projection extended, in most cases, 1.5” to 1.75”. Allow me to remind you that the cork length was 1.125”. Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha!
  11. I went out and bought a hacksaw. And a clamp. You can skip this step entirely by perhaps PAYING ATTENTION TO THE PROJECTION LENGTH ON THE KNOBS YOU PURCHASE IN THE FIRST PLACE.
  12. OK. Three days before the shower. The beau, God love him, volunteers his evening to help me. Are you reading this, Beau? I EFFING LOVE YOU. So gather up your materials and your own version of the beau. If you plan on blogging this DIY attempt, start taking pictures. Try to avoid doing this on a weeknight, when there is no natural light, or you may just lose your DIY Tutorial Blog Credibility.***
  13. The beau began sawing off the knob projections. Since we didn’t want the projection to go all the way through the cork, he aimed to cut the projection to about 0.80” or so. Take into account any nuts and washers that may be at the end of the projection and remove them, unless you want them to be part of the knob display.
  14. I marked the center of the cork using a ruler.
  15. I predrilled some of the corks. I found via trial and error that it was easier to screw in the knob if you drilled the hole pretty deep. However, I also found that it was impossible to drill the hole perfectly straight. Additionally, imperfections in the cork could make the drill veer to one side. This is why it’s good idea to purchase the most super-premium cork you can find: It will have fewer imperfections.

    Drill baby drill. LULZ?
  16. I started screwing the knobs into the corks. They looked… whack. I am serious. Neither the beau nor I, try as we might to control it, could get the knob seated inside the cork without some sort of drastic lean. The knobs appeared to be perpetually drunk, like they were all lurching their way through an all-night bender. It sucked.

    Evidence of the whackness
  17. I got mad and cried. I may have thrown something. Skipping this step is recommended.
  18. Somehow I staggered on. I redid the most crooked, off-kilter knobs, and this is where I began wishing I’d had the foresight to order more than just ten extra corks. HINT, HINT.
  19. After I got the knobs screwed into the corks in a manner that was sort of acceptable — if you crossed your eyes and squinted — I unscrewed them, dripped some non-toxic Elmer’s glue down the hole for added strength, then screwed the knobs back in one final time.
  20. THEN we found out that the knobs that spun around the screw projection independently? Those couldn’t be screwed into the corks, because once you got the projection gripped by the cork, the knob would start to turn and just loosen itself from the screw head. Guess how of those kind of knobs I had? About five or six. Yeah. So here’s another important tip: DON’T BUY THAT KIND OF KNOB.
  21. In desperation, we glued the inside of the “problem knobs” at the nut with Plumber’s Goop. That had to sit for 24 hours, so we gave up for that night.
  22. The next day, we managed to finally complete the damn things. None of them were anywhere near perfect, but they were done, and that’s all I cared about.
  23. Finally, remember to take some follow-up pictures of the finished wine stoppers in compelling afternoon light, so that everybody will believe you lead a talented, crafty life imbued with wonder, meaning, and beauty.
FIN.

In summary, I almost died, but the bridal shower guests seemed to like them, at least in the sense that they waited until they got home to toss them in the trash. Should you attempt this DIY project? Well, that depends on how brave and/or drunk you are at this time. If you do decide to go for it, just remember: Do as I say, not as I do.

Thank you and have a good night.

_________________________________________

* Gritty, sweaty, and unholy! The three words that unfailingly spring to mind when you think of preshus wedding details!

** Which, per the exchange rate current to today, roughly works out to $27.6 CAD, £43.5, or €36.9. I see you, non-U.S. readers! And I love you.

*** Whew. Thank god I never had it in the first place.

practice run

I just saw the last family member off this afternoon. The bridal shower weekend is officially over. So that’s, like, done. And stuff.

You know, it occurred to me way back during the initial planning process that putting on a bridal shower was like a staging a wedding in miniature. Now that I’ve come through the other side, I understand just how right I was. To wit:

The last-minute crunch. The week before the shower was particularly crazed. I rushed around like a madwoman running errands, getting supplies, making favors, checking with vendors, communicating with traveling family, and just generally coordinating shit. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so too.

Things went uncontrollably awry. The dessert stand broke in the car on the way to the shower. Oh, and the place the shower was being hosted? The place I had visited in person two days earlier to confirm that they were still opening early for us? Yeah. We arrived to find the doors were locked and the lights were dark. No one was there. The place wasn’t clean, nothing was set up and guests were beginning to arrive. I had to make some frantic phone calls to get the owner down there. I nearly had a heart attack.

The urge to play hostess was overwhelming. I know it isn’t possible to ensure all of the people are happy all of the time, but that didn’t stop me trying. I spent the entire shower, nay, the entire weekend, attempting to make sure everyone had something to eat, something to drink, and someone to talk to. Talk about effort.

The unpredictable actions of others. My mother, I don’t know. She has a special way of driving me up a wall sometimes. Enough said.

Happy surprises abounded. Because of the snafu with the bar/café forgetting about our party, we got a few free bottles of wine, as well as a tray of shots. My friends? Adopted each other. My family? Adopted my friends. My aunts are still talking about how cool my friends are. Everyone was BFFs by the end of the day, which: AWESOME.* Best unplanned moment of the party was the spontaneous karaoke on the cafe’s patio. The song list included “Like a Prayer, “Thing Called Love,” even “Gin and Juice.” We ended up having so much fun at the shower that we all decided to go to dinner together. It was truly amazing, and I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

My emotions were out of control. I grinned like a fool. I cried — both happy and sad. I laughed my head off. I got mad and unfairly took it out on the beau. But my lowest of lows came at dinner the night of the shower. After we arrived, someone insisted that I move seats away from my friends. I sat there watching my friends have fun at the other end of the table, and something snapped. I started sobbing. I tried to step away and calm down, but the thought of returning to the table with a red face and glassy eyes just made me cry harder. Gah. I missed ordering any food and I spent most of dinner M.I.A. Not my shiningest moment, no.

My wing(wo)men came through. Hard. When that dessert stand broke, one quick-thinking brigadier made a last-second detour to pick up a substitute. When I broke down at dinner, another brigadier spent a substantial portion of her evening trying to talk me down from the edge. Both of them packed up the bridal shower gear after the party was over so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. I can’t thank them enough for sticking up for me.

Total overload. On the whole, the experience was totally draining, both physically and mentally. I haven’t been so thoroughly exhausted in a very long time. I wasn’t planning on taking Monday off, but when my very kind boss offered to let me, I agreed. And boy, was I glad I did. I slept 10 hours and spent the afternoon reading a book. A book!** I don’t think I’ve read a book since Christmas. It was my own personal post-shower honeymoon, and I was ever so glad for it.

And I am ever so glad it’s all over. But I’m also sad it’s all over, and I miss all my people who came out for it, terribly.

In summary, the bridal shower weekend totally felt like a test run for the wedding. The good news is that now I have about four months to figure out how to avoid the bad parts – or at least minimize them.

Yeah, good luck with that, right?

_______________________________________________

* UPDATE: I remembered after publishing this that one of my friends and my cousin became SUCH BFFs that they went out drinking and karaoke-ing until 1 in the morning after the shower. Uh, yeah.

** It was Don Cherry’s Hockey Stories and Stuff, but still. It was still a book! With words! Printed on a page!

can’t get no satisfaction

The voice. It comes every day, all day.

You should go on a diet, it informs me. You should go on a diet before the wedding.

Whatever. I’m fine the way I am.

No, you’re not, it insists. This voice is a total jerk. You’ve been wanting to take off five or ten pounds for a couple of years now. And you know you want to look good for the wedding. So you pretty much have to start dieting, like, right now.

No! Stop tying this into wedding guilt. I don’t want to go on a diet! I hate you.

Don’t hate the playa, hate the game, says another voice.

Who the hell are you?

I’m that part of your brain that ties everything anyone says into rap and hip-hop references! I’m the reason why, whenever someone says the word “word,” you are required by federal law to chime in with “…to your moms, I came to drop bombs, I got more rhymes than the bible’s got psalms.”

Oh. You can stay, then. But Diet Obsession over there has got to go.

“I LIKE POPSICLES!” another voice shrieks.

********

As a kid, I was pretty blissfully ignorant about my looks. Then, when I was 14, my grandmother got me a subscription to YM magazine. Do you remember YM? As far as I can tell, its sole purpose on this earth was to provide hair tips* and quizzes about which type of boy you liked, all while absolutely destroying the last remaining shred of your self-esteem. I remember this one article in particular casually mentioned that a “normal” girl should weigh 120 pounds. I realized I didn’t know my weight, so I went into my parents’ bathroom and stepped on the scale.

The scale read 157.

You know the rest of this story cold. I have since spent half my life obsessing over my body. The long and winding road back to relative stability has involved numerous unhealthy attitudes, a close brush with an eating disorder, questionable diet choices, and more guilt than the Vatican could produce in 100 years.

I am now in the best shape I’ve ever been, both mentally and physically. My confidence is at a new peak. I exercise willingly every day. In fact, I make it a priority, because it makes me feel better. I focus on eating organic and hormone-free veggies, fruits, and proteins while limiting processed foods, but I don’t deny myself anything — if I have a hankering for macaroni and cheese, I make a goddamn box of macaroni and cheese. I don’t even weigh myself anymore, because I know a scale will send me ricocheting back into negativity. I have learned so much. I am truly living well.

But I’m still not totally happy.

The upcoming wedding “deadline” has galvanized me. I’m not satisfied with how I look right now, but I’m tired of all those years of pushing myself to trim down. At this point of my life, the very word “diet” makes me feel like stabbing someone. My discomfort with the whole “it’s for the wedding!” subtext aside, I want to look good on my wedding day. But even more importantly, I want to feel good. I want to feel good about myself not just on my wedding day, but every day. Right now I’m not sure how to do that. And I’m self-assured enough now to know that I have the capacity to love myself the way I am, but the self-doubt keeps gnawing at the back of my mind.

So I tell myself, look. Either woman up and dedicate yourself to your weight loss goal, or just quit worrying about it and find peace with yourself the way you are. But dude. If it was that easy to just be happy with myself, I would have done that at 14. Even though I’d love to, I can’t simply erase those thoughts. So instead, the matter just keeps hanging over my head, like Bruno over Eminem at the MTV Music Awards.**

And that damn voice just keeps nagging on.

Have you felt pressure, either from yourself or others, to lose weight in time for the wedding? What did you ultimately do? And most importantly, what do the voices in your head say to you?***

___________________________________________________

* These hair tips did me absolutely no good. The only “style” I knew how to do in those days was brush my bangs over and sweep them up high, then shellac them in place with half a bottle of Rave hairspray until my hair was this frozen crest riding above my forehead. Hawt.

** Yeeeouch. That was a bad one. Sorry, guys.

*** I am assuming that you, too, have voices. Right? RIGHT???

hey! i think i love you! but what am i so afraid of!

The going broke part, maybe? Perhaps that’s what I’m so afraid of?

Allow me to back up. I had an opportunity to try on the Saja dresses again in L.A. this past weekend. And I, uh, have bad news. A CLEAR FAVORITE HAS EMERGED.

…AND THE CLEAR FAVORITE STILL COSTS $790.

I went to the L.A. Bella Bridesmaid with an ulterior motive: I wanted to see the bridesmaid version of this dress — which is a “mere” $395 — in person, because I wanted to feel what the fabric and construction was like in comparison with the bridal version. Of course, this store did not carry the bridesmaid line. Bah!

Then, after a few unsuccessful Google searches to find out how, exactly, these dresses are different, I had a brilliant idea to ask Saja directly. I emailed the general contact email address, and someone responded the very same day (bonus points!) with this report:

“The colored dresses are not lined with the heavy fabrics that the Bridal gowns are (the white would be see-through if we did it regular). This is the main reason for the price difference.”

Ah. Uh-huh. Funny you should mention “see-through,” because I while I was trying the Saja bridal dresses on again, I couldn’t help but notice they are kind of… sheer. I was standing there in front of the mirror, admiring my reflection while wearing what is essentially the priciest bohemian nightgown EVAR, and somebody was like, um, so, what kind of undergarments would you be wearing with this thing? As in: Hint hint, we can see your bits under there, and that’s kind of not cool! So needless to say, I’m surprised to hear that the bridesmaid dresses are even LIGHTER than the bridal dresses. How… does that even work without the whole bridesmaid line effectively turning into ethereal hippie lingerie?

During the discussion of underthings another sales assistant swooped in and informed me that I can get an extra layer of lining added to the dress for $18/yard. Which is rad, BUT! I confirmed with my Saja contact that the extra lining option is available only if there is enough fabric at the factory. So that’s a toss-up.

Here’s another thing. The bridesmaid dresses are obviously not available in that classic “bridal white.” For this particular dress, they are available in Buttercup, Soiree, Fleur de Lys, Illusion, Jade, Blackberry, and Dawn:

For the record, I am not opposed to wearing an “everyday” color for my wedding. But in a situation like this when I still have the option of choosing a more “classic” bridal color, what’s my real motivation? When taking price out of the equation, it seems to sort of come down to a choice between embracing and rejecting tradition. And when factoring price back in, it becomes a question of: “Do I care enough about tradition to pay more for a “bridal” look?”

Anyway. So that’s where I’m at. I can either purchase a sheer bridal dress in classic off-white for $790 or a VURRAH SHEER bridesmaid dress in one of seven “non-bridal” color options for $395, and I may or may not be able to add extra lining to each dress for an additional cost.

Hmmm. Kinda takes the romance out when I put it like that.

Oh, but I’ve still got a hardcore crush.

probably the cutest thing that’s happened all year*

I got something from my grandmother in the mail today. Upon tearing open the envelope I pulled out: A thank-you card. What? I hadn’t gotten her anything lately. Her birthday isn’t even until July.

Then I read, in her slanted, cursive handwriting:

“Thank you so much for the magnet, how cute, we have it here on the fridge.”

She sent me a thank-you card. For our save-the-date.
________________________________________________

* Except for when the beau said, “I’d better go to the Tuesday market and get flowers.” And I asked why? And he said, “Because your family is coming, and it would be nice to have flowers out for them.”**

** OH MY GOD, he is going to kill me for posting that. I am as good as dead. Sorry. It was nice knowing you guys.

myth of magic

I fancy myself a rational person, but I’ve got my heart set on some wedding Magic. Yes, Magic. With a capital M. That’s what I’m after.

The industry blogs and magazines may play up the cute favors and the clever centerpieces and the jaw-dropping invitation suites, but none of that really gets me hard like Magic does. See, I’m reluctant to admit this, but underneath my hard candy shell of sarcasm lies a soft, sticky, gooey, caramel center.* The Magical moments of wedding recaps never fail to get my eyes a little wet. Those moments when the guests spontaneously broke out in a cheer during the ceremony, when the best friend delivered a heartfelt toast, when the mutual love became a tangible force in the room, even just for a little while.

Magic. I’m in hot pursuit.

You know, we talk and talk and talk about how toxic the material aspect of weddings can be on our psyches. All that impossibly crafty DIY and all those gorgeous details make us doubt our abilities and fear that our own weddings won’t look good enough. But hardly anybody talks about the anxiety that our weddings won’t feel good enough. That they will fail to be Magical enough. And maybe this is something that lives only in the nooks and crannies of my own strange head, but… I feel like all these months of seeing image after image of blissed-out couples huddling in a field and reading recap after recap of relaxed, mellow, loving weddings have got me jacked up on the Magic drug. If Magic was cocaine, I’d be sitting on a tiny mountain of it right now with it all over my face. And with the high comes the inevitable paranoia: Are my wedding values rightly aligned? Am I preparing myself enough to be present? HOW CAN I ENSURE THAT MY WEDDING IS A EUPHORIC RIDE ON THE EXPRESS TRAIN TO MAGICTOWN?

I’ve long been hoping that, by putting my faith in the good things about the wedding, the universe would return that faith to me in kind on my wedding day.** That the lovely moments that I couldn’t have “planned or paid for”*** will just flow. I concede this is a little like believing in Santa Claus: If you are a good kid during the engagement and live your values, you’ll get everything you ever wanted when the big day comes. Well, no. The world is fucked. Sometimes the goodies go to the least deserving. Sometimes our purest, most honorable intentions aren’t enough. In other words: Sometimes it just doesn’t work out the way we want it to.

So from now on I intend to be honest with myself.

The wedding day will be stressful. I will probably be tense for part of it. Sometimes it will be a struggle not to snap, let alone stay grounded and present. I may, against my own will, experience a couple instances of “wedding terror face.” I just might be a jumble of nerves. I just might spend most of the ceremony ugly-crying. Who knows? I simply don’t know what will happen. Yet.

But I’m still holding out for a little bit of Magic.

____________________________________________

* OH GREAT, NOW I WANT SOME CANDY.

** And I still really, really do.

*** Quoted from the clever A. Marigold, courtesy of A Los Angeles Love.

all i really need to know i learned from the hair lady

Ever since I met him, the beau didn’t like the way his hair was cut. They always hacked it too short, forcing his flowing curls into an unnatural box shape. For nearly five years, it went on like this. Finally I told him, look. Maybe you should try somewhere other than Supercuts. Maybe you should try my lady.

My lady. If there’s one lady we all need, it’s a hair lady. Preferably one who can do spot-on impersonations and dishes dirt like a champion. So I took the plunge and called to make appointments for each of us, the beau and I, back to back.

If there’s one thing I may never get used to in my upcoming marriage, it’s booking appointments for another person. The fact that here I was a woman scheduling a grooming appointment for a man added a whole new dimension of insecurity, for in such instances I tend to assume the person on the other end of the line assumes that I am a shrewish busybody who has taken full control of maintaining my partner’s appearance. Thank heavens for gender stereotypes, or else I might be naturally confident and balanced!

I didn’t have a plan when I dialed the phone number for the salon, which is never a good sign.

“HELLO!” I began briskly when the receptionist picked up. So far, so good. “I WOULD LIKE TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT FOR A HAIRCUT FOR ME…” — at this point I suddenly realized I didn’t know what to call us, so I made a serious attempt to cover my tracks with aimless mumbling — “…and uh, me and my, uhhh, fiance.”

“What?” the receptionist asked.

Whywhywhy did you call him that? my brain shrieked silently.

“My fiance?” I inquired, timidly, like I wasn’t really sure and looking for some positive reinforcement.

“OK?” she ventured.

“For haircuts?” I volleyed back.

“Let me look at the schedule,” she said.

Yes. Please do that. Before I make this conversation even more awkward than it already is.

SUDDEN SHAMELESS WEDDING SIDEBAR: One of the very first wedding decisions I ever made, in fact the first wedding decision I made, was to hire my hair lady to fix my wedding hair, and to also fix the hair of my mother, the beau’s mother, and the brigadiers. This was way back in the wedding planning dark ages when we thought we were getting married in Monterey, even. After we settled on Santa Barbara, the fabled hair lady was the one who suggested we check out her caterer friend, who coincidentally lives a block down the street from us — and who also ended up actually being on our venue’s approved vendor list. Our caterer then, in turn, suggested we use his boyfriend as our DJ. So basically, hair lady is the genesis of our entire fucking wedding.

Anyway! For the record, the beau liked his new cut, and has accepted hair lady as his own. Since then, I have devised a plan. Now, when I call up the salon, I will ask to make hair appointments for “two people.” Because that’s who we are, right? Just two people. Plain folks, hangin’ out. No one person in control of the other. Except for, you know. The fact that I forced him to start coming to my hair lady.*

So I will keep on braving awkward phone conversations to schedule our haircuts together, especially because of our new routine. Now, after our appointments are done, we walk down the street to that one bar where the bartender has missing teeth and the back patio always smells like french fry grease and regret. We get a couple of drinks and toast our new looks. Because nothing says awesome like a fresh new ‘do.

I know this because the hair lady told me so.

_________________________________________

* Most likely by withholding sex.

an omen

“Sometimes I don’t know if I really want to get married,” I told my mom. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, looking for a reaction. “Sometimes I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do.”

“Well,” she began. I could tell she was diplomatically searching for the right words. “You two have very… different characters.”

I felt a little panic rising in my stomach. “I don’t know. I think I want to call the wedding off,” I admitted. I thought about how everything was in place, and about how calling it off would change everything, forever. The panic rose faster.

Then suddenly I remembered: I wasn’t actually marrying that other guy, anymore. I was marrying the beau. I had merely forgotten! I WAS MARRYING THE BEAU INSTEAD. Relief flooded me. I turned back to my mom to tell her that now I actually couldn’t wait to get married, but before I could even open my mouth I woke up.

It was only a dream, but I couldn’t have asked for a better ending.*

________________________________________________

* Yow. Gettin’ smarmy up in heah.

pack it up, pack it in

You know, lately I just can’t seem to pull the blog posts together. I have a few of them simmering in my saved drafts folder, but each are about 30 million words long and seem to have entirely lost sight of their original points and trying to find them again feels like a torturous afternoon spent listening to news talk radio in the dentist’s office.

It’s not a good week for the blog. It’s not a good week for being a bride.

Actually, I take that back. I feel like we’ve made some real wedding inroads lately. We released our STDs into the wild, we decided on an officiant, I started building our website, and we are making hotel block reservations. Those are not things I necessarily want to write about, though. I mean, imagine reading a post like this:

“Hey guys, we finally went to this one motel that’s right near our venue? And it used to be terrible, but we’d heard this guy had taken it over and was renovating it? So we walked in and were like, “We’re interested in reserving a block of your rooms for our wedding,” and the proprietor was so shocked and excited that he actually mimicked picking his jaw up off the ground. He showed us one of the rooms he had renovated, and it had bamboo floors and really nice shower heads and new bedding from Linens & Things, and he said by September he should have almost all of the second story redone, which is roughly 10 rooms. Perfect! The motel is seriously a half a stumble from both the venue AND the afterparty bar, and it gets even better: The rooms are an unheard-of-in-downtown-Santa-Barbara $89/night!”

I mean, yeah. Bonus for us, ultimate snore for you. But sadly, this is all that I can muster of late.

So today I am taking a page straight from Becca. I’m going to forget about wedding stuff. I’m going to tell you just a little bit about what else has been going on in my head.

  1. I’m trying to figure out what my next career step should be, and how exactly I should go about pursuing it.
  2. I’m contemplating wanderlust. Can we ever leave this city when we’re lucky enough to have decent jobs? Can I convince the beau to pull up roots and put down new ones elsewhere? Another state? Another time zone? Another country?
  3. I’m fighting a daily battle with time management and self-discipline. Many days, they win.
  4. World travel. ‘Nuff said.
  5. I’m seething over how much I want to kick Sidney Crosby in the shins. While wearing steel-toed boots. Don’t worry, this is merely a hockey grudge.
  6. I’m mourning the loss of time spent reading books, because whenever I read a book I tend to get utterly absorbed in it, and I can’t make room for utter absorption in my life right now.
  7. Pita pizza. Oh god, I could eat homemade pita pizzas for dinner every single night.
  8. I suspect I may be getting a Kitchen-Aid stand mixer for my bridal shower as a joint gift from my aunts, and I am so excited at the prospect of what I can make with it. Bread! Raised doughnuts! Butter!
  9. On second thought, maybe a stand mixer is a bad idea.
  10. I’m rededicating myself to my goal of finally speaking German fluently.

Well, that was fun.

Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you I have another blog called another damn life. I started it a few months ago just… because. Because I decided I like blogging and want to continue it long past the day I become an old married woman. Posting over there will remain sporadic at least until after the wedding, but I did manage to put something up earlier today. Take a gander if you like.

And now it’s your turn. I know many of you have already shared a bit about yourselves over at A Los Angeles Love, but I wanna hear more. Tell me something. Anything. Go!