My fingertips are on fire. I blame wedding season. My cousin played the flute beautifully in my wedding and says I now owe her for hers. I am picking up my violin after a 6-year hiatus. It's amazing to me that I played that sucker for 15 years and didn't think twice about my rock hard fingertips. I must have been walking around with little pebbles on my left hand. How did I ever sense temperature or feel texture?
I discovered on opening my violin case that my bow had exploded. When I took it to the fix-it man, he told me I had mites in my case. Tiny creatures living in my violin case snacking on the horsehair in the dark for half a decade. "Just vacuum your case and leave the whole thing open in the sunlight," he told me. You better believe I vacuumed that case. Now the whole getup sits on the floor beneath my office window. I am never closing it ever again.
I never thought I would want to play the violin again. I assumed I would begrudgingly practice for Meredith's wedding and then close it all up tight. It's amazing, though, how comforting it feels. Perhaps because I'm a rugby masochist now the finger pains give me joy? Something happens where I feel the music coursing through me and I just want to go, go, go until I am out of rosin. And then I notice that the strings are in fact causing my fingers to crack and bleed so I have to stop.
While Corey was in a wedding this weekend, I spent some time schmoozing with his friend's dad, who is a violist. We talked about my finger pains. He gave me advice, like don't practice more than 20 minutes at a time until I get my callouses back. He had nothing to offer about the mites, though.
At the reception later, I danced with all of Corey's friends (because he does not dance) and one of them had baby-smooth hands. A bike rider! Where were his rhino hide hands? As my pebbles sprout to the surface of my left hand, the palms of both hands are starting to get a bit course from my commute. It seems I am destined to enjoy only those activities which make my hands and feet feel as if they have been soaked in battery acid. Maybe passionate people weren't meant to have soft skin.
Showing posts with label Wedding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wedding. Show all posts
Monday, June 18, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Red Beard the Savior
This is a pirate's tale of risk and danger, thrill and rescue on the high seas. It ends in romance and involves an attack by a barracuda, I kid you not.
Once upon a time, Red Beard the Pirate took his captive princess on a treacherous voyage in the rocky seas, amidst a fiery hurricane. The sea was rough that day, my friends. The wind roared and the watercraft, the USS Sunfish, galloped across the waves. Red Beard laughed into the gale and told the princess to open up the sail. "Let out the sheet!" he bellowed.
Red Beard grew addicted to the speed of the craft. He chased the wind with abandon and, noticing a shift in the breeze, shouted "Coming about!" The boom jerked to starboard and the princess, pale and frightened at her first sailing misadventure, was not quick enough. The craft capsized, spitting the princess and the pirate into the ocean.
The princess remembered the warnings of the snorkling instructor the day before: These waters are infested with barracudas! Look out! She clung to the bow and screamed as the keel floated away from the ship. Red Beard's reflexes kicked in and he acted in a flash.
He threw off his pirate hat and pirate sunglasses and dove into the depths to save the keel. The princess shrieked as he coerced her from the bow, where she clung like the prow of a ship. He grabbed the keel, heaved a mighty grunt, and righted the vessel. As the sail popped into the sky, the boat bobbed happily again on the water.
Red Beard clambered into the ship and secured the sail. He retrieved his tri-corn hat and glasses and reached out to the princess, who was near death with fright. Barracudas began to circle the ship, waiting to sink their teeth into the delicate flesh of the princess. With one arm, Red Beard pulled the princess aboard and grabbed the rudder. As she swooned in the bottom of the boat, he looked into the sun and turned the boat for shore. The foamy sea splashed after the lovers as they sailed into the sunset, headed for paradise together after their near death experience.
Translation
We went sailing on a sunfish one day when it was really windy. I didn't tack fast enough when we came about and the boat capsized. I was scared of barracudas and forgot to hold onto the keel. Corey swam after it, fixed it, and righted the boat with one fell pull. He yanked me aboard and sailed me to safety before the Sandals rescue boat even got out there to check on us. My hero!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Husband
We had a brief layover at my parents' house on our travels this weekend. As we were getting ready to go, with Corey's usual sloth-like urgency, I noticed Corey had left something upstairs. This is also usual. In the eight hours we were at the Rank house, he managed to spread his possessions throughout both stories. I love that about him.
"Corey," I said, "Did you forget something on the counter upstairs?"
He looked at me, puzzled. Squinched up his face. I could see him thinking "Bicycle? No, that's at home. Toothbrush? No, I got that...what else could be important???"
I waved my hand in his face and said, "You definitely left something up there...something crucial...something you definitely need tomorrow..."
Nothing. No recognition. "Corey. Your wedding band!"
"Oh yeah!" And he scrabbled upstairs to retrieve it.
Corey hates his wedding band. He predicted this. His genes prepared him for this. Thirty-five years ago his own father, in what I believe was a thinly veiled ploy to cover his jewelry aversion, lost his wedding band down a drain and hasn't ever replaced it. Today, Corey takes his off all the time. He puts it on his thumbs and plays with it. He leaves it on the bedside table. Even now, I hear the rattle of it spinning to stillness next to his bottle of Fat Tire in the living room.
My sister's husband and she do not wear rings. Richard had a truly lovely reason, which made me feel sheepish and superficial for wanting Corey to sport one. But I just need him to have one on there. I like to look at his hand and see that it is married to me, along with the rest of his body. I like to remember sliding it onto his finger as the rabbi mispronounced his name and secretly giggling.
I thought if we got him one made of titanium--the same material of which top notch bicycles are made--he would start to enjoy it a little. It's only been two weeks. I haven't given up hope yet. I think he'll soon develop a callous and not be able to imagine his hand without it. At least I know he can't imagine his hand without mine there to swat at it.
"Corey," I said, "Did you forget something on the counter upstairs?"
He looked at me, puzzled. Squinched up his face. I could see him thinking "Bicycle? No, that's at home. Toothbrush? No, I got that...what else could be important???"
I waved my hand in his face and said, "You definitely left something up there...something crucial...something you definitely need tomorrow..."
Nothing. No recognition. "Corey. Your wedding band!"
"Oh yeah!" And he scrabbled upstairs to retrieve it.
Corey hates his wedding band. He predicted this. His genes prepared him for this. Thirty-five years ago his own father, in what I believe was a thinly veiled ploy to cover his jewelry aversion, lost his wedding band down a drain and hasn't ever replaced it. Today, Corey takes his off all the time. He puts it on his thumbs and plays with it. He leaves it on the bedside table. Even now, I hear the rattle of it spinning to stillness next to his bottle of Fat Tire in the living room.
My sister's husband and she do not wear rings. Richard had a truly lovely reason, which made me feel sheepish and superficial for wanting Corey to sport one. But I just need him to have one on there. I like to look at his hand and see that it is married to me, along with the rest of his body. I like to remember sliding it onto his finger as the rabbi mispronounced his name and secretly giggling.
I thought if we got him one made of titanium--the same material of which top notch bicycles are made--he would start to enjoy it a little. It's only been two weeks. I haven't given up hope yet. I think he'll soon develop a callous and not be able to imagine his hand without it. At least I know he can't imagine his hand without mine there to swat at it.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
How to Become a New Me
Being a newlywed is grotesquely joyous. I walk around the streets beaming and then see my reflection in the windowpanes and think "I would gossip about me if I saw me from the 71A." I just can't help it. I take my chipper cheer with me, even in long lines at government agencies.
My journey to becoming an all the way newlywed, to amending my name, began at the very building that sold us our marriage license. As luck would have it, I had the same government worker who worked our case to start with. She seemed not to remember me. She robotically asked me which sort of marriage license record I would need. I had no idea. I smiled and asked her which she advised. She snarled and said "Well, don't you have a passport???" Apparently possessing a passport makes it cost more money and take longer to get the copy of the license. I dared not ask her to point me toward the Social Security office and instead asked the nice man who patted me down and checked my backpack for weapons.
All in all, I've spent ten hours over the past two days changing my name. I have a printed letter of proof that I have a new Social Security card. I have a new driver's license. I have ten photocopies of my triple seal marriage license and lists of credit cards and student loans and iTunes accounts. Each place I go, the lines are longer and the people are grumpier.
The DMV man did not laugh when I pointed out that he was an upside-down lefty. The parking attendant at AAA didn't agree that the weather was fantastically dry and temperate. For some reason, the 71A driver didn't care that I had a brand new Panther card with a brand new rider name on it.
Ordinarily, long lines and customer service agents make me crazy. They make me want to murder. They remind me of the time I had to work the return counter at K-mart on the day after Christmas. But now? When all I can think about is gushy happy things? I could care less.
I should have saved up all my annoying bureaucratic tasks until right now, when my high spirits can't be broken, even by a 95 minute wait to print a form at the registrar's office.
My journey to becoming an all the way newlywed, to amending my name, began at the very building that sold us our marriage license. As luck would have it, I had the same government worker who worked our case to start with. She seemed not to remember me. She robotically asked me which sort of marriage license record I would need. I had no idea. I smiled and asked her which she advised. She snarled and said "Well, don't you have a passport???" Apparently possessing a passport makes it cost more money and take longer to get the copy of the license. I dared not ask her to point me toward the Social Security office and instead asked the nice man who patted me down and checked my backpack for weapons.
All in all, I've spent ten hours over the past two days changing my name. I have a printed letter of proof that I have a new Social Security card. I have a new driver's license. I have ten photocopies of my triple seal marriage license and lists of credit cards and student loans and iTunes accounts. Each place I go, the lines are longer and the people are grumpier.
The DMV man did not laugh when I pointed out that he was an upside-down lefty. The parking attendant at AAA didn't agree that the weather was fantastically dry and temperate. For some reason, the 71A driver didn't care that I had a brand new Panther card with a brand new rider name on it.
Ordinarily, long lines and customer service agents make me crazy. They make me want to murder. They remind me of the time I had to work the return counter at K-mart on the day after Christmas. But now? When all I can think about is gushy happy things? I could care less.
I should have saved up all my annoying bureaucratic tasks until right now, when my high spirits can't be broken, even by a 95 minute wait to print a form at the registrar's office.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Pictures of Marva's Mountain
Climbing. Recall: Marva did this in loafers. Her sneakers were wet from an earlier climb that day so she went with what she had available...
Corey looking moist in the mist at the top.
The moist, moist rainforest and Team Lev, the interlopers.
Climbing down with both hands. Now how did Marva and Corey skip so lightly down this craggy trail??
Gros Piton is the one on the left, the one so tall it disappears into the clouds. It looks so gentle and serene from a distance...Monday, June 04, 2007
Marva
I can't summarize the experience of being married or the wedding briefly enough to not be gushy, so I'm going to zoom straight ahead to the honeymoon.
We found ourselves on the beautifully gorgeous La Haut Plantation in St. Lucia, where our room overlooked two enormous volcanic mountains and the Caribbean Sea. Obviously, our first task upon seeing the mountains was to climb them. We took an $80 taxi ride on St. Lucia's only road, which runs around the perimeter of the mango shaped island, to get to the bottom of Le Gros Piton.
Oh, so cocky we were. We didn't believe we needed a guide. We have hiked before! We play sports! We wore t-shirts proclaiming our athletic allegiances. Nonetheless, we were introduced to Marva, who would guide us up the 2 mile trail into the sky.
Marva was as tall as Corey and shaped just like him. She quickly informed me she has climbed this mountain at least once every single day for 15 years, sometimes twice. Marva was wearing a t-shirt and mesh shorts and loafers. I became even more certain this would be a baby climb.
At first, Marva peppered us with fun facts as we began the gentle climb. She has never come in lower than 4th place in a marathon. This trail will require 17,000 footsteps from top to bottom. Twenty percent of hikers do not reach the summit. Once, on a tour she guided, a lady had a heart attack and died at the top. She plucked a mango from a nearby tree and started skipping straight up the rocky face without using her hands.
Four seconds later, I thought I would have to quit. Marva and Corey were running up the hill like lemurs. I was heaving and wringing the sweat from my soaked clothing. I felt like my nephew, using both hands to labor up the 25% grade. My heart beat so quickly and thunderously I thought I, too, might have a heart attack. I have never been so humbled in my life.
Halfway up the mountain, Corey decided not to scamper ahead with Marva. He lingered behind with his dying wife and helped me take smaller steps, reminded me to drink juice. "This is just like cycling," he told me, fantasizing about riding his Surly down the rocky face. It started to pour and the climb became slippery in addition to impossible. I prayed for the strength to finish.
Marva reached the summit and whipped out her mango. She wasn't even sweaty. When I finally lumbered up there, the rain clouds were so thick I couldn't even see the view. It didn't matter, though. The mountain had not beaten me entirely. I felt like I had conquered the world. Marva told me Le Petit Peton is more fun for her because the climb is nearly vertical and climbers must use ropes to ascend. I sprawled on a rock and prayed she would eventually get fat.
Climbing down was just as bad as climbing up, as I needed to use my hands and arms to lower myself down the steep, jaggy rocks. When I woke up the next morning, I felt worse than I did after my first rugby match. I spent the rest of my honeymoon soaking my sore legs and cursing the awful pride that allowed me to underestimate one of nature's most intense creations.
The experience has made me want to really dedicate myself to my fitness. To not just talk about it but actually become fit again, until I can really climb any mountain any time. Next time, Marva, I will keep up with you. And my loafers will have fewer scuffs on the toes.
We found ourselves on the beautifully gorgeous La Haut Plantation in St. Lucia, where our room overlooked two enormous volcanic mountains and the Caribbean Sea. Obviously, our first task upon seeing the mountains was to climb them. We took an $80 taxi ride on St. Lucia's only road, which runs around the perimeter of the mango shaped island, to get to the bottom of Le Gros Piton.
Oh, so cocky we were. We didn't believe we needed a guide. We have hiked before! We play sports! We wore t-shirts proclaiming our athletic allegiances. Nonetheless, we were introduced to Marva, who would guide us up the 2 mile trail into the sky.
Marva was as tall as Corey and shaped just like him. She quickly informed me she has climbed this mountain at least once every single day for 15 years, sometimes twice. Marva was wearing a t-shirt and mesh shorts and loafers. I became even more certain this would be a baby climb.
At first, Marva peppered us with fun facts as we began the gentle climb. She has never come in lower than 4th place in a marathon. This trail will require 17,000 footsteps from top to bottom. Twenty percent of hikers do not reach the summit. Once, on a tour she guided, a lady had a heart attack and died at the top. She plucked a mango from a nearby tree and started skipping straight up the rocky face without using her hands.
Four seconds later, I thought I would have to quit. Marva and Corey were running up the hill like lemurs. I was heaving and wringing the sweat from my soaked clothing. I felt like my nephew, using both hands to labor up the 25% grade. My heart beat so quickly and thunderously I thought I, too, might have a heart attack. I have never been so humbled in my life.
Halfway up the mountain, Corey decided not to scamper ahead with Marva. He lingered behind with his dying wife and helped me take smaller steps, reminded me to drink juice. "This is just like cycling," he told me, fantasizing about riding his Surly down the rocky face. It started to pour and the climb became slippery in addition to impossible. I prayed for the strength to finish.
Marva reached the summit and whipped out her mango. She wasn't even sweaty. When I finally lumbered up there, the rain clouds were so thick I couldn't even see the view. It didn't matter, though. The mountain had not beaten me entirely. I felt like I had conquered the world. Marva told me Le Petit Peton is more fun for her because the climb is nearly vertical and climbers must use ropes to ascend. I sprawled on a rock and prayed she would eventually get fat.
Climbing down was just as bad as climbing up, as I needed to use my hands and arms to lower myself down the steep, jaggy rocks. When I woke up the next morning, I felt worse than I did after my first rugby match. I spent the rest of my honeymoon soaking my sore legs and cursing the awful pride that allowed me to underestimate one of nature's most intense creations.
The experience has made me want to really dedicate myself to my fitness. To not just talk about it but actually become fit again, until I can really climb any mountain any time. Next time, Marva, I will keep up with you. And my loafers will have fewer scuffs on the toes.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Whoah
I'm getting married in four days. Through many talks with the rabbi, photographer, caterer, and dj, this fact has not really sunk in. I've been preoccupied with illness and the impending arrival of everyone I love in one giant place. Today, after I picked my sister and her family at the airport, a strange thing happened.
We were tucking my nephew safely into his child seat and zooming onto the rush-hour traffic. Richard, my brother-in-law, had to make a phone call to his commodities broker and he said "I'm in Philadelphia...Katy is getting married this Sunday." Suddenly, this intensely strange feeling washed over me. Like I had to pee or was covered in poison ivy.
It's really happening. Somebody has agreed to spend a lifetime with me and they are going to start doing it this Sunday. For real.
In junior high, I would lie awake nearly friendless, greasy haired, pimply skinned. I would suck on my bright green schwartz expander and peer through my enormous glasses and pray that someday, someone would realize that I am not heinous. Somewhere in the universe, someone would appreciate me for all my many oddities. I stuck on a crocheted sweater vest over a knitted sweater and went into the world praying, but never knowing for certain, that my yang was roaming the earth.
But I found him somehow. And he doesn't care that I make up weird songs or make strange faces or even that I sometimes don't shower after rugby practice before I climb into bed. He rubs my back when I freak out and calls me out when I act like a hypocrite. Best of all, he sits on the sofa and eats ice cream straight from the carton and watches The Real World with me on my laptop.
And now, he is going to marry me.
This is going to be awesome.
We were tucking my nephew safely into his child seat and zooming onto the rush-hour traffic. Richard, my brother-in-law, had to make a phone call to his commodities broker and he said "I'm in Philadelphia...Katy is getting married this Sunday." Suddenly, this intensely strange feeling washed over me. Like I had to pee or was covered in poison ivy.
It's really happening. Somebody has agreed to spend a lifetime with me and they are going to start doing it this Sunday. For real.
In junior high, I would lie awake nearly friendless, greasy haired, pimply skinned. I would suck on my bright green schwartz expander and peer through my enormous glasses and pray that someday, someone would realize that I am not heinous. Somewhere in the universe, someone would appreciate me for all my many oddities. I stuck on a crocheted sweater vest over a knitted sweater and went into the world praying, but never knowing for certain, that my yang was roaming the earth.
But I found him somehow. And he doesn't care that I make up weird songs or make strange faces or even that I sometimes don't shower after rugby practice before I climb into bed. He rubs my back when I freak out and calls me out when I act like a hypocrite. Best of all, he sits on the sofa and eats ice cream straight from the carton and watches The Real World with me on my laptop.
And now, he is going to marry me.
This is going to be awesome.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Big Bites!
Look:
Place cards! Piles and piles of them are done and tomorrow team bridesmaid will spruce them up. My aunt and sister and cousin did ALL of them. (I'm left handed and am unable to help...darned ink smears all over my hand.)
You know what this means? I can breathe deeply and shrink my shoulders a little. Perhaps enjoy life? I'm going to celebrate by watching American Idol and then catching up on all the episodes of Inferno 3 and Real World Denver!!!!
Place cards! Piles and piles of them are done and tomorrow team bridesmaid will spruce them up. My aunt and sister and cousin did ALL of them. (I'm left handed and am unable to help...darned ink smears all over my hand.)You know what this means? I can breathe deeply and shrink my shoulders a little. Perhaps enjoy life? I'm going to celebrate by watching American Idol and then catching up on all the episodes of Inferno 3 and Real World Denver!!!!
Monday, May 14, 2007
Lost Control
I have lost all control of my faculties. Wedding/home purchase stress has driven me to madness. I thought the past two weeks of not having daily employment and class would enable me to relax, but no. I thought the best birthday-ette weekend ever (which involved a safe journey through rugby and a bar tour which included out-dancing another bride, tackling wee little Jack and POLE DANCING) would let me unwind, but no.
Then, at the very least, I thought a journey to Zenith for a mind blowing all you can eat vegetarian buffet (including vegan chocolate cakes!!!) would ease my suffering. Alas, no.
Corey, bless his soul, agreed to journey to Dozen to pick up my pre-paid mothers' day cupcake order before I left town. I was leaving Pittsburgh for the last time as a single gal, journeying eastward with just my cupcakes and my trousseau. It was supposed to be stoic with some sort of Van Morrison music playing in the background as the sun set...but Dozen effed up the order! Instead of handing Corey eight delicious cupcakes, they slid him a box of four. On an ordinary day, I would simply call and point out the order and ask for my card to be reimbursed, after gushing again how much I love, love their products. "See you tomorrow and I'll buy some more cupcakes," I would say in my prior life.
Instead, I started screaming and sat on the fouton as snot dripped down my face. "This is a disaster!" I wailed, as Corey rubbed my back in shock. "How could this happen???" My sister stood frozen by the fireplace, not quite sure what to do about a grownup having such a tantrum. I bawled about traffic and a ruined holiday and all my crushed ambitions of sweeping into the backyard with a bundle of cupcakes.
It's like I can see myself removed from my body. I seem to float above my stressing self and watch the wretched being sobbing over cupcakes and think "Well, she sucks." I see the people around me wondering how they could have possibly mistaken me for a sane adult. I want to know when I will regain my ability to handle problems. Where have my troubleshooting skills gone? Where is my resourcefulness? Who have I become?
If I had any clue there was a bridezilla lurking inside, I would have for sure eloped and just gone on an extended backpacking trip to Peru with my husband. Instead, I'll have a glorious wedding and probably spend the entire day curled in the fetal position underneath a table, drinking Jim Beam from a shoe.
Then, at the very least, I thought a journey to Zenith for a mind blowing all you can eat vegetarian buffet (including vegan chocolate cakes!!!) would ease my suffering. Alas, no.
Corey, bless his soul, agreed to journey to Dozen to pick up my pre-paid mothers' day cupcake order before I left town. I was leaving Pittsburgh for the last time as a single gal, journeying eastward with just my cupcakes and my trousseau. It was supposed to be stoic with some sort of Van Morrison music playing in the background as the sun set...but Dozen effed up the order! Instead of handing Corey eight delicious cupcakes, they slid him a box of four. On an ordinary day, I would simply call and point out the order and ask for my card to be reimbursed, after gushing again how much I love, love their products. "See you tomorrow and I'll buy some more cupcakes," I would say in my prior life.
Instead, I started screaming and sat on the fouton as snot dripped down my face. "This is a disaster!" I wailed, as Corey rubbed my back in shock. "How could this happen???" My sister stood frozen by the fireplace, not quite sure what to do about a grownup having such a tantrum. I bawled about traffic and a ruined holiday and all my crushed ambitions of sweeping into the backyard with a bundle of cupcakes.
It's like I can see myself removed from my body. I seem to float above my stressing self and watch the wretched being sobbing over cupcakes and think "Well, she sucks." I see the people around me wondering how they could have possibly mistaken me for a sane adult. I want to know when I will regain my ability to handle problems. Where have my troubleshooting skills gone? Where is my resourcefulness? Who have I become?
If I had any clue there was a bridezilla lurking inside, I would have for sure eloped and just gone on an extended backpacking trip to Peru with my husband. Instead, I'll have a glorious wedding and probably spend the entire day curled in the fetal position underneath a table, drinking Jim Beam from a shoe.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Would You Mind Terribly If I...
1. Brought my child's new "friend" to the wedding?
2. Brought my father-in-law to the wedding?
3. Waited until three weeks past the RSVP date to send in my little card?
4. Brought my children to your adults-only soirée?
YES!!!! Yes, I would mind if you completely disregarded the fact that Corey and I agonized over who to invite, eliminated people we play rugby or ride bikes with on a daily basis to accommodate the 100+ relatives in our enormous families. Nevermind that we had to exclude some people's partners in order to be able to include more people we are close with. Sure, why not bring a bunch of people I never met to my wedding. We'll just carve out an extra table for you and your special add ons. Then, later, when I show photos to my teammates and they say, "Oh! Who is that?" I can tell them, "That's blanky blank's new friend! Isn't that nice that he came to the wedding? Now what was his name..."
Also, let's deliberately make the bride's life as difficult as possible and give her the least amount of time to create a seating chart which includes these kling-ons whom she has not met.
Why on earth would I possibly want to celebrate my marriage to Corey with people I've not met? Why do people think it's ok to pencil in additional names on their response cards? (Some people did indeed telephone to say they were actually quite seriously involved in a relationship. Phoning is always so much better than just taking it upon yourself to write in a name!)
My response to all these stress-makers is this: Would you mind if I came over to your house uninvited at the last minute after you already told a close friend she could not come and already told your cousin her children were not invited? Of course you would mind.
Would you mind terribly if I wrote a book about wedding manners that included the phrase: respond before the RSVP date using only the names of the persons on the invitation or the bride will bite her thumb at you FOR ALL ETERNITY.
2. Brought my father-in-law to the wedding?
3. Waited until three weeks past the RSVP date to send in my little card?
4. Brought my children to your adults-only soirée?
YES!!!! Yes, I would mind if you completely disregarded the fact that Corey and I agonized over who to invite, eliminated people we play rugby or ride bikes with on a daily basis to accommodate the 100+ relatives in our enormous families. Nevermind that we had to exclude some people's partners in order to be able to include more people we are close with. Sure, why not bring a bunch of people I never met to my wedding. We'll just carve out an extra table for you and your special add ons. Then, later, when I show photos to my teammates and they say, "Oh! Who is that?" I can tell them, "That's blanky blank's new friend! Isn't that nice that he came to the wedding? Now what was his name..."
Also, let's deliberately make the bride's life as difficult as possible and give her the least amount of time to create a seating chart which includes these kling-ons whom she has not met.
Why on earth would I possibly want to celebrate my marriage to Corey with people I've not met? Why do people think it's ok to pencil in additional names on their response cards? (Some people did indeed telephone to say they were actually quite seriously involved in a relationship. Phoning is always so much better than just taking it upon yourself to write in a name!)
My response to all these stress-makers is this: Would you mind if I came over to your house uninvited at the last minute after you already told a close friend she could not come and already told your cousin her children were not invited? Of course you would mind.
Would you mind terribly if I wrote a book about wedding manners that included the phrase: respond before the RSVP date using only the names of the persons on the invitation or the bride will bite her thumb at you FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Shock
My family got me. Pretty much everyone I care about has been involved in an intricate web of lies for the past three months in an elaborate ruse to get me to come home for a surprise wedding shower.
I was under the impression I was helping my aunt plan a surprise 50th birthday party for my mom. In real life, my mom was planning her own party AND mine while I went off on red herring missions.
Nobody ever threw me a surprise party before. I have always wanted one. It was the best thing in the entire world. I literally stood in the kitchen of my aunt's house with my mouth hanging open, speechless for probably the first time in my life.
Corey knew all about it the whole time and didn't let on a thing, not even when I was rushing him to get going to "make up munchie trays for my mom's party." This doesn't surprise me. He is a vault. But my mom? Who has never, ever not revealed the contents of a birthday present before I opened it. My mom kept a secret for months.
The only sad part of the whole day was that my sisters were stranded on another coast due to weather and logistics and Corey's mom wasn't feeling well enough to get there. But all of them knew about it the whole time.
And here I was so proud of myself because I had managed to keep her birthday party a secret from my mom, something I have never done before either. The kicker is that I so desperately wanted her to have a surprise party because she so deserves one. Someday, I'm going to get her back.
I was under the impression I was helping my aunt plan a surprise 50th birthday party for my mom. In real life, my mom was planning her own party AND mine while I went off on red herring missions.
Nobody ever threw me a surprise party before. I have always wanted one. It was the best thing in the entire world. I literally stood in the kitchen of my aunt's house with my mouth hanging open, speechless for probably the first time in my life.
Corey knew all about it the whole time and didn't let on a thing, not even when I was rushing him to get going to "make up munchie trays for my mom's party." This doesn't surprise me. He is a vault. But my mom? Who has never, ever not revealed the contents of a birthday present before I opened it. My mom kept a secret for months.
The only sad part of the whole day was that my sisters were stranded on another coast due to weather and logistics and Corey's mom wasn't feeling well enough to get there. But all of them knew about it the whole time.
And here I was so proud of myself because I had managed to keep her birthday party a secret from my mom, something I have never done before either. The kicker is that I so desperately wanted her to have a surprise party because she so deserves one. Someday, I'm going to get her back.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Tux
Corey has a tux. We wrangled up our friend Ayo, who knows how to dress well and would never wear olive brown cords with an olive brown sweater as Corey often does, and took him to the tux shop.
It was so interesting to watch Corey grow visibly uncomfortable in the shop. Like he had no faculties to ask questions or even think in a logical order. The woman asked him some questions about jackets and he blurted "Our wedding is out doors in May." Or she would be talking about shoes and his eyes would dart over to the mannequins and all of a sudden he was talking about bowties and pocket squares. His shoulders got all tense. I couldn't tell if he was scared to be married, nervous to have to speak to this girl (a stranger!) or thinking that yes indeedy, people would be staring at him soon and he needed to look good.
I felt kind of bad for him in his discomfort. Thankfully, Ayo picked out some nice stuff and we left there with a tuxedo plan.
Back in his happy place, behind the wheel of the rented Pontiac, Corey was free to do things he actually enjoyed. Like drive all over Philadelphia looking for a wireless signal so we could find a Chinatown bus to take Ayo home to New York. We should have shopped for the formal wear from the driver's seat and had the girl bring different suits out on roller skates.
It was so interesting to watch Corey grow visibly uncomfortable in the shop. Like he had no faculties to ask questions or even think in a logical order. The woman asked him some questions about jackets and he blurted "Our wedding is out doors in May." Or she would be talking about shoes and his eyes would dart over to the mannequins and all of a sudden he was talking about bowties and pocket squares. His shoulders got all tense. I couldn't tell if he was scared to be married, nervous to have to speak to this girl (a stranger!) or thinking that yes indeedy, people would be staring at him soon and he needed to look good.
I felt kind of bad for him in his discomfort. Thankfully, Ayo picked out some nice stuff and we left there with a tuxedo plan.
Back in his happy place, behind the wheel of the rented Pontiac, Corey was free to do things he actually enjoyed. Like drive all over Philadelphia looking for a wireless signal so we could find a Chinatown bus to take Ayo home to New York. We should have shopped for the formal wear from the driver's seat and had the girl bring different suits out on roller skates.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Countdown!
We are down to 75 days. Doesn't it sound scary to say it that way? In 75 days I will be married. To Corey. That means I have to deal with his mess for eternity, whereas for the next 75 days I can still decide I can't handle carbon fiber frames on the living room floor.
Knowing we have that little time remaining is making me panic. People are starting to send reply cards to the invitations. Contracts are coming in the mail. Clothing is arriving from various people. I'm having a wedding.
What scares me most about this situation is that I'm starting to know what I'm talking about with all of this stuff. I could tell you a lot of things about buttercream icing and why trans fats make for a substandard wedding cake. I know which body types look prettiest in which dresses. I know some flower names and when they are in season and what they are called when gathered together in various formations. I know what sauces go best with salmon depending whether you are serving it poached or grilled.
This knowledge base, more than the actual combining legally with Corey, makes me feel weird. I didn't want to have anything to do with hypoallergenic makeup or embroidered yarmulkes. But I do and now I will forever be a person who knows exactly what to do in the event that a friend needs to rent designer port-o-potties to service 240 hineys. There is no turning back now. I am a bride of the fluffy meringue and regal variety, minus the glowing calm.
Knowing we have that little time remaining is making me panic. People are starting to send reply cards to the invitations. Contracts are coming in the mail. Clothing is arriving from various people. I'm having a wedding.
What scares me most about this situation is that I'm starting to know what I'm talking about with all of this stuff. I could tell you a lot of things about buttercream icing and why trans fats make for a substandard wedding cake. I know which body types look prettiest in which dresses. I know some flower names and when they are in season and what they are called when gathered together in various formations. I know what sauces go best with salmon depending whether you are serving it poached or grilled.
This knowledge base, more than the actual combining legally with Corey, makes me feel weird. I didn't want to have anything to do with hypoallergenic makeup or embroidered yarmulkes. But I do and now I will forever be a person who knows exactly what to do in the event that a friend needs to rent designer port-o-potties to service 240 hineys. There is no turning back now. I am a bride of the fluffy meringue and regal variety, minus the glowing calm.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Core-man Bats 1000
Corey finally booked our honeymoon. I know I said I would do it without him if he missed his January 31 deadline, but my threats are pretty much always empty. I just yelled at him for a long time and nagged until my throat hurt and just like that he got to work!
I felt sickly satisfied when he kept finding places fully booked for our desired dates. I loved looking at his face when he discovered that yes, in fact, some people do plan in advance for important trips. Ha! I'm such an asshole. Why am I so happy that he was wrong? It doesn't matter. We have a lovely trip.
We are going to St. Lucia to stay in a hut in the jungle for a few days and then will join all the other newlyweds at a Sandals. I'm ok with that vacation even if it isn't a rafting trip in Belize or a volcano/canopy hike in Costa Rica. We have our whole lives to do adventure vacationing. On our honeymoon, we're going to snorkel. And lounge. And drink complementary alcohol because it's included in our room rate along with one massage and a sunset cruise.
The craziest thing about having the honeymoon planned and paid for is that it makes the whole thing real. I am going to be a wife. He is going to be a husband. All this batting practice is going to lead up to a real game, an away game in the Caribbean. I'm so excited that we made it this far. I think our team will win.
I felt sickly satisfied when he kept finding places fully booked for our desired dates. I loved looking at his face when he discovered that yes, in fact, some people do plan in advance for important trips. Ha! I'm such an asshole. Why am I so happy that he was wrong? It doesn't matter. We have a lovely trip.
We are going to St. Lucia to stay in a hut in the jungle for a few days and then will join all the other newlyweds at a Sandals. I'm ok with that vacation even if it isn't a rafting trip in Belize or a volcano/canopy hike in Costa Rica. We have our whole lives to do adventure vacationing. On our honeymoon, we're going to snorkel. And lounge. And drink complementary alcohol because it's included in our room rate along with one massage and a sunset cruise.
The craziest thing about having the honeymoon planned and paid for is that it makes the whole thing real. I am going to be a wife. He is going to be a husband. All this batting practice is going to lead up to a real game, an away game in the Caribbean. I'm so excited that we made it this far. I think our team will win.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
I feel good
I feel good about myself today. I decided a long time ago that I didn't want to make or buy or deal with wedding favors. What do people want with picture frames or baggies of chocolate or tulle flowers? Nothing, that's what.
So I decided I wanted to take whatever money I would have spent on favors and donate it to the PA Breast Cancer Coalition. I helped paint Allegheny County pink today! And I feel darn good about it. (I selected Allegheny County because that's where I live and it seemed to need more help than other counties. I want my county to be the pinkest one so we can win!)
Sometimes I was feeling so consumery and elitist and frou-frou during this whole wedding planning process. The fanciness of it all was making my armpits sweat at times and all the work to be done was certainly making my chin break out in zits. (You try getting Corey to participate in an administrative task and see how stress-free your life is!)
But when I made that donation, I felt good inside. I felt good about myself and the wedding. It's like now everyone is coming together to celebrate Core-man and Katy AND helping to find a cure for breast cancer.
I'm very pastoral and idealistic this morning. Weddings are beautiful.
So I decided I wanted to take whatever money I would have spent on favors and donate it to the PA Breast Cancer Coalition. I helped paint Allegheny County pink today! And I feel darn good about it. (I selected Allegheny County because that's where I live and it seemed to need more help than other counties. I want my county to be the pinkest one so we can win!)
Sometimes I was feeling so consumery and elitist and frou-frou during this whole wedding planning process. The fanciness of it all was making my armpits sweat at times and all the work to be done was certainly making my chin break out in zits. (You try getting Corey to participate in an administrative task and see how stress-free your life is!)
But when I made that donation, I felt good inside. I felt good about myself and the wedding. It's like now everyone is coming together to celebrate Core-man and Katy AND helping to find a cure for breast cancer.
I'm very pastoral and idealistic this morning. Weddings are beautiful.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Appositives
I'm really angry right now about my wedding invitations. When I went to the shoppe to order them, I learned that "they" don't punctuate wedding invitations because they are supposed to be formal. Which is a total bizarro world from what they teach you in school: in formal settings you need to be ever more conscious of the rules of grammar and mechanics. No, on wedding invitations, appositives do not get surrounded by commas.
So when I ordered the invitations I had a small panic attack. Could I work as an editor and writer for a living and send invitations with no commas surrounding the appositive? Could I spend 20 hours a week telling football and basketball players that appositives need commas and then partake in purchasing something without them? I decided I couldn't. I wrote in the commas on the order form and the shoppe lady had to circle them and emphasize them and I had to sign my name in blood that I did indeed want my invitations punctuated in this manner. She wrote a special note, too.
Needless to say, Nance picked up the invitations tonight and this is how they are punctuated:
Together with our parents, we, Katy and Corey request the honor of your presence.
Look at it. It's begging for pause. There are elements of information needing to be separated in that phrase. Where is the comma??? Why is this happening to me? What do I do here?
The whole rationale behind ordering the seal-n-send invitations was to save money and precious environmental resources, avoiding wasted tissue liners and spare envelopes and pointless pieces of paper in the packets. Can I live with myself if I send back the invitations to be corrected? Can I deal with it if I have to get a green pen and write in 175 commas? Am I an unreasonable customer? What if they had spelled my name wrong? To me, this is almost worse. Why ask me to circle the comma and write special in the margins if "they" aren't going to honor my wishes anyway? Don't get my hopes up, shoppe!
I am frustrated and don't know what to do. My wedding invitations have typos. I can't decide if that is worse than all the yearbooks I have full of "your a great friend." I guess I won't be framing the invitation to hang on the wall in my house. Instead, I should take them into work and have my students play find the errors. Maybe they'll rub sausage grease and banana stains all over them and I will just cancel the whole shebang out of shock.
So when I ordered the invitations I had a small panic attack. Could I work as an editor and writer for a living and send invitations with no commas surrounding the appositive? Could I spend 20 hours a week telling football and basketball players that appositives need commas and then partake in purchasing something without them? I decided I couldn't. I wrote in the commas on the order form and the shoppe lady had to circle them and emphasize them and I had to sign my name in blood that I did indeed want my invitations punctuated in this manner. She wrote a special note, too.
Needless to say, Nance picked up the invitations tonight and this is how they are punctuated:
Together with our parents, we, Katy and Corey request the honor of your presence.
Look at it. It's begging for pause. There are elements of information needing to be separated in that phrase. Where is the comma??? Why is this happening to me? What do I do here?
The whole rationale behind ordering the seal-n-send invitations was to save money and precious environmental resources, avoiding wasted tissue liners and spare envelopes and pointless pieces of paper in the packets. Can I live with myself if I send back the invitations to be corrected? Can I deal with it if I have to get a green pen and write in 175 commas? Am I an unreasonable customer? What if they had spelled my name wrong? To me, this is almost worse. Why ask me to circle the comma and write special in the margins if "they" aren't going to honor my wishes anyway? Don't get my hopes up, shoppe!
I am frustrated and don't know what to do. My wedding invitations have typos. I can't decide if that is worse than all the yearbooks I have full of "your a great friend." I guess I won't be framing the invitation to hang on the wall in my house. Instead, I should take them into work and have my students play find the errors. Maybe they'll rub sausage grease and banana stains all over them and I will just cancel the whole shebang out of shock.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
The New Jewish Wedding
I spent New Year's Eve reading The New Jewish Wedding by Anita Diamant. Because I'm a nerd. (We did go to a party eventually...) But I learned several really interesting things that I liked a lot. For starters, I learned that it is traditional for both of the groom's parents to walk him to the chuppah and then for both of the bride's parents to walk her to the chuppah. This signifies that a wedding is a blending of families, not just individuals. Isn't that a nice idea? I love it.
Corey thinks it's a nice idea but doesn't want to walk down the aisle because he doesn't want people to look at him. As if people aren't going to look at him all damn day. I feel like sitting in his office and staring at him just to get him used to it. Perhaps he can preview the wedding wine on the big day and will feel better about blending our families in front of a crowd.
I also learned that the Jews were some of the first people to give women some rights. The Ketubah (marriage contract) was a document that gave a woman the security and proof of her rights to her husband's protection and money. It made divorce difficult for fickle men who changed their minds. Granted, it also made the woman out to be like chattel traded for a gold band. Which is why I'm very glad to know this in advance and I can make sure ours contains nice language about love and equality.
It's getting really close and making me have disturbing dreams. Last night I had another wedding band dream, only in this one Corey's ring was entirely too big and he couldn't wear it on our honeymoon. 144 days of bad dreams....I'll just have to plan better and stop being nervous.
Corey thinks it's a nice idea but doesn't want to walk down the aisle because he doesn't want people to look at him. As if people aren't going to look at him all damn day. I feel like sitting in his office and staring at him just to get him used to it. Perhaps he can preview the wedding wine on the big day and will feel better about blending our families in front of a crowd.
I also learned that the Jews were some of the first people to give women some rights. The Ketubah (marriage contract) was a document that gave a woman the security and proof of her rights to her husband's protection and money. It made divorce difficult for fickle men who changed their minds. Granted, it also made the woman out to be like chattel traded for a gold band. Which is why I'm very glad to know this in advance and I can make sure ours contains nice language about love and equality.
It's getting really close and making me have disturbing dreams. Last night I had another wedding band dream, only in this one Corey's ring was entirely too big and he couldn't wear it on our honeymoon. 144 days of bad dreams....I'll just have to plan better and stop being nervous.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
My Ending
My mother, godmother, grandmother, bridesmaid and I went on a dress mission last weekend. We trouped into the bridal shop and took up every chair while I tried on more dresses in one day than I've ever donned in my life.
As a newbie to dress wearing, I needed extra help actually getting into the contraptions. After loudly exclaiming that one of my favorite choices wouldn't fit over my a$$, I learned that in fancy bridal shops, we don't say a$$. We refer to that part of the body as an "ending." As in "Ohh! That dress makes your ending look so tiny!" or "No, the lace on that one is too clingy over your ending."
We suffered through corporate incompetency in David's Bridal, the Wal-Mart of wedding gowns, and my mother even managed to illegally photograph me in a few of the dresses. The salesperson with the weepy sores on her bosom was easily duped into leaving the room to find headpieces and Nance whipped out the camera phone. I don't feel ready to share photos of myself in wedding dresses yes, though. I'm just not ready.
I do think we found a winner. Obviously, it was the very first dress I tried on. It's strapless (a good cut for "strong" shoulders) and white with beads at the top, to draw the eye away from my ending and toward my ample bosom. The a-line skirt is made of flowy material and it only has a small train--perfect for an outside wedding. I could probably make an entire other dress out of the material they'll have to trim off to make it short enough for me. The best part is that I won't have to wear a slip with crinoline and I will be able to use the bathroom all by myself. That's a huge plus for me, because every other wedding I've been in has involved me under a frilly skirt with some toilet paper aimed toward someone else's ending.
As a newbie to dress wearing, I needed extra help actually getting into the contraptions. After loudly exclaiming that one of my favorite choices wouldn't fit over my a$$, I learned that in fancy bridal shops, we don't say a$$. We refer to that part of the body as an "ending." As in "Ohh! That dress makes your ending look so tiny!" or "No, the lace on that one is too clingy over your ending."
We suffered through corporate incompetency in David's Bridal, the Wal-Mart of wedding gowns, and my mother even managed to illegally photograph me in a few of the dresses. The salesperson with the weepy sores on her bosom was easily duped into leaving the room to find headpieces and Nance whipped out the camera phone. I don't feel ready to share photos of myself in wedding dresses yes, though. I'm just not ready.
I do think we found a winner. Obviously, it was the very first dress I tried on. It's strapless (a good cut for "strong" shoulders) and white with beads at the top, to draw the eye away from my ending and toward my ample bosom. The a-line skirt is made of flowy material and it only has a small train--perfect for an outside wedding. I could probably make an entire other dress out of the material they'll have to trim off to make it short enough for me. The best part is that I won't have to wear a slip with crinoline and I will be able to use the bathroom all by myself. That's a huge plus for me, because every other wedding I've been in has involved me under a frilly skirt with some toilet paper aimed toward someone else's ending.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
