For the last year and a half - or more, I'm losing track - the Dork Lord has been getting text messages and phone calls from a girl he used to know. Like, in the Biblical sense. The messages always come on the weekend, somewhere around 2AM, and they always go unanswered. In fact, the Boy usually hands me the phone so I can see just WHO has woken us from those special, special hours of sleep wherein we gear up for another exciting round of Who Gets to Clean up after the Geriatric Dog?
Months of these unanswered, desperately flung texts could make a girl wonder why anyone of her sex would continue to send unrequited booty calls for eighteen months (that's totally a dude thing to do), but also, they could make a girl really, really annoyed.
The first time it happened, the Boy's phone was in my purse. We do that. Share phones. Leave them out. Answer whichever one rings. Know each other's passwords. It's like peeing with the door open - it might not preserve any sort of relationship mystery but it sure saves pretense and time. Now, having the same phones meant that, when drunk and exhausted from a couple hours of pool volleyball, I grabbed the wrong cellular device from my handbag that night and wanted to know, "Who the eff is Natalie and why is she hello strangering me?"
It quickly went from there to tears. Remember, I was drunk. And not on logic.
Anyway, she's kept it up over the year and months since, and the Boy's policy is simply to ignore, ignore, ignore. He's chronically non-confrontational. Unless it concerns me and the pile of shoes that collects by our front door. Or how many towels I need. Ahem. We made her a household joke until... well, until Friday night when I'd had just. about. enough, borrowed her contact information and suggested none too politely that she might want to stop propositioning my fiance.
"Relax," came the reply.
Hoooo boy! As the Dork Lord can attest, suggesting that, in a time of emotional turmoil, I should relax produces anything but the desired outcome. Relax. It's so dismissive and insulting. I'm pissed and I deserve to be! So that's when I suggested, also impolitely, that she invest in a... personal satisfaction device and a pack of batteries save everyone the trouble.
I know. Crass.
The actual wording of the messages had me laughing until my sides hurt. Not because being mean to strangers is funny (heh), but because really, it's not every day that you get to play the crazy, "Imma cut you" fiancee. No, I didn't actually threaten to cut anyone. My threats were a little more vague and reminiscent of that waterfall scene in Last of the Mohicans. Minus the affection.
But then when I was done laughing, I felt just the tiniest bit bad. I mean, yeah, she was desperate and sad, but no real threat to my relationship with the man who is only guilty of two-timing me with trigonometry and C++ textbooks.
"I was mean to a stranger today." I confessed to my sister what I'd done. The "relax" bit made me grind my teeth. And feel justified. RELAX.
"Yeah, Heather, relax. She didn't realize that in the past two years he could have possibly NOT been pining over her and her magical vagina."
I snorted.
"Also, I don't think that counts as being mean to a *stranger*. A stranger would be the lady at the grocery store who didn't know she was in your way, she was just trying to do her job and stock a shelf. This is a skank. Skanks aren't strangers. Everyone knows skanks."
"Ha! Oh, hey, unrelated, I have a pair of shoes I want to send you."
"I'll take 'em!"
"They're black. Like your soul."
Months of these unanswered, desperately flung texts could make a girl wonder why anyone of her sex would continue to send unrequited booty calls for eighteen months (that's totally a dude thing to do), but also, they could make a girl really, really annoyed.
The first time it happened, the Boy's phone was in my purse. We do that. Share phones. Leave them out. Answer whichever one rings. Know each other's passwords. It's like peeing with the door open - it might not preserve any sort of relationship mystery but it sure saves pretense and time. Now, having the same phones meant that, when drunk and exhausted from a couple hours of pool volleyball, I grabbed the wrong cellular device from my handbag that night and wanted to know, "Who the eff is Natalie and why is she hello strangering me?"
It quickly went from there to tears. Remember, I was drunk. And not on logic.
Anyway, she's kept it up over the year and months since, and the Boy's policy is simply to ignore, ignore, ignore. He's chronically non-confrontational. Unless it concerns me and the pile of shoes that collects by our front door. Or how many towels I need. Ahem. We made her a household joke until... well, until Friday night when I'd had just. about. enough, borrowed her contact information and suggested none too politely that she might want to stop propositioning my fiance.
"Relax," came the reply.
Hoooo boy! As the Dork Lord can attest, suggesting that, in a time of emotional turmoil, I should relax produces anything but the desired outcome. Relax. It's so dismissive and insulting. I'm pissed and I deserve to be! So that's when I suggested, also impolitely, that she invest in a... personal satisfaction device and a pack of batteries save everyone the trouble.
I know. Crass.
The actual wording of the messages had me laughing until my sides hurt. Not because being mean to strangers is funny (heh), but because really, it's not every day that you get to play the crazy, "Imma cut you" fiancee. No, I didn't actually threaten to cut anyone. My threats were a little more vague and reminiscent of that waterfall scene in Last of the Mohicans. Minus the affection.
But then when I was done laughing, I felt just the tiniest bit bad. I mean, yeah, she was desperate and sad, but no real threat to my relationship with the man who is only guilty of two-timing me with trigonometry and C++ textbooks.
"I was mean to a stranger today." I confessed to my sister what I'd done. The "relax" bit made me grind my teeth. And feel justified. RELAX.
"Yeah, Heather, relax. She didn't realize that in the past two years he could have possibly NOT been pining over her and her magical vagina."
I snorted.
"Also, I don't think that counts as being mean to a *stranger*. A stranger would be the lady at the grocery store who didn't know she was in your way, she was just trying to do her job and stock a shelf. This is a skank. Skanks aren't strangers. Everyone knows skanks."
"Ha! Oh, hey, unrelated, I have a pair of shoes I want to send you."
"I'll take 'em!"
"They're black. Like your soul."
Before I tell you a story of exaggerated and inappropriate behavior that will make you roll your eyes and say, "This woman is out of her MIND!" I would like to say thank you to everyone for your kind words. The funeral services we attended on Saturday might have been the most uplifting of experiences possible for such a sad time. When someone so beloved and so gifted at making other people feel wanted and important passes, paying tribute to their memory is really life affirming. Makes you want to be a better person. Can anyone really ever say anything more flattering about you than, You make me want to be a better person? I doubt it.
I would also like to say: you absolutely adorable poppets who sent us presents! The registry doesn't give me your address and thus, I am not able to fill out these here thank you notes that I have with your names on them. You should, then, send me your address at thisfish at gmail dot com so as not to cause me excruciating etiquette distress. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN!
Never mind. Addresses found. Thunder lost. Ah, well.
I would also like to say: you absolutely adorable poppets who sent us presents! The registry doesn't give me your address and thus, I am not able to fill out these here thank you notes that I have with your names on them. You should, then, send me your address at thisfish at gmail dot com so as not to cause me excruciating etiquette distress. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN!
Never mind. Addresses found. Thunder lost. Ah, well.
I'm sorry that things are a little less wordy around here this week. The Dork Lord's best friend lost his mother very suddenly on Monday morning. The news has been absolutely devastating and totally incomprehensible and all we can do is keep the fridge full of casseroles and beer and imagine what we would do if it happened to us.
Saturday night, the Boy's family threw us the most wonderful, intimate engagement dinner at his parents home. I wish you could have seen just how amazing every little detail was. Sunflowers and potted basil, burlap laid over the table linens to make it look like a charmed, rustic osteria, our names and wedding date on tiny bottles of olive oil. The theme of the wedding is "la dolce vita" (I went D-I-Y with the wedding website, as well) and if our reception turns out anything like that dinner, it will be everything I could hope for. Food, laughter and love.
I'm a little overwhelmed that two experiences can be in such diametric opposition to each other, and at the very same time, be so similar in how they magnify my appreciation of even the smallest joys. A poignant lesson from the Universe, for sure.
Saturday night, the Boy's family threw us the most wonderful, intimate engagement dinner at his parents home. I wish you could have seen just how amazing every little detail was. Sunflowers and potted basil, burlap laid over the table linens to make it look like a charmed, rustic osteria, our names and wedding date on tiny bottles of olive oil. The theme of the wedding is "la dolce vita" (I went D-I-Y with the wedding website, as well) and if our reception turns out anything like that dinner, it will be everything I could hope for. Food, laughter and love.
I'm a little overwhelmed that two experiences can be in such diametric opposition to each other, and at the very same time, be so similar in how they magnify my appreciation of even the smallest joys. A poignant lesson from the Universe, for sure.
Remember when Issac Mizrahi was designing for Target? Yeah, pretty much from now until my first hip replacement surgery (or first Life Alert purchase, whichever comes first) when I refer to the "good old days," that's what I'll be referring to.
Ok, ladies, here's the (partial) outcome of the great make up chase of 2010. My face has officially said No, thank you to mineral make up. Disastrous. No amount of moisturizer made up for the drying it caused. However, my face is currently loving Nars blush in Orgasm - I absolutely love it. So fresh and pretty. Also, Lorac powder. Glorious!
Because of priority-realignments, I don't really *do* this anymore. You know, buy things for the strict purpose of prettying - things you can't find on sale at Target or CVS. But my Pops sent me birthday money and I made myself promise I wouldn't use it for anything practical. Promise kept! Today's after work adventure involves choosing the right shade of Makeup Forever HD and a berry-ish but neutral lip color. From everything I gathered from your wise words, MAC will be my go-to. You realize this involves going into the mall, though, right? That's like the Lion's Den for me and my commitment to practical money managing. Hmmm. I wonder where I can borrow a set of horse blinders...
Ok, ladies, here's the (partial) outcome of the great make up chase of 2010. My face has officially said No, thank you to mineral make up. Disastrous. No amount of moisturizer made up for the drying it caused. However, my face is currently loving Nars blush in Orgasm - I absolutely love it. So fresh and pretty. Also, Lorac powder. Glorious!
Because of priority-realignments, I don't really *do* this anymore. You know, buy things for the strict purpose of prettying - things you can't find on sale at Target or CVS. But my Pops sent me birthday money and I made myself promise I wouldn't use it for anything practical. Promise kept! Today's after work adventure involves choosing the right shade of Makeup Forever HD and a berry-ish but neutral lip color. From everything I gathered from your wise words, MAC will be my go-to. You realize this involves going into the mall, though, right? That's like the Lion's Den for me and my commitment to practical money managing. Hmmm. I wonder where I can borrow a set of horse blinders...
Hooboy, this wedding sure got D-I-Y in a hurry! Which, strangely, also means it suddenly got a whole lot more fun.
Today I am letting the potential caterers know that we've decided to go in another direction - the direction in which no one will take advantage of us. See, my brother is a very gifted hobbyist chef. My mother and youngest sister also have The Gift. Sister Number Two (there are three of them, if you're new to my circus) gently pointed out that with all this talent - and so much willingness to put it to use - I was just being silly indulging these catering companies in their cat and mouse games.
Does doing the food by ourselves take a whole lot more planning and coordination? Why, yes, yes it does. But guess what? I don't have to do it! Sister Number Two has volunteered her services as Logistics Director. This involves many spreadsheets, a big, fat notebook and loads of research and scheduling - all to her delight. Turns out, she really wanted to go the Do-it-Yourself route for her own wedding this year and got vetoed. The Hunter-Griffith Wedding will be her take two and she will kick some serious ass at it.
Jessalyn, of The Shoestring Bride, will be on hand for coordination on the day of the wedding so that no family members will be involved in back-of-house activities during the event. Period. Time will tell, but this might just be the smartest decision I ever make in my whole life.
Sister Number Three, Director of Photography, and my friend Eleanor have graciously committed to preserving the day in various digital formats. I don't know how I feel about those newfangled HD camcorders but hey, we're doing this for posterity.
Sister Number One, who will also be serving as Maid of Honor, has been assigned no tasks yet (aside from, you know, picking a dress). But now that I've decided not to let the disgustingly bloated wedding industry have a pound of my flesh, she's probably going to find herself with some floral wire, a yard of ribbon and dozens of Whole Foods' finest blooms.
All I have to do is make suggestions, nod and smile as others make the final decisions, and manage the budget. And you know how I love a good budget (it's like built-in shelving for your dollars). Did I mention it's a whole lot more fun this way? Because it is.
Today I am letting the potential caterers know that we've decided to go in another direction - the direction in which no one will take advantage of us. See, my brother is a very gifted hobbyist chef. My mother and youngest sister also have The Gift. Sister Number Two (there are three of them, if you're new to my circus) gently pointed out that with all this talent - and so much willingness to put it to use - I was just being silly indulging these catering companies in their cat and mouse games.
Does doing the food by ourselves take a whole lot more planning and coordination? Why, yes, yes it does. But guess what? I don't have to do it! Sister Number Two has volunteered her services as Logistics Director. This involves many spreadsheets, a big, fat notebook and loads of research and scheduling - all to her delight. Turns out, she really wanted to go the Do-it-Yourself route for her own wedding this year and got vetoed. The Hunter-Griffith Wedding will be her take two and she will kick some serious ass at it.
Jessalyn, of The Shoestring Bride, will be on hand for coordination on the day of the wedding so that no family members will be involved in back-of-house activities during the event. Period. Time will tell, but this might just be the smartest decision I ever make in my whole life.
Sister Number Three, Director of Photography, and my friend Eleanor have graciously committed to preserving the day in various digital formats. I don't know how I feel about those newfangled HD camcorders but hey, we're doing this for posterity.
Sister Number One, who will also be serving as Maid of Honor, has been assigned no tasks yet (aside from, you know, picking a dress). But now that I've decided not to let the disgustingly bloated wedding industry have a pound of my flesh, she's probably going to find herself with some floral wire, a yard of ribbon and dozens of Whole Foods' finest blooms.
All I have to do is make suggestions, nod and smile as others make the final decisions, and manage the budget. And you know how I love a good budget (it's like built-in shelving for your dollars). Did I mention it's a whole lot more fun this way? Because it is.
I promise not to turn this into a wedding planning blog (because one, unless you're also getting married and going through this circus, you'll get really tired of me really fast and two, I don't even like talking about this stuff) but I have to tell you that I got a quote for catering and what. the. hell. Perhaps my grasp on reality is a bit tenuous but there is something that seems so wrong about paying three dollars for one stuffed mushroom. Oh, hey, would you like a tiny wafer with a bit of beef on top? That and a meatball on a toothpick will cost you six bucks.
By wrong, I mean it seems irresponsible and you know, fundamentally icky.
Believe me, I am all for paying people for their gumption and talents. But I've already said no way, no how to a photographer (neither the groom nor I even kind of LIKE standing for photos and what's more, I have never, ever heard a bride say, "God, I'm so glad we took so many damn pictures.That was the best money ever spent!") because I can't fathom how anyone really believes that two hours of their time is worth eighteen hundred dollars unless they're performing some kind of life-saving surgery. Wedding photography and kidney transplants all rolled into one!
I can't do this.
Addendum: Ha! I knew I shouldn't have mentioned the photography. The groom and I are agreed. We will not be spending money on a professional photographer and that's that. We don't like standing for posed photos and will only do a few of the families to appease said families. We're all for candids and my siblings are excellent at that. So. I'm afraid I'm unmovable on the point.
By wrong, I mean it seems irresponsible and you know, fundamentally icky.
Believe me, I am all for paying people for their gumption and talents. But I've already said no way, no how to a photographer (neither the groom nor I even kind of LIKE standing for photos and what's more, I have never, ever heard a bride say, "God, I'm so glad we took so many damn pictures.That was the best money ever spent!") because I can't fathom how anyone really believes that two hours of their time is worth eighteen hundred dollars unless they're performing some kind of life-saving surgery. Wedding photography and kidney transplants all rolled into one!
I can't do this.
Addendum: Ha! I knew I shouldn't have mentioned the photography. The groom and I are agreed. We will not be spending money on a professional photographer and that's that. We don't like standing for posed photos and will only do a few of the families to appease said families. We're all for candids and my siblings are excellent at that. So. I'm afraid I'm unmovable on the point.
If you are a travel agent, or just really, really smart about these things, could you tell me the best (hahahahaha, okay, I mean cheapest) way to fly to one European city (like say, Rome) and leave from another, smaller-airported city (like, say Napoli)? Napoli's smaller airport means folks like American just don't go there, so that means, what, I should be looking for a regional airline to take me from Napoli to Rome? I mean, it seems to me that when an airport says it's "international" I should be able to get on a plane there are go to another country. Across the ocean.
Why so difficult, Universe?
Clarification in the First: Don't worry. No one is staying in Napoli. It's just the closest transportation hub.
Clarification in the Second: I've taken the train from Rome to Napoli and back and it is totally the way to go... if you have an extra day of travel. That's the thing I wanted to weasel my way out of.
Why so difficult, Universe?
Clarification in the First: Don't worry. No one is staying in Napoli. It's just the closest transportation hub.
Clarification in the Second: I've taken the train from Rome to Napoli and back and it is totally the way to go... if you have an extra day of travel. That's the thing I wanted to weasel my way out of.
This weekend, we bottled wine. The process of which, I'll be honest, felt quite contrary to all of my previous experience with the unbottling of wine. And I don't know if I've told you, but, well, I'm very talented at it. The actual bottling of the stuff takes a little more eye/hand coordination than I am gifted with, so I took my place in the assembly line as bottle washer, corker and applier of slightly crooked labels (see: eye/hand coordination).
The event took place at a winery in the aptly named town of Grapevine. It's a good thirty minutes away and my one experience with Grapevine consists of a date with a guy who lived out there - a lovely dinner, a trip to a wine bar, food poisoning and projectile vomiting. I went to Urgent Care in a brown silk dress and my date's bright red hockey socks. I was recounting that unfortunate episode on Saturday night, and had anyone been in the know, they might just have gestured across the room to the wine tasting counter and said, "That guy?"
Because there he was. What are the odds?
And before I could remember if our association had ended awkwardly (which, um, it might have) I ran right over to say hello. And you thought my eye/hand coordination was bad. It gets even muckier when decision making skills are involved. By the time I got back to my friends, after a good round of oh, ha ha, remember so-and-so, I still couldn't remember exactly how it ended other than, at the time, I was nursing a broken heart and that I probably had those red hockey socks in a drawer somewhere. All signs point to some degree of awkward. For a second, I wanted to face palm myself and then I thought, Hey! We're in a winery. He has no idea I'm sober and embarrassed. In fact, given our surroundings, he might just be assuming I'm toasted and shameless.
And then, I went with that. Toasted and shameless. It's really how I do my best work, anyway.
The event took place at a winery in the aptly named town of Grapevine. It's a good thirty minutes away and my one experience with Grapevine consists of a date with a guy who lived out there - a lovely dinner, a trip to a wine bar, food poisoning and projectile vomiting. I went to Urgent Care in a brown silk dress and my date's bright red hockey socks. I was recounting that unfortunate episode on Saturday night, and had anyone been in the know, they might just have gestured across the room to the wine tasting counter and said, "That guy?"
Because there he was. What are the odds?
And before I could remember if our association had ended awkwardly (which, um, it might have) I ran right over to say hello. And you thought my eye/hand coordination was bad. It gets even muckier when decision making skills are involved. By the time I got back to my friends, after a good round of oh, ha ha, remember so-and-so, I still couldn't remember exactly how it ended other than, at the time, I was nursing a broken heart and that I probably had those red hockey socks in a drawer somewhere. All signs point to some degree of awkward. For a second, I wanted to face palm myself and then I thought, Hey! We're in a winery. He has no idea I'm sober and embarrassed. In fact, given our surroundings, he might just be assuming I'm toasted and shameless.
And then, I went with that. Toasted and shameless. It's really how I do my best work, anyway.
Oh, ha ha, you guys. Let me tell you a funny story.
Once upon a time on Saturday morning, I sat down at the kitchen counter to finish my coffee and write up a grocery list. Milk, eggs, bread - one loaf or two? One. There's a back-up in the freezer. Broccoli, spinach. Apples. Coffee? Nope, I just bought that new bag two weeks ago. And then suddenly, with a sounding of trumpets, Bill Nye the Science Guy came down from the sky in a puff of dry ice fog.
"Two weeks ago?" Bill Nye asked, forgoing any good morning pleasantries.
"Yes, Mr. Science Guy. I was really excited because Sprouts had that Ethiopian coffee that I can never, ever get my hands on."
"Please, call me Bill. So, you're telling me, that two weeks ago you switched coffee brands."
"Yes, and it's quite tasty. Can I get you a cup?"
"Thank you, no. Two weeks ago. Hmmm," said Bill Nye, tapping a scientific finger to his temple. "Wasn't that around the time you developed that wacky eye spasm?"
"What are you getting at, Bill?"
I immediately put down my cup, and gave it the People's Eyebrow. Could it be? My eye was already beginning to flutter, so Bill and I scheduled our little experiment for the next morning, when I swapped out my luxurious Ethiopian brew for ordinary old Peet's French Roast and... wait for it... my eye didn't do jack squat all the livelong day.
I could punch myself in the face.
Once upon a time on Saturday morning, I sat down at the kitchen counter to finish my coffee and write up a grocery list. Milk, eggs, bread - one loaf or two? One. There's a back-up in the freezer. Broccoli, spinach. Apples. Coffee? Nope, I just bought that new bag two weeks ago. And then suddenly, with a sounding of trumpets, Bill Nye the Science Guy came down from the sky in a puff of dry ice fog.
"Two weeks ago?" Bill Nye asked, forgoing any good morning pleasantries.
"Yes, Mr. Science Guy. I was really excited because Sprouts had that Ethiopian coffee that I can never, ever get my hands on."
"Please, call me Bill. So, you're telling me, that two weeks ago you switched coffee brands."
"Yes, and it's quite tasty. Can I get you a cup?"
"Thank you, no. Two weeks ago. Hmmm," said Bill Nye, tapping a scientific finger to his temple. "Wasn't that around the time you developed that wacky eye spasm?"
"What are you getting at, Bill?"
I immediately put down my cup, and gave it the People's Eyebrow. Could it be? My eye was already beginning to flutter, so Bill and I scheduled our little experiment for the next morning, when I swapped out my luxurious Ethiopian brew for ordinary old Peet's French Roast and... wait for it... my eye didn't do jack squat all the livelong day.
I could punch myself in the face.
Oh, you guys. My life is so complicated now! Bananas, calcium chews, magnesium supplements. I feel like I should invest in a closet full of caftans and a retirement condo.Do I still have a flutter in my left eye? You betcha! But on the plus side, I am for-ti-fied and ready for my golden years.
I thought about mentioning the huge philosophical divide between my siblings over the Prop 8 ruling, but then I realized that oh, hey, my eye is already twitching like fresh roadkill, maybe I shouldn't necessarily create any more tension for myself.
Last night, the Dork Lord picked up some beer and cookies (because that is how we roll) and we popped in our weekly Netflix pick for a nice relaxing night in. Ah. Soothing. Only, the movie was The Lovely Bones. And hell, I read the book so I knew (or thought I did) what was coming, but that was one movie I could have done without. By the time we head to bed, we're deep into conversations about what we'd do if we lost a child or one another and god, I don't think I could bring myself to throw out your things. Meanwhile, my eye is all twitch, twitch and, I've got my hand over my eye to slow the twitching and the Boy stops and looks at me as if he is beginning to wonder if he should reconsider this union entirely because clearly I am either a) a psychopath b) broken or c) about to develop a nasty case of meth mouth.
Sigh. Either love is never having to say, "I swear I'm not a tweaker!" or I'm about to have a lot of time to spend wearing my caftans, sitting alone at a card table learning how to play Bridge.
I thought about mentioning the huge philosophical divide between my siblings over the Prop 8 ruling, but then I realized that oh, hey, my eye is already twitching like fresh roadkill, maybe I shouldn't necessarily create any more tension for myself.
Last night, the Dork Lord picked up some beer and cookies (because that is how we roll) and we popped in our weekly Netflix pick for a nice relaxing night in. Ah. Soothing. Only, the movie was The Lovely Bones. And hell, I read the book so I knew (or thought I did) what was coming, but that was one movie I could have done without. By the time we head to bed, we're deep into conversations about what we'd do if we lost a child or one another and god, I don't think I could bring myself to throw out your things. Meanwhile, my eye is all twitch, twitch and, I've got my hand over my eye to slow the twitching and the Boy stops and looks at me as if he is beginning to wonder if he should reconsider this union entirely because clearly I am either a) a psychopath b) broken or c) about to develop a nasty case of meth mouth.
Sigh. Either love is never having to say, "I swear I'm not a tweaker!" or I'm about to have a lot of time to spend wearing my caftans, sitting alone at a card table learning how to play Bridge.
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