Showing posts with label Tying the knot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tying the knot. Show all posts
Monday, August 15, 2005
Sound and Fury
So the e-mail was a misinterpretation of a misinterpretation. My friend is hereby exonerated, and I'm probably a bad person for writing anything in the first place. Or at least an impulsive one who should keep her conclusions to herself. I shall leave the post up for a warning about what can happen when the subtleties of communication are lost via the joys of modern technology. And never fear, my picture of the bridesmaids is on the mantle where it belongs and would have remained, regardless of any dress disagreements. Seriously, it's probably a good thing the world leaders don't hold strategic forums with each other by e-mail -- can't you see Kim Jong Il nuking the entire western hemisphere because Dubya makes some grammatical faux paux without realizing its implications?
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
The wheels of bureaucracy are grinding...
I spent a pleasant morning today at Pike Place, doing some shopping for the big relocation. I purchased a half pound of my favorite tea to bring comfort on those lonely, grey sky English evenings. ("Sunset in Seattle" -- buy it now, or you will never know what real tea tastes like. Ever.) It smells delicious, but it also unfortunately looks quite a bit like a giant bag of pot. I pointed this out to the clerk, and she grabbed a big marker and wrote "NOT DRUGS" on the label, just to help me get through customs. Somehow, I think I might have trouble explaining this to airline security personnel.
I also purchased a photograph of the Seattle skyline at sunset so I can look up at my city when I miss it most. It does not include the Space Needle, but it does have the long-gone Kingdome in it. After all, no one from Seattle actually wants to spend money going up the Needle to see the city they already live in, and everyone misses the Kingdome in a sick, twisted way. Afterwards, I stopped in at Le Pichet to have a croissant and a cup of hot chocolate, and then I made the Fatal, Irreversible Error of the Day: I went to the King County records office to obtain certified copies of our marriage certificate.
The clerk seemed helpful at first and prepared two certified copies. I took them, paid, and started to walk away -- then I glanced down at the certificate. The certificate was for a Megan Matthews. From Hawai'i. Married to some guy from Lubbock, Texas. Five years ago.
Foolishly, I assumed this had to be a quick, easily remedied mistake. The man at the counter looked at the certificates with consternation, clicked a few things on his computer screen, and said cheerfully, "Well, you're right - this isn't you!" (Thank you for that, sir. I sometimes forget and think that I am an older Hawai'ian woman married to a Texan.) Then he furrowed his brow and said, "The bad news is that you aren't on file. We don't have a record of your marriage."
I blinked. He waited for a response. I continued blinking.
Eventually, he realized that my stunned silence was a reaction and told me to wait until he could ask his supervisor about what to do. It would have been nice to know that she was on the phone with the world's most ponderous, agonizingly dimwitted customer -- I might have left, gone up the hill to have a haircut, purchased a week's worth of groceries, returned home, put them away, and come back in time for her to hang up the phone. Instead, I stood in an incredibly ugly lobby by some deceased pointsettias, unsuccessfully attempting to rest my back against the 45-degree angles of the nearest kiosk.
After several years passed, the supervisor hung up the phone, and my assistant went over to discuss the situation. She apparently decided they couldn't do a damn thing, because they told me to go back upstairs to marriage licensing to ask them what happened. I wanted to point out that this wouldn't accomplish anything, since the whole county is on the same computer system with the same freaking records, but they called the next customer and that was that.
Upstairs, they told me I needed to find the commemorative version of the marriage certificate, bring it in, and beg the General Records Department to accept it instead. The commemorative version was in Snohomish, what with it being a completely useless, symbolic piece of paper.
After a breakneck drive to Snohomish and back, I made it through the door of General Records just before closing time. Everything was set, and then they told me that it would cost $34 to record it...because it was double-sided and they had to charge by the page. And they only took cash, but their ATM was broken, so I'd have to sprint up the 30-degree slope of James Street to the nearest bank two blocks north because it was 4:21 and they closed at 4:30.
At that point, I picked up the nearest blunt object and smashed every monitor in the room to bits before stealing their scanner and doing the job myself.
I sprinted up the hill and made it back in time, though I was unable to speak for several minutes after running for my life up a fricking mountain and narrowly missing being crushed under the wheels of a red-light running Metro bus. So I paid $17 PER PAGE (plus $12 extra for two certified copies!) and thus: my marriage became legal. Or will be tomorrow at 9am, since they mysteriously stop registering new certificates at 3pm.
As I turned to go, I cautiously asked, "So, this certificate will be legal tender in other places, right? Because we're moving out of the country..."
The customer service agent waved her hand blithely and said, "It should, yeah."
Should? SHOULD?!?!!
For all of these hassles, we should have just stayed single and waited for common-law marriage rules to kick in. It would have taken about the same amount of time anyway.
I also purchased a photograph of the Seattle skyline at sunset so I can look up at my city when I miss it most. It does not include the Space Needle, but it does have the long-gone Kingdome in it. After all, no one from Seattle actually wants to spend money going up the Needle to see the city they already live in, and everyone misses the Kingdome in a sick, twisted way. Afterwards, I stopped in at Le Pichet to have a croissant and a cup of hot chocolate, and then I made the Fatal, Irreversible Error of the Day: I went to the King County records office to obtain certified copies of our marriage certificate.
The clerk seemed helpful at first and prepared two certified copies. I took them, paid, and started to walk away -- then I glanced down at the certificate. The certificate was for a Megan Matthews. From Hawai'i. Married to some guy from Lubbock, Texas. Five years ago.
Foolishly, I assumed this had to be a quick, easily remedied mistake. The man at the counter looked at the certificates with consternation, clicked a few things on his computer screen, and said cheerfully, "Well, you're right - this isn't you!" (Thank you for that, sir. I sometimes forget and think that I am an older Hawai'ian woman married to a Texan.) Then he furrowed his brow and said, "The bad news is that you aren't on file. We don't have a record of your marriage."
I blinked. He waited for a response. I continued blinking.
Eventually, he realized that my stunned silence was a reaction and told me to wait until he could ask his supervisor about what to do. It would have been nice to know that she was on the phone with the world's most ponderous, agonizingly dimwitted customer -- I might have left, gone up the hill to have a haircut, purchased a week's worth of groceries, returned home, put them away, and come back in time for her to hang up the phone. Instead, I stood in an incredibly ugly lobby by some deceased pointsettias, unsuccessfully attempting to rest my back against the 45-degree angles of the nearest kiosk.
After several years passed, the supervisor hung up the phone, and my assistant went over to discuss the situation. She apparently decided they couldn't do a damn thing, because they told me to go back upstairs to marriage licensing to ask them what happened. I wanted to point out that this wouldn't accomplish anything, since the whole county is on the same computer system with the same freaking records, but they called the next customer and that was that.
Upstairs, they told me I needed to find the commemorative version of the marriage certificate, bring it in, and beg the General Records Department to accept it instead. The commemorative version was in Snohomish, what with it being a completely useless, symbolic piece of paper.
After a breakneck drive to Snohomish and back, I made it through the door of General Records just before closing time. Everything was set, and then they told me that it would cost $34 to record it...because it was double-sided and they had to charge by the page. And they only took cash, but their ATM was broken, so I'd have to sprint up the 30-degree slope of James Street to the nearest bank two blocks north because it was 4:21 and they closed at 4:30.
At that point, I picked up the nearest blunt object and smashed every monitor in the room to bits before stealing their scanner and doing the job myself.
I sprinted up the hill and made it back in time, though I was unable to speak for several minutes after running for my life up a fricking mountain and narrowly missing being crushed under the wheels of a red-light running Metro bus. So I paid $17 PER PAGE (plus $12 extra for two certified copies!) and thus: my marriage became legal. Or will be tomorrow at 9am, since they mysteriously stop registering new certificates at 3pm.
As I turned to go, I cautiously asked, "So, this certificate will be legal tender in other places, right? Because we're moving out of the country..."
The customer service agent waved her hand blithely and said, "It should, yeah."
Should? SHOULD?!?!!
For all of these hassles, we should have just stayed single and waited for common-law marriage rules to kick in. It would have taken about the same amount of time anyway.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The lady sure cleans up good
Our wedding photos are up! Check out our astonishing number of pictures here:
http://www.hartmanphotography.com/howie.htm
Notice how our smiles go from "Yay! We're so blissfully in love!" to "Hey, we're still smiling!" to "My god, if someone doesn't get me a goddamned drink and stop asking me to smile EVERY DAMN SECOND, I'm going to SHRED this dress and hightail it to the nearest Bavarian bar."
Actually, we had much more fun than that -- but it does tax one immensely to smile for FIVE. STRAIGHT. HOURS. It also makes me wish I'd had the foresight as a teenager to stop drinking caffeinated beverages in preparation for the glorious day when everyone and their mothers would be staring at my not-quite-white teeth, immortalized forever in a set of 4x6's.
Our photographer is amazing, by the way. I recommend him if you ever need someone to take your picture for anything (wedding, important birthday, crucial girls-only party that must be documented for future blackmailing).
We celebrated the 4th yesterday by crowding onto a friend's balcony and watching giant fireworks explode right in front of us. After the better part of a six-pack, I could swear those suckers were coming closer with every bang, to the point where the vibrations rattled my breastbone. We spent most of the show twisting the words to God Bless America ("God bless America, except for blue states") and remarking on the unfortunate similarities between firework noise and gunfire. Soon, most of us were naming each new firework pattern after a new weapon or military acronym. Only in Seattle, baby. :)
By the way, here's why I love my husband. Just now, after a period of prolonged silence, he turned to me with a spark in his eyes and said with ferocious intensity, "This variation (in patterns of linkage disequilibrium between different populations) will translate to different sets of tagging SNPs for different populations...the essential prerequisite to my algorithm!"
Oh baby, oh baby. I think I need to start force-reading him Seamus Heaney and Chaucer, just for good measure.
http://www.hartmanphotography.com/howie.htm
Notice how our smiles go from "Yay! We're so blissfully in love!" to "Hey, we're still smiling!" to "My god, if someone doesn't get me a goddamned drink and stop asking me to smile EVERY DAMN SECOND, I'm going to SHRED this dress and hightail it to the nearest Bavarian bar."
Actually, we had much more fun than that -- but it does tax one immensely to smile for FIVE. STRAIGHT. HOURS. It also makes me wish I'd had the foresight as a teenager to stop drinking caffeinated beverages in preparation for the glorious day when everyone and their mothers would be staring at my not-quite-white teeth, immortalized forever in a set of 4x6's.
Our photographer is amazing, by the way. I recommend him if you ever need someone to take your picture for anything (wedding, important birthday, crucial girls-only party that must be documented for future blackmailing).
We celebrated the 4th yesterday by crowding onto a friend's balcony and watching giant fireworks explode right in front of us. After the better part of a six-pack, I could swear those suckers were coming closer with every bang, to the point where the vibrations rattled my breastbone. We spent most of the show twisting the words to God Bless America ("God bless America, except for blue states") and remarking on the unfortunate similarities between firework noise and gunfire. Soon, most of us were naming each new firework pattern after a new weapon or military acronym. Only in Seattle, baby. :)
By the way, here's why I love my husband. Just now, after a period of prolonged silence, he turned to me with a spark in his eyes and said with ferocious intensity, "This variation (in patterns of linkage disequilibrium between different populations) will translate to different sets of tagging SNPs for different populations...the essential prerequisite to my algorithm!"
Oh baby, oh baby. I think I need to start force-reading him Seamus Heaney and Chaucer, just for good measure.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
This is the first day of my life
I've had that Bright Eyes song running through my head all morning, probably because I'm coming up on a full week of waking up next to my Husband. I don't think capitalizing the "h" really conveys the significance of what took place last Friday, but I'm not sure what would.
When we left the reception on our slow-as-molasses carriage ride (a GOOD thing -- nothing but silence, the steady clop of draft horse hooves, and the wide open fields before us), I experienced a jumble of emotions in rapid succession that went something like this:
"Wait a minute. What just happened? I think I just married my husband...Oh my god, has my dress been this dirty all day? I hope no one noticed...Holy sh--, I just married my husband! Tell me this frantic washing machine sensation in my stomach is normal! ... I can't believe who caught the bouquet -- I'd love it if she actually married next...wait a minute, there's a ring on my hand...why don't I remember having it placed on my finger?? Who is this guy next to me, and what is he going to look like 50 years from now? What am I going to look like? Augh!!!"
Fortunately, we arrived at our cabin 20 minutes later, and my internal roaring subsided as we leaned on the deck overlooking the valley, watching hummingbirds swoop between top-heavy stalks of honeysuckle.
There's so much to write and so many things to say, but all I can come back to now is the unwavering sense of bliss I've felt since I finally let reality settle in. My name may not have changed, but my life did. I think I was born right in that doorway, waiting my turn to step out into the grass where friends and family stood together. Nothing in my life has ever felt so right.
When we left the reception on our slow-as-molasses carriage ride (a GOOD thing -- nothing but silence, the steady clop of draft horse hooves, and the wide open fields before us), I experienced a jumble of emotions in rapid succession that went something like this:
"Wait a minute. What just happened? I think I just married my husband...Oh my god, has my dress been this dirty all day? I hope no one noticed...Holy sh--, I just married my husband! Tell me this frantic washing machine sensation in my stomach is normal! ... I can't believe who caught the bouquet -- I'd love it if she actually married next...wait a minute, there's a ring on my hand...why don't I remember having it placed on my finger?? Who is this guy next to me, and what is he going to look like 50 years from now? What am I going to look like? Augh!!!"
Fortunately, we arrived at our cabin 20 minutes later, and my internal roaring subsided as we leaned on the deck overlooking the valley, watching hummingbirds swoop between top-heavy stalks of honeysuckle.
There's so much to write and so many things to say, but all I can come back to now is the unwavering sense of bliss I've felt since I finally let reality settle in. My name may not have changed, but my life did. I think I was born right in that doorway, waiting my turn to step out into the grass where friends and family stood together. Nothing in my life has ever felt so right.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Runaway train...
I'm not someone who "feels" things on a deep level. I tend to have quick flashes of intensity -- happiness or anger, angst or sorrow -- but nothing really lingers for more than a little while.
That's why this whole wedding/best friend going to Kansas/moving out of the country extravaganza has thrown me for a loop. I've never experienced so many consecutive extreme highs and dramatic lows in the space of a few months. The right song will make me burst into tears; the right movie make me laugh like I've just discovered how to enjoy life. I might be driving home from an incredible night out with a friend and find myself in tears, knowing this could be the last time I see her again. It's not mania: it's finally allowing all of these changes to register internally, opening myself up to all of the joy and pain that accompany life-changing moments.
It's terrible.
It's amazing.
That's why this whole wedding/best friend going to Kansas/moving out of the country extravaganza has thrown me for a loop. I've never experienced so many consecutive extreme highs and dramatic lows in the space of a few months. The right song will make me burst into tears; the right movie make me laugh like I've just discovered how to enjoy life. I might be driving home from an incredible night out with a friend and find myself in tears, knowing this could be the last time I see her again. It's not mania: it's finally allowing all of these changes to register internally, opening myself up to all of the joy and pain that accompany life-changing moments.
It's terrible.
It's amazing.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
The Girl's Guide to Debauchery
Here's the post-best friend getaway report, straight from the now-sober fingers of a co-conspirator.
Kelli (my maid of honor) and I took a much-needed break last weekend by escaping to the Oregon coast. We'd planned three and a half days in Seaside, but one look at the stripmalls and hotels convinced us to make a beeline for Cannon Beach. Our room at a not-to-be-named hotel? The size of a closet, complete with large, noisy ceiling fan and window looking onto the hallway. After making 15 minutes of frantic phone calls in Kelli's car (at 9:30 pm - very late for beach towns), we managed to find one room left at a Cannon Beach inn. We limped down the coast, exhausted and starving, but relieved that we wouldn't have to spend the night in our cars on the shoulder of Highway 101.
Upon arrival, it was clear we made the right choice. Our ginormous inn had a pool, a jacuzzi big enough for a small hippo, a massage parlour, beachfront property...the list goes on, but the best part is that we didn't have to sell our belongings to stay there.
We spend the weekend waking up very, very late; cruising into town for fat-saturated breakfasts and window shopping; strolling miles of soft, sandy beaches and scoping out tidepools; eating ridiculously large dinners, followed by decadent desserts; and staying up late with movies, drinks, and long conversations. I discovered that I can still hold my own in small-town bars. We both discovered that overcast days and fair, Irish skin do not mix well. I may pop a seam in my wedding dress, but it was worth every damn bite of that chocolate souffle.
In case I haven't mentioned it, Kelli is the kind of friend every girl dreams of meeting. I've never been good at making friends, let alone best friends, but it all comes easily with her. We understand each other in an uncanny and occasionally frightening way; our lives tend to run on parallel tracks and always have. Moving away from her is causing me more heartache than anything else at this point, even though I know we'll be commiserating over e-mail and online telephones. Instead of focusing on that, I'm trying to be grateful for the countless memories and misadventures we've had, and to look forward to years more when we both come back to the Pacific Northwest. Sometimes, you meet people and you know your souls have met in the past, somewhere or somewhen. I shouldn't be so upset, because these are the people you never lose. I just have to have faith in that connection and in an old, irreplaceable friendship.
Kelli (my maid of honor) and I took a much-needed break last weekend by escaping to the Oregon coast. We'd planned three and a half days in Seaside, but one look at the stripmalls and hotels convinced us to make a beeline for Cannon Beach. Our room at a not-to-be-named hotel? The size of a closet, complete with large, noisy ceiling fan and window looking onto the hallway. After making 15 minutes of frantic phone calls in Kelli's car (at 9:30 pm - very late for beach towns), we managed to find one room left at a Cannon Beach inn. We limped down the coast, exhausted and starving, but relieved that we wouldn't have to spend the night in our cars on the shoulder of Highway 101.
Upon arrival, it was clear we made the right choice. Our ginormous inn had a pool, a jacuzzi big enough for a small hippo, a massage parlour, beachfront property...the list goes on, but the best part is that we didn't have to sell our belongings to stay there.
We spend the weekend waking up very, very late; cruising into town for fat-saturated breakfasts and window shopping; strolling miles of soft, sandy beaches and scoping out tidepools; eating ridiculously large dinners, followed by decadent desserts; and staying up late with movies, drinks, and long conversations. I discovered that I can still hold my own in small-town bars. We both discovered that overcast days and fair, Irish skin do not mix well. I may pop a seam in my wedding dress, but it was worth every damn bite of that chocolate souffle.
In case I haven't mentioned it, Kelli is the kind of friend every girl dreams of meeting. I've never been good at making friends, let alone best friends, but it all comes easily with her. We understand each other in an uncanny and occasionally frightening way; our lives tend to run on parallel tracks and always have. Moving away from her is causing me more heartache than anything else at this point, even though I know we'll be commiserating over e-mail and online telephones. Instead of focusing on that, I'm trying to be grateful for the countless memories and misadventures we've had, and to look forward to years more when we both come back to the Pacific Northwest. Sometimes, you meet people and you know your souls have met in the past, somewhere or somewhen. I shouldn't be so upset, because these are the people you never lose. I just have to have faith in that connection and in an old, irreplaceable friendship.
Someone stop the madness!
We are seven days away from the wedding *insert SHRIEEEEK of sheer, unabated terror here*. Let me try that again without the shriek.
WE ARE SEVEN FREAKING DAYS AWAY FROM MY FREAKING WEDDING!
That didn't improve things.
Yesterday, we moved into the house we'll be watching for an old professor until August 1st. We're back in Seattle, which makes me incredibly happy. Things which do not make me incredibly happy: trying to make my own music playlist for the reception. At this point, guests had better appreciate the blood and sweat that went into our efforts to balance mellow with lively, eating music with dancing tunes, and sweet with sexy -- or else I will kill them with my own bare hands and the heels of my tango shoes.
Maybe not kill. But at least terrorize them until they dance like they were born to shake their groove thangs.
Anyway, the house is amazing. It's a bungalow-style home with hardwood floors in every room (perfect for sliding into the refrigerator at full speed when I forget the perils of wearing socks on polished pine). We have more than one floor for the first time in six years!!! We even have a real yard, complete with real, outdoor plants. It's enough to make FH and I hope that the professor permanently relocates to Firenze instead of coming home. If we barricade the doors with all of their lovely furniture, they might give up and leave.
Speaking of, there isn't a single piece of furniture in this house that one can find in an Ikea catalog. I can feel the shackles of poor studentdom slipping off my wrists. The kitchen boasts an honest-to-god gas convection oven; suddenly I'm overcome with domestic urges to whip out the baking pans and go to work. I walked to the hardware store, the drug store and a bridal shop today without breaking a sweat. Who knew heaven could be found in temporary home ownership? It makes me long for a place of our own, which we are determined to obtain despite the exorbitant prices in Seattle. I'd settle for a hovel with a hole in the room if it had a small yard and a street of shops nearby. Sigh...someday.
WE ARE SEVEN FREAKING DAYS AWAY FROM MY FREAKING WEDDING!
That didn't improve things.
Yesterday, we moved into the house we'll be watching for an old professor until August 1st. We're back in Seattle, which makes me incredibly happy. Things which do not make me incredibly happy: trying to make my own music playlist for the reception. At this point, guests had better appreciate the blood and sweat that went into our efforts to balance mellow with lively, eating music with dancing tunes, and sweet with sexy -- or else I will kill them with my own bare hands and the heels of my tango shoes.
Maybe not kill. But at least terrorize them until they dance like they were born to shake their groove thangs.
Anyway, the house is amazing. It's a bungalow-style home with hardwood floors in every room (perfect for sliding into the refrigerator at full speed when I forget the perils of wearing socks on polished pine). We have more than one floor for the first time in six years!!! We even have a real yard, complete with real, outdoor plants. It's enough to make FH and I hope that the professor permanently relocates to Firenze instead of coming home. If we barricade the doors with all of their lovely furniture, they might give up and leave.
Speaking of, there isn't a single piece of furniture in this house that one can find in an Ikea catalog. I can feel the shackles of poor studentdom slipping off my wrists. The kitchen boasts an honest-to-god gas convection oven; suddenly I'm overcome with domestic urges to whip out the baking pans and go to work. I walked to the hardware store, the drug store and a bridal shop today without breaking a sweat. Who knew heaven could be found in temporary home ownership? It makes me long for a place of our own, which we are determined to obtain despite the exorbitant prices in Seattle. I'd settle for a hovel with a hole in the room if it had a small yard and a street of shops nearby. Sigh...someday.
Friday, June 10, 2005
These are NOT childbearing hips
One day after I have a conversation with a good friend about children, I find myself trapped in a women's restroom stall at University Village while a horde of shrieking, uniformed schoolgirls try to kick in my door. I finally muster my dignity, finish my business and stalk out, casting an evil eye that makes a few of the blond hellions shrink inside their blue plaid dresses. The matron in charge -- if you call "in charge" making quiet, mousy requests to "wait your turn" -- does not appreciate my death glare. I retaliate with an icy stare that could freeze molten lava, then turn on my heel and storm out the door.
Oh yes. I am NOT ready for children.
It's weird even to think that I am at childbearing age -- this was the topic of discussion last night, when my friend and I realized that people would readily accept a pregnant me or Hannah now. In my warped mind, I still envision parents and friends gasping in horror -- but they'd probably just smile and start knitting itty-bitty jerseys. I'd be the only horrified one, particularly since I would rather have a thoroughbred rescue than a child right now.
At the same time, I am only 24, and I don't really like having people ask me when I'm planning to have kids. There is more to life, at least at this stage...and I can name a million reasons why I'm not ready yet, including: 1.) I don't know if I feel comfortable bringing a child into this unstable world; 2.) there are enough orphans out there for me to adopt; 3) the average American child sucks a million times more resources out of the planet than other kids; 4) dogs, cats and horses are far more cuddly and don't scream as much.
Oh yes. I am NOT ready for children.
It's weird even to think that I am at childbearing age -- this was the topic of discussion last night, when my friend and I realized that people would readily accept a pregnant me or Hannah now. In my warped mind, I still envision parents and friends gasping in horror -- but they'd probably just smile and start knitting itty-bitty jerseys. I'd be the only horrified one, particularly since I would rather have a thoroughbred rescue than a child right now.
At the same time, I am only 24, and I don't really like having people ask me when I'm planning to have kids. There is more to life, at least at this stage...and I can name a million reasons why I'm not ready yet, including: 1.) I don't know if I feel comfortable bringing a child into this unstable world; 2.) there are enough orphans out there for me to adopt; 3) the average American child sucks a million times more resources out of the planet than other kids; 4) dogs, cats and horses are far more cuddly and don't scream as much.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Impure and unchaste thoughts
So, um...*looks sheepishly at keyboard*...the wedding is three weeks away, and...*slouches in embarrassment*...I'm in that phase where I just keeping thinking about how this is the End of Dating.
I don't even like dating, or any of the politics that accompany it, but it's just...weird. I'm never going to kiss another boy again. Unless, of course, my dream comes true and fellow-writer-far-more-successful-than-I, Zach Braff, really becomes our roommate after grad school. Then I'd probably have to on principle, just like my fiancee would have to kiss Tina Fey if she showed up anytime before the birth of her child...it's one of those mutual understanding things.
I have no idea why I suddenly care; you would think that 3.5 years of being an emphatically single college student would get it out of my system. (For my Seattle U readers, we do not count the Canada incident in those 3.5 years. Thank you for erasing it from your memories.) I do not harbor burning desires to kiss anyone other than my fiancee, and yet I obsess. Someone please tell me that this is a normal stage in the Bride Panic Process.
On a lighter note, the programs are done! Hurrah! They didn't even require ice-pick poking! I even mustered enough courage to make two trips to craft stores in a single week for much-needed wedding supplies. After getting lost in a field of faux flowers, I snatched up whatever looked good and ran for my life, thereby confirming that I would rather bike 20 miles in a downpour than learn how to navigate Ben Franklin.
I don't even like dating, or any of the politics that accompany it, but it's just...weird. I'm never going to kiss another boy again. Unless, of course, my dream comes true and fellow-writer-far-more-successful-than-I, Zach Braff, really becomes our roommate after grad school. Then I'd probably have to on principle, just like my fiancee would have to kiss Tina Fey if she showed up anytime before the birth of her child...it's one of those mutual understanding things.
I have no idea why I suddenly care; you would think that 3.5 years of being an emphatically single college student would get it out of my system. (For my Seattle U readers, we do not count the Canada incident in those 3.5 years. Thank you for erasing it from your memories.) I do not harbor burning desires to kiss anyone other than my fiancee, and yet I obsess. Someone please tell me that this is a normal stage in the Bride Panic Process.
On a lighter note, the programs are done! Hurrah! They didn't even require ice-pick poking! I even mustered enough courage to make two trips to craft stores in a single week for much-needed wedding supplies. After getting lost in a field of faux flowers, I snatched up whatever looked good and ran for my life, thereby confirming that I would rather bike 20 miles in a downpour than learn how to navigate Ben Franklin.
Friday, May 27, 2005
T-minus one month...
In 30 days, I will be a wife. I will be leaving my reception with my husband, saying goodbye to my guests and starting a life as Mrs. My Last Name His Last Name (no hyphen - I'm not a fan). We thought about just keeping our individual names, but both of us liked the idea of having a unifying surname instead. I just realized that I have to change my passport and everything else - my health insurance has to change, my car insurance...there are so many legal details to a wedding ceremony.
Anyway, as expected I simultaneously am overjoyed and completely freaked out. The monumental nature of this one "big day" is beginning to become clear, and I think any single gal experiences twinges of anxiety about become a Mrs. when she is so used to Ms. Then, of course, there are all those unexpected wedding issues, like the mysterious wedding cake (what will it look like? don't ask me!), strange family dynamics and ridiculously complicated logistics. So, I think a little freak out is normal - and it comes in bits and pieces, like it did while I was sitting at a red light yesterday. I suddenly felt myself getting glassy-eyed as I realized how quickly the wedding was approaching...and then the guy behind me honked, shattering my reverie and bringing me back to more pressing issues like driving.
Still, I'm happy in the knowledge that FH and I are a secure, compatible couple with similar views in all the right areas. It's also nice to know that we will not become one of those "MegandFH" couples who can't do anything without each other; we have our own friends and our own interests, and I'm damned if that's going to change. We talked about that extensively ahead of time, and our individuality is very important to us. It's great because this relationship and marriage are creating a new part of my identity without erasing any of the old bits. Now, I just get to incorporate everything into a slightly different whole -- a process that will be challenging but fun.
I can't wait to start our lives together, although we really have done that already. Still, I love the idea of waking up next to my husband, of wearing our wedding rings in public instead of in secret behind our closed apartment door. This whole wedding thing is scary for many reasons, but it's also tremendously exciting and uplifting. 30 days to go...I have a feeling they will fly.
Anyway, as expected I simultaneously am overjoyed and completely freaked out. The monumental nature of this one "big day" is beginning to become clear, and I think any single gal experiences twinges of anxiety about become a Mrs. when she is so used to Ms. Then, of course, there are all those unexpected wedding issues, like the mysterious wedding cake (what will it look like? don't ask me!), strange family dynamics and ridiculously complicated logistics. So, I think a little freak out is normal - and it comes in bits and pieces, like it did while I was sitting at a red light yesterday. I suddenly felt myself getting glassy-eyed as I realized how quickly the wedding was approaching...and then the guy behind me honked, shattering my reverie and bringing me back to more pressing issues like driving.
Still, I'm happy in the knowledge that FH and I are a secure, compatible couple with similar views in all the right areas. It's also nice to know that we will not become one of those "MegandFH" couples who can't do anything without each other; we have our own friends and our own interests, and I'm damned if that's going to change. We talked about that extensively ahead of time, and our individuality is very important to us. It's great because this relationship and marriage are creating a new part of my identity without erasing any of the old bits. Now, I just get to incorporate everything into a slightly different whole -- a process that will be challenging but fun.
I can't wait to start our lives together, although we really have done that already. Still, I love the idea of waking up next to my husband, of wearing our wedding rings in public instead of in secret behind our closed apartment door. This whole wedding thing is scary for many reasons, but it's also tremendously exciting and uplifting. 30 days to go...I have a feeling they will fly.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Sound of Silence
My apologies for the absence of interesting posts lately - I'm moving out of the apartment and it's my last week at work, so things are a little crazy. I should resume regular posting within a week or so. Sorry! I'll do my best to keep up now...
For the moment, isn't it amazing how a woman can't find a pair of white shoes that are comfortable and functional, yet that don't look like stereotypical hospital pumps? I went to seven -- count 'em -- shoe stores last weekend trying to find frickin' shoes that don't look completely outlandish under a wedding dress (and yes, you'll see them because I had my dress hemmed a little high...if it's too low, Miss Uncoordinated is liable to do a spreadeagle as she walks down the aisle). The Bon had these hideous semi-ballet slipper things, JC Penney doesn't seem to carry a thing that actual women wear, Nine West now specializes in uber-high strappy stilettos that look great as long as you don't have to walk in them...and on and on...
So, I gave up. I went to a dance store and found a great pair of high heeled tango shoes that I can wear for hours. They're so flexible that I can fold them in half, they're balanced enough to support me, and they don't look like old lady shoes! Although, after all that, I should have stuck with my original idea: barefoot in the park.
For the moment, isn't it amazing how a woman can't find a pair of white shoes that are comfortable and functional, yet that don't look like stereotypical hospital pumps? I went to seven -- count 'em -- shoe stores last weekend trying to find frickin' shoes that don't look completely outlandish under a wedding dress (and yes, you'll see them because I had my dress hemmed a little high...if it's too low, Miss Uncoordinated is liable to do a spreadeagle as she walks down the aisle). The Bon had these hideous semi-ballet slipper things, JC Penney doesn't seem to carry a thing that actual women wear, Nine West now specializes in uber-high strappy stilettos that look great as long as you don't have to walk in them...and on and on...
So, I gave up. I went to a dance store and found a great pair of high heeled tango shoes that I can wear for hours. They're so flexible that I can fold them in half, they're balanced enough to support me, and they don't look like old lady shoes! Although, after all that, I should have stuck with my original idea: barefoot in the park.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Be in awe
It is a royally difficult task to address 50 invitations by hand when one has the handwriting skills of a thumbless chimpanzee. I only hope that my friends and family feign appreciation when my scribbles arrive in their mailboxes. Now that the invitation phase of wedding planning is wrapping up, here's what I've learned:
Wedding Guide #1: Make Your Own Wedding Invitations
- Compile your guest list.
- Realize you left your *insert important relative here* off the list. Realize you do not have his contact information.
- Call other relatives.
- Add important relative to list. Finish list.
- Realize you forgot your *insert really close friend here*.
- Track down friend.
- Finish list.
- Beg FH to finish his part of the list. Ignore pleas that he has more important things to do, like publishing a paper.
- Create invitations on Illustrator.
- Realize you know nothing about Illustrator.
- Drag FH away from paper to create invitations. Marvel at his previously unknown design skills. Mentally remind yourself to lock him in a room with a computer when the programs need creating.
- Purchase matching paper and envelopes.
- Realize envelopes are not a normal size.
- Redesign invitations to fit your abnormally skewed envelopes.
- Print test pages of your invitations.
- Print more test pages.
- Drag your pile of invitations to the nearest paper cutter and begin slicing.
- Wonder why we can genetically engineer tomatoes yet be completely incapable of designing a paper cutter that cuts in straight lines.
- Stand over paper cutter for 4.5 hours trying to make crooked lines less obvious.
- Return home triumphantly.
- Locate potato poker or ice pick.
- Find heavy piece of wood.
- Spend Sunday night finding the center line on your invitations. Poke with potato poker.
- Poke second page of invitations with potato poker.
- Insert tiny brads into potato-poked holes.
- Hold invitations at arms-length and squint. Decide that almost straight is good enough.
- Measure envelopes. Draw straight lines for address blocks.
- Begin to address envelopes.
- Throw out 12 that demonstrate your complete inability to make two consecutive letters the same height.
- Run out of ink.
- Purchase new pen.
- Finish addressing envelopes three days later.
- Attempt to purchase stamps that aren't ugly as sin.
- Settle for funny looking, bugeyed birds. Place envelopes in mail.
- Retrieve envelopes from mail and insert invitations.
- Return envelopes AND invitations to mailbox. Resolve to send telegrams next time.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Beauty in the breakdown
Pardon the obscure Garden State reference, but it seems appropriate right now. Hm. You know, when I used to imagine what my mid-20s would be like, the fantasies always involved gleefully pounding back Long Islands on Thursday nights and taking spontaneous trips to random places when my internships ended. I thought I’d be floating in a sea of possibilities, all of which would be invigorating and exciting and would somehow involve traveling to exotic locations.
Now, I’m standing on the brink of 24 years old, and my reality is looking a little bit different. Technically, my future is going to involve traveling abroad – but so far, the most exotic thing about England is a dearth of food that tastes good. When I do go out on a Thursday night – which isn’t often, I’m sorry to say – Long Islands are no longer my drink of choice. I slammed back a few too many two Apple Cups ago and barely avoided vomiting in front of a patrol car on the viaduct as I staggered back early from the football game. Long Islands never really worked for me again…and the whole spontaneous trip thing sounds great in theory, but on my salary, I can barely afford trips to exciting locales like Moscow, Idaho or Wenatchee, Washington. The only way I could go anywhere exotic would be to crate myself up in a packing box, sneak onto a cargo ship, and spend my days hopping trains and sleeping in fields. You know, that actually doesn’t sound bad!
This isn’t to say that my 20s suck, although the romantic glow has turned into a sort of sooty, smudgy blur. The only thing that really bugs me is how damn mature my friends and I have become. Circumstances have made it hard to lapse into any sort of irresponsible behavior – instead, we’re all tucked away in grad school or in real jobs, diligently working towards the future. I realize that this isn’t a bad thing at all, but every once in awhile I think, “You know, I’d really like to blow off work for a day,” or “I know it’s Tuesday night and all, but I still want to go bar-hopping.” And then I lift some weights and play with my tortoise instead. Lately, I just want to be a little less mature: all of this long-term planning for grad school and beyond is making me feel older than I want to be. I have to make choices now that will affect Bryan’s and my ability to purchase a house down the line; we’re strategically selecting graduate schools to improve our chances of coming back here to settle…it’s all very adult and overwhelming. Sometimes, I wish I were ten years old again, when the biggest thing I had to worry about was whether I could stop my bike before I reached the end of the cul-de-sac.
There are good things about these changes, too. The best part, of course, is being unabashedly me around the man I’m going to marry. I thought I would wait for many years before I found love, but I was wrong. This is the kind of love that lasts, too. It isn’t a storybook romance – but its imperfections and occasional frustrations are threads in a masterful tapestry. I realized how much this relationship means to me the other day when the pressure of graduate school and moving away reached a boiling point. I was talking to a friend from work about how different things are now. In the past, whenever I had a fight with a boyfriend or when our futures didn’t seem to mesh synchronously, I could just say, “Screw it,” and walk away. It never bothered me before. Now, I want to work through things and I want to find a way for us to be together forever, even if it means spending our grad school years in different places. I want to invest my time and energy in this relationship because the returns are worth every drop of sweat I perspire for them.
This isn’t going to be easy, and part of me is terrified. In a few months, I have to get on a plane and leave my friends and family, then get on a train and tell my husband I’ll see him in a couple of weeks. That’s the pattern my life will take after September. Pretty scary, huh? Deep down, I know it will be okay; people endure far greater challenges, and I’ll probably be so caught up in my studies that I won’t have time to become depressed about missing everyone. Still, sometimes my life feels like a Garden State moment. Everyone I know is in limbo: we're caught in between childhood and adulthood, trying to be responsible when we really just want to hop on a bike and get the hell out of Dodge. Life is a blur of experiences and emotions right now, a whirlwind picking us up and expecting us to know when to get off the ride. I wish this wasn’t all happening so fast. I wish I could be a know-nothing kid again, just for a little while.
Now, I’m standing on the brink of 24 years old, and my reality is looking a little bit different. Technically, my future is going to involve traveling abroad – but so far, the most exotic thing about England is a dearth of food that tastes good. When I do go out on a Thursday night – which isn’t often, I’m sorry to say – Long Islands are no longer my drink of choice. I slammed back a few too many two Apple Cups ago and barely avoided vomiting in front of a patrol car on the viaduct as I staggered back early from the football game. Long Islands never really worked for me again…and the whole spontaneous trip thing sounds great in theory, but on my salary, I can barely afford trips to exciting locales like Moscow, Idaho or Wenatchee, Washington. The only way I could go anywhere exotic would be to crate myself up in a packing box, sneak onto a cargo ship, and spend my days hopping trains and sleeping in fields. You know, that actually doesn’t sound bad!
This isn’t to say that my 20s suck, although the romantic glow has turned into a sort of sooty, smudgy blur. The only thing that really bugs me is how damn mature my friends and I have become. Circumstances have made it hard to lapse into any sort of irresponsible behavior – instead, we’re all tucked away in grad school or in real jobs, diligently working towards the future. I realize that this isn’t a bad thing at all, but every once in awhile I think, “You know, I’d really like to blow off work for a day,” or “I know it’s Tuesday night and all, but I still want to go bar-hopping.” And then I lift some weights and play with my tortoise instead. Lately, I just want to be a little less mature: all of this long-term planning for grad school and beyond is making me feel older than I want to be. I have to make choices now that will affect Bryan’s and my ability to purchase a house down the line; we’re strategically selecting graduate schools to improve our chances of coming back here to settle…it’s all very adult and overwhelming. Sometimes, I wish I were ten years old again, when the biggest thing I had to worry about was whether I could stop my bike before I reached the end of the cul-de-sac.
There are good things about these changes, too. The best part, of course, is being unabashedly me around the man I’m going to marry. I thought I would wait for many years before I found love, but I was wrong. This is the kind of love that lasts, too. It isn’t a storybook romance – but its imperfections and occasional frustrations are threads in a masterful tapestry. I realized how much this relationship means to me the other day when the pressure of graduate school and moving away reached a boiling point. I was talking to a friend from work about how different things are now. In the past, whenever I had a fight with a boyfriend or when our futures didn’t seem to mesh synchronously, I could just say, “Screw it,” and walk away. It never bothered me before. Now, I want to work through things and I want to find a way for us to be together forever, even if it means spending our grad school years in different places. I want to invest my time and energy in this relationship because the returns are worth every drop of sweat I perspire for them.
This isn’t going to be easy, and part of me is terrified. In a few months, I have to get on a plane and leave my friends and family, then get on a train and tell my husband I’ll see him in a couple of weeks. That’s the pattern my life will take after September. Pretty scary, huh? Deep down, I know it will be okay; people endure far greater challenges, and I’ll probably be so caught up in my studies that I won’t have time to become depressed about missing everyone. Still, sometimes my life feels like a Garden State moment. Everyone I know is in limbo: we're caught in between childhood and adulthood, trying to be responsible when we really just want to hop on a bike and get the hell out of Dodge. Life is a blur of experiences and emotions right now, a whirlwind picking us up and expecting us to know when to get off the ride. I wish this wasn’t all happening so fast. I wish I could be a know-nothing kid again, just for a little while.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Back online
Sorry about the lapse in posts - I was away in Wenatchee this weekend, and my computer at work also seems to have blocked Blogger.com. Stupid security rules.
Well, the Pope is finally at rest. I am relieved for him, but also saddened to bid farewell to our Church's charismatic leader. We agreed on very few doctrinal issues, yet I still love and respect him for his unwavering beliefs and for his steadfast pursuit of global peace. How many other leaders maintained strong diplomatic relationships with both President Bush and Fidel Castro? I heard today that Castro declared a week of mourning for the Pope - no small feat in a nation where citizens refused to disclose their religious affiliations when I talked with them.
I also had never seen pictures of him in his youth or from the earliest days of his papacy. He possessed such vitality, such tranquility; always, in every photo and film clip, he moves forward with the wisp of a serene smile on his face. He was contentment personified. I can't imagine facing the world with so much happiness -- I can't even get through a signel day without reverting to sarcasm and cynicism, and I'm just an entry-level administrator at a social services program. He will be missed greatly, and I just hope the next Pope continues the Church's dogged push for peace while acknowledging that it may be time for a change in the priesthood.
On the wedding front, a recent spate of rain in the Cascades has enabled the ceremony site to erupt in a riot of spring greens. New growth is pushing up through the damp, dark earth, and the place has an air of pregnant anticipation about it. At any moment, petals will start bursting out from their buds and our backdrop of wildflowers will come into bloom.
Now, if only the civil front were as invigorating as the physical world. It's real fun trying to convince people that our wedding is precisely that: ours. Not yours, not the property of the crazy distant relative, but mine and my man's. I'm suddenly understanding why people elope. :)
Well, the Pope is finally at rest. I am relieved for him, but also saddened to bid farewell to our Church's charismatic leader. We agreed on very few doctrinal issues, yet I still love and respect him for his unwavering beliefs and for his steadfast pursuit of global peace. How many other leaders maintained strong diplomatic relationships with both President Bush and Fidel Castro? I heard today that Castro declared a week of mourning for the Pope - no small feat in a nation where citizens refused to disclose their religious affiliations when I talked with them.
I also had never seen pictures of him in his youth or from the earliest days of his papacy. He possessed such vitality, such tranquility; always, in every photo and film clip, he moves forward with the wisp of a serene smile on his face. He was contentment personified. I can't imagine facing the world with so much happiness -- I can't even get through a signel day without reverting to sarcasm and cynicism, and I'm just an entry-level administrator at a social services program. He will be missed greatly, and I just hope the next Pope continues the Church's dogged push for peace while acknowledging that it may be time for a change in the priesthood.
On the wedding front, a recent spate of rain in the Cascades has enabled the ceremony site to erupt in a riot of spring greens. New growth is pushing up through the damp, dark earth, and the place has an air of pregnant anticipation about it. At any moment, petals will start bursting out from their buds and our backdrop of wildflowers will come into bloom.
Now, if only the civil front were as invigorating as the physical world. It's real fun trying to convince people that our wedding is precisely that: ours. Not yours, not the property of the crazy distant relative, but mine and my man's. I'm suddenly understanding why people elope. :)
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Whose house? Dawgs' house!
Woo-hoo! We slammed Pacific today and won by 18...it's onto the Sweet Sixteen, where we'll face either G Tech or Louisville...it was great to see the Dawgs electrify the crowd.
Man alive, I can't believe how ridiculous the wording is for wedding invitations! Apparently, weddings are the opportunities to make up for all of your past social gaffes and inappropriate informalities...we're off to investigate doing it yourself tomorrow, so we'll see.
Not much to report tonight. Go Dawgs!
Man alive, I can't believe how ridiculous the wording is for wedding invitations! Apparently, weddings are the opportunities to make up for all of your past social gaffes and inappropriate informalities...we're off to investigate doing it yourself tomorrow, so we'll see.
Not much to report tonight. Go Dawgs!
Monday, March 14, 2005
Roses are red...
It's three and a half months to the wedding, and I think I've managed to avoid devolving into Bridezilla...unless, of course, my friends are cleverly lying to me and waiting to enact their revenge when I become an inebriated bachelorette!
Seriously, however, I've decided there are two key elements to remaining happy and healthy while planning one's wedding:
Seriously, however, I've decided there are two key elements to remaining happy and healthy while planning one's wedding:
- Resist the urge to begin looking at wedding dresses and floral arrangements when you aren't legally old enough to be married. Microwave your Barbie Bride doll (trust me - it makes a great science project). Don't even let the word "wedding" enter your mind until you are actually engaged. If it's too late for that, start immediately by purging your surroundings of bride magazines, catering brochures and frou-frou accessories. Escape for a weekend with a case of Guinness, your best gal-pals, and some anti-romance movies. Trust me: when you have no predetermined expectations, everything is a blast. Instead of obssessing over the perfect dress you saw when you were 14, you'll be musing over the racks thinking, "Hmmm...any of these look good to me! Let's try them all on..."
- Give your caterer, florist, photographer, etc, much more credit than most brides allow. These people are experts, and they know far more about their jobs than you do. I've been amazed at how relieved people are when we say, "Well, we're not sure what we want - here's a rough idea, and we'll be happy with what you provide." They just about fall out of their chairs with gratitude - and occasionally it's saved us some money, too. No one is going to remember the exact side salads you served, or the precise blossoms included in your bouquet. As long as it all fits together, it's good to me. This saves much grief, and it prevents bride and groom from wanting to throttle each other during the photography sessions.
So, how's it going for us? Well, so far, we've purchased our rings, booked our photographer, selected our florist, set our menu, found our presider, and scoped out our location. Not too bad for a couple of clueless rookies who could only give the florist blank stares when she asked what kind of flowers we liked.
I felt like such a tomboy. I really do not have a favorite flower, let alone flowers. I couldn't name more than a handful...all I could say was, "Um, are there any dark blue ones?" Since I had the flu, most of that sentence was a garbled, stuffed-up mess. I think she felt sorry for me. :)
Seriously, though, I've had a blast planning so far. We're keeping it small, semi-traditional (although I think we're the only couple ever with both a ring dog and flower tortoise), and simple. I'm looking forward to it - but I'm more excited about afterwards. Hey, no dirty minds - I'm talking about the honeymoon! (Or am I? Heh heh.)
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