Weekend Highlights: I Interrupt This Belated Post

I took a dozen pictures of an ominous sky this weekend but the much-hyped Hurricane Bill passed by without much more excitement. Allegedly, there was rain but I slept through it. Awful convenient.

I snuck away from the office yesterday to interview for an awesome position but never made it there because I spent an hour getting lost on the south shore. Even if I got the directions down, I’d never manage to commute so far on a daily basis. From the parking lot of gas station, I cancelled while choking back tears and spent the rest of the day being a sad little rock. I’d seen the light at the end of the work tunnel and just as quickly had it ripped away. WHY?? Is this because I doubted the power and majesty of Hurricane Bill?!

Now, I could care less and it has absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine sitting in my kitchen. I got a call while catching up with work this morning. It was Bologna. At 5:00 am, she sprung (sprang? spranged? springed?) a leak and by the time I sat down to my morning coffee, she was on her way to the hospital. The majority of my day was spent in true bipolar fashion, alternately shrieking at vendors and pestering Bologna for updates. At last check, they estimated Nugget would be birthed tomorrow.

Which means, my sister made a human. Seriously. She hasn’t been faking it this entire time like we all suspected. She made an entire person and science suggests that that person will one day grow a personality and perhaps even roll his eyes at me. Also, T may have been involved.

In Which I Identify With Hollywood’s Finest

I’ve been trying to blog for the past day and a half, but every time I try, I end up sitting and staring at my site for 15 minutes. In my characteristically fickle way, I’ve decided I’m not in love with my new design. It’s just not me and I might be PMSing so this is suddenly very important. It’s blocking my creative juices. And also maybe my chi. Do I have a chi or is that just for Asians?

Anyway, I think the design is absolutely adorable. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just too adorable. There’s too much lady and not enough sailor visually represented here. I wear stilettos and skirts every day but I also usually have soy sauce on my blouse and I freely flip people off behind their backs when they don’t hold the door for me. Those are equally important sides of my personality. As I explained to Bologna earlier, long hair is fine as long as you tie it back during bar fights. There’s just too much loose hair around here and I’m beginning to compensate with crazy. And we don’t want the crazy to bubble up. Nobody wants that.

So, we’ve identified the problem, but the solution is trickier. My designer just had a baby a week or so ago. I sent a tentative email requesting help but she’s understandably busy caring for a new life form and not tending to my whininess. I’m going to wait till the end of the month to give myself ample time to think this over but I’d kind of like to scrap the frou frou thing, take it back down to the bare bones, and let it return to a more natural state.

Oh God. I think I just got why Britney shaved her head.

Weekend Highlights: Second One (Booya!)

I’m back to reality after another lovely weekend spent down the Cape. I thrifted again…

Hoarded glassware for eventual center pieces (the candles will eventually be white or blue)

…except this time, the elderly cashier accidentally put an extra item in my bag: a horrible decorating book printed in the late 90s. After thumbing through it, Mama Beau nodded her head and declared the designs “grounds for divorce.” One project suggested I hang pink tulle from my bedroom windows. Shudder. So, now I’m terrified that I’m going to be banned from my favorite thrift store as a shoplifter all for a crappy book that I would never have shoplifted in the first place. He couldn’t have inadvertently thrown in a trashy romance novel instead?

Saturday night we watched beach fireworks from the comfort of the yacht club. I may finally be getting the hang of using my new camera.

Most of Sunday was spent tethered to a boat playing with my favorite floaty.


Everyone else prefers the adult sized tubes and rafts but I adore my $1 children’s toy from the Tree. Sometimes I stand on it, sometimes I sit on it, sometimes I see how long I can balance in a dhanurasana pose before ever so gracefully flopping into the water. The balancing effort is an ab workout and it keeps me pseudo-treading water for hours. Or at least until the big, bad red jellyfish start showing up in droves. We counted almost a dozen in the span of an hour.

Now back to work which is increasingly annoying. More so than a normal Monday. This ranks as at least a Tuesday in my book.

Shopping Extravaganza

Sometimes I go weeks without spending more than I need to on food and bills. Then I check my bank account, see a surplus of funds, and feel the need to buy completely random items that make me happy.

There are two bathrooms on the second floor of the new condo. Our master bath has a claustrophobically small shower stall which I refuse to enter and our cavernous guest bathroom has a bathtub. I’m currently taking it over with my girly stuff – hair products, tampons, sentimental poetry to read on the shitter. To further mark my territory, I’m decorating it to suit my own tastes. My tastes involve prints of animals in fancy hats.

"Hippo Queen" by Poordogfarm

Then today during my morning ritual of coffee, reading blog updates, and avoiding work related tasks, I saw these cuties on one of my favorite wedding blogs, Snippet & Ink.

Sseko Designs

Not only are they made by a group of Ugandan women who use the proceeds to further their educations, but Snippet & Ink readers get a discount. I ordered a pair and opted for interchangeable brown, red and black ribbons.

In a similar vein, Beau and I decided where to register for the wedding. First, Bed, Bath, and Beyond which, yes, is kind of overdone, but we have really basic tastes in housewares (apart from decorative hippos) and don’t want people to spend a fortune on us. And this is a step up from our original thought of registering at Ikea. Second, Home Depot. Didn’t know they had a registry, didja? I didn’t either until a coworker of mine told me that’s what she did for her wedding a few years ago. We don’t really need a gilded toilet scrubber or fancy plates. We need power tools and gift certificates for renovation supplies so we can continue pimping the condo.

Now I just need to make it through the rest of the work day before heading out to the Cape. Have a good weekend!

My Bridesmaids

The Jalapeno

**PARENTAL ADVISORY: consider yourself warned**

Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.

Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.

Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”

“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).

He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.

I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”

“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.

I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”

“It’s on my bunghole.”

There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.

But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.

Presents

The first of my wedding crafts went into the mail last Friday and today I heard that the last of them had safely arrived at its destination.

Due to geographical inconveniences (like Connecticut's existence along the north east corridor) I had to ask the majority of my bridesmaids via phone, email, or IM if they would be part of the wedding party.

Since that’s not the most charming way to pop the question, I also sent follow up notes introducing them to each other and providing information about the big day.

Elise Blaha was the inspiration behind this project. Visit her blog for the adorable originals!

Weekend Highlights

My weekends are always packed with fun tidbits to share but come Monday, I’m usually too busy at work to post, so they get lost in the melee. So, instead of a lengthy recitation of every time I scratched my ass this weekend, I’m going to start posting a few highlights (I’m formally declaring a new project – that’s like a death warrant for it. Let’s see if I even make it through the first one).

Per usual, we went down the Cape where I started pillaging thrift stores for wedding centerpieces. I’m planning on candle gardens of mismatched glassware with a few big blooms similar to the ones below. Yes, I’m ambitious enough to attempt cross stitching all the table numbers as well.

Via Snippet & Ink

Grasshoppah came out to visit looking like a cast member of Twilight thanks to a no-sun policy and a new hair color. We ate lunch at the BBC in Hyannis, dropped by the yacht club where Beau and I will be married next June, and took an evening cruise on the boat.

Friday night I made it through 14 innings of the Sox-Yankees game that would not die thanks in large part to rum’s newest rival, Firefly, a sweet tea infused vodka that pairs deliciously with lemonade to make a spiked Arnold Palmer.

Booya! Made it to the end. No promises for next week, but we’ll see.

Don't Trust A Computer

Me and you, we’ve discussed how I have trouble with screen shots, right? Once again, I’ve experienced technical difficulties with that seemingly simple function. This morning I sent a routine email about an error message I saw. Now, here’s a game for you to play: spot the horribly mortifying mistake in the following screen shot that I sent to the vendor.

Need a hint? Did you check what I last googled?

WHY AM I SO AWKWARD?!?!?

Now there’s a herd of techies sitting in Texas who are either a) pointing north and laughing or b) convinced that I am a jilted lesbian. In my own defense, I googled it in the first place after reading a facebook status update from Notorious:

Being the playful type, I had planned on responding with lyrics that describe my innermost feelings… but couldn’t remember what came before “woo ooh” in the song. And then I got distracted with error messages and screen shots and emails and the whole thing just kind of spiraled out of control until I was sitting at my desk slamming my forehead into the keyboard and exchanging brief emails with the vendor which are COMPLETELY USELESS WHEN ATTEMPTING TO READ SOMEONE’S TONE AND DETECT LAUGHTER AND POINTING.

So, I now present this to you, sweet Internet, as further evidence that I am the reincarnation of Lucille Ball. Much like recounting a nightmare involving zombie cucumbers chasing you out of the produce aisle to whoever will listen, sharing the embarrassing details of my day makes me feel a little better about them.

I Got Some 'Splainin To Do

A few months ago, the ladies of Chairsy’s bridal party ventured to Rhode Island for our initial dress fitting. As the least shy amongst the group, I was led into the dressing room first to strip before my mimosa had fully kicked in. The wedding consultant took my measurements and then sat quietly for a few moments, furiously scribbling mathematical equations on her notebook and eyeing me warily. Finally, she explained (in that tone that you use with your dog when you’re trying to coax out from under a bed during a thunderstorm) that bridal couture runs small. VERY small. Always. Fact of life. Even congress can’t change it. I nodded patiently and smiled in a good-natured way. She told me not to feel personally affronted by the size she was about to suggest for me. I acknowledged that it was just a number and that I was not the type to determine self worth based on clothes tags.

Still, she flinched as she told me I was on the cusp between a size 16 and 18. An 18 would need to be taken in, a 16 would need to be let out. I considered her statement for a moment and explained that I’d lost almost a dress size in the past few months and that I was planning to continue with that diet plan. So, I picked the smaller size with the best of logical intentions… and also the slightest distaste for the number 18 which feels large and cumbersome even when you just say it out loud. Eighteen. Look how terrible it is written out!

Last week, I picked up the dress and two days ago, I finally had time to try it on. I was expecting it to be an extremely tight fit that would need to be let out. I was not expecting a one and a half inch gap circa my rib cage.

Bitch LIED to me.

I shrieked for Beau’s help. After a few earnest tugs he shook his head. I began muttering soothingly, “That’s OK. I’m still losing weight. I just need to keep going. I’ll have it let out as much as possible. Yes. And then it’ll fit just fine. Everything’s going to be OK.” Beau backed away slowly while I wiggled out of the dress and began a Jillian Michael’s video.

I later asked Beau what it’s like to be engaged to the modern equivalent of Lucille Ball. Considering my track record of attempting to kidnap dogs, getting locked in stairwells, convincing myself I was in the men’s room at my new office, and breaking my ass while trying on Spanx, I don’t think the comparison is a far cry. Really, who gets themselves into these situations on a regular basis?!

He shrugged and said I make his life “entertaining.” Which is exactly what I think losing one and a half inches from my ribcage in just over two months will be like.

Boudoir

Before

After
Pre

Post

Formerly

Currently