I Write The Songs That Make the Whole World Sing...or Part I of The Weekend

Mr F and I spent the weekend in New Jersey. Yes, again.

The reason for our trip was two-fold. However, I will discuss only one of those folds here. The other fold turned out to be of origami-like proportions and was so truly disastrous and so nuanced in said disaster, that I need to - in the words of Mr F - "take some time before blogging about it, both so I calm down, and second, to make sure I don't post it so rashly that I forget to write about the full extent of the craziness." Amen.


The first reason we went home was because my Mom specifically asked me if she could help me pick out my invitations. Now here's the thing: I've actually been looking at invites online for months now and had found a bunch of great options and thought I would order them that way.


But, clearly this was something my Mom wanted to do together and so I agreed to take a 200 mile trip home to satisfy my mom's desire to, well, "play mom."


This part of the weekend (Saturday) was not crazy. Not a disaster. Just a par for the course New Jersey visit.


We woke up early that morning and drove to a wedding store to go look at some books of invitations.


Our drive to the store was typical for our relationship.


"Have you figured out what type of cards you are going to place on the tables with the numbers? My friend Jen said you could buy individual picture frames to hold the table numbers."


"No, Mom. I'm too busy trying to plan a rehearsal dinner, a honeymoon and meet with our musicians, florist and other vendors to take care of the big picture items. I can't do that other stuff yet since this part is so time consuming for just one person."


"Have you figured out what you're going to put in the out-of-towners' wedding welcome bags yet?"


"No, Mom. You might recall, as I mentioned about ten seconds ago, I have all these big picture things to take care of. [Pause.] Would you like to help me plan the rehearsal dinner? That would actually be really helpful to me."


"Oh honey, you know that I don't know Baltimore! I wouldn't even know where to begin!"

"Actually Mom, I've only lived here like 5 months and I don't really know it well either. But you can do some research on the Internet for me - that would be helpful."

"Sweetie, you know that I don't know how to do research on the Internet. I just wouldn't know what to do!!"


"Well, you could call places I've found and get information for me. That would be great."


"Well, I'm just so busy these days with school and all! The school year just started and I'm working till 4:00 every day! It's just so busy."


"Uhm, ok."


"So honey, have you thought about how where you will put the place cards out for everyone?"


"No, Mom."


I have to say, once we arrived at the shop, it was pretty easy. Given all my previous research, I had a very specific idea of what I wanted. Unlike a dress, where you do tons of research and get there only to realize that everything you like looks terrible on you and you have nothing to tell the saleswoman that can possibly be helpful, with invitations, the Internet research really helped me out since I could give a brief description of what I was looking for and quickly browse through to see if I liked or didn't like something.

It also helped (I guess) that I was exhausted by obsessing over every decision and had mentally decided to just pick something and go with it. So I picked out three invitations that seemed do-able, called Mr F, had him come meet me (and Mom) at the store and asked for his ok on one of the three.


With the swiftness that only a disinterested and apathetic groom can muster up, he immediately picked the horizontal rectangular style invitation and gave a succinct and compelling reason for his decision: "I like this one, it's horizontal which is different from all the other ones. Just like us - we're different." And bam, we were done. I just had to pick out the fonts and and come back the next day with the wording.


And so we went home, I had a glass of wine with my parents (the cork doesn't fall far from the tree), and sat down at the kitchen table looking at the book of invites I brought home with me so I could choose the lettering before I went back tomorrow. And suddenly, I HATED the horizontal style. It didn't look right. And I felt like it looked like a ticket. An entrance ticket to the wedding. People might start handing the valet their wedding ticket. Or tearing off the end to keep the stub. And it was also very formal. Which I liked that morning. But now I HATED. I'm not formal! Mr F isn't formal! We're not stuffy people! This invitation would be a mockery of our personalities. That was when my mom called down to me to say it was time for us to leave for our dinner reservation.


I returned 2 hours later, still thinking continuously about horizontal invites, but filled with more red wine and a double-sized portion of zuppa de pesce. I sat back in front of the invites. Like the clams and scallops I had just consumed, they were swimming in front of my eyes. And all I could think was that Mr F hasn't made one decision about the whole wedding and now that he finally has, I wanted to undermine his invitation selection.


The next morning I resumed my post at the table watching the invites (as if they might suddenly jump off the page and scream "pick me! I am the Right Invitation For You!") five minutes before I needed to leave the house. I still had not committed to which invite I was going to order because I couldn't decide if Mr F would be annoyed if I switched to the one he didn't pick.


But (being the overwhelmingly obsessive person that I am) I decided that I couldn't let sleeping invitations lie, and I approached him in our computer room.


"Honey?"


"Hmm?" [Mr F doesn't even look away from the computer. He's helping my Dad set up the new iPod we got him for his birthday.]


"I know that you picked out the rectangular invitation as the one you want to use, but do you like the others? I mean, would it bother you if we used the others?? Because if it bothers you, then that's ok and I won't do anything. But if you don't really care one way or the other, I think I like the other one better. But if you really like the one you picked and don't like the other one, then that's fine and we can stick with that."


Mr F glances up at me and looks at me with a face that simultaneously recognizes that he always knew I was crazy but also seems confused at the new level of obsession and lunacy that I might have reached. "Honestly, they're all fine. I really don't care. You just made me pick one. So I did."


Well that's that, I suppose.


I went and ordered the one I wanted. Order was restored in my wacked-up mind. For now.


And no I did not forget that there's a second half to this story. The second reason for going to NJ over the weekend was to meet with Mr F's childhood cantor (and my in-laws close family friend). All I can say is that I should have seen this one coming, but I didn't. Unlucky for me, but likely funny for you, the experience brought us to new depths of wedding planning hideousness. And so, it shall be a post all unto itself. L'Chaim!

Shot Through the Heart and You're To Blame, You Give Love a Bad Name

Has anyone out there ever had heart palpitations? If so, you can attest to how freaky they are. Talk about making a young and seemingly-invincible person feel the weight of each of their thirty-one years weigh upon their chest. Literally. (And if you think I might have had three glasses of Chardonnay before typing this post, then yes, you would be right.)

Speaking of numbers, I've got one for ya. (You didn't think the heart palpitations were coming from nowhere, did you?)

One hundred and seventy three.

ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY THREE.

ONNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEE HUNDREEEED AND SEVEENNNNNTY THRRRRRREEE! (That last "stheventy three" by the way, I sort of envision being spit out by Daffy Duck with his trademark lisp. I guess that's not PC, but I'm not the one who created him; I'm just the gal who watched too many cartoons as a kid.)

Do you know what that is? Do you? Oh, I think you DO.

Last night, I was sealing the last of our Save The Dates. And as I did so, I thought to myself, "Well, isn't that an awful lot of Save The Dates!" (I've been watching a lot of "Mad Men" and now my inner monologue sounds disturbingly similar to a 1959 housewife.) I looked at the pile of those that had not been sent and realized it was only about ten. And then I realized....WAIT. If we ordered 100 invitations, and only ten were left...and most of our friends were couples...then...oh sweet jebus. I pulled up our wedding spreadsheet (a term that should used loosely, lest anyone think I might actually be organized) and started counting (or trying my best to piece together a final number).

And then I realized.

Our current invite list is 173 people.

It's good that I'm swaddled in the warm golden blanket of Chardonnay, because when I wake up tomorrow I suspect that this post will be edited heartily to reflect the fact that I am freaking out. FREAKING OUT. Where did my small wedding go? I could have sworn I saw it here just moments ago. After all, so many other things had come and gone, but Relatively Small Wedding, YOU were here to stay!!

Something else that is no longer in my life: my nest egg. Because the amount of money I budgeted for our wedding has been far exceeded and we are now dipping into the yolk of my savings. Which seriously pains me. So much so that I have more heart palpitations. That pitter patter is the sound of money oozing out of my soft-boiled bank account.

I understand that this might not sound exactly like a crisis to most people, but the thing is that I'm a Saver. Not a Spender. Now the detectives among you might have picked up on this from the fact that I had an entire post about discount shopping. And while I think a wedding is nice and all, it's not what I would spend my hard-earned savings on. I understand those who do, but it's just not me. I prefer more tangible things. What I want is a house. With a yard. And an open kitchen. And a pony. (OK, not a pony.) But what I don't want to spend my hard-saved money (which is a whole other story) on is the all-too-intangible wedding event where for the small price of $45k, I get to feel like a princess for a grand total of eight hours, until of course the moment the clock strikes midnight, the DJ packs up and leaves, I remove my fabulous satin slippers (only to find terrible blisters), and while still standing in my ludicrously expensive wedding gown, my tiara is traded in for a big fat bill. (And no, holding a bill for said event does not make the event itself "tangible.")

Palpitations.

(As a postscript, I feel in the interest of truth I should disclose that I'm sitting in front of the television watching a PBS special on Billy Joel and as I write I hear the ballads that were the soundtrack of my youth, such as "Just The Way You Are" and "She's Always A Woman". This is not only making me feel melancholy and causing me to write unnecessarily depressed and manic postings but I'm also feeling oddly compelled to drink more, get a public nasty divorce and to marry a woman who is a third my age and looks disturbingly similar to my daughter.)

Good morning! Good morning!

I just woke up about a half an hour ago and I need to leave in exactly 5 minutes to go to my "Group Power" exercise class with Gwen, which I love, but I need to vent before dashing out the door. So why not do it carelessly in under five minutes (and without editing) on a public webpage for all to see and judge?

I began my morning as I begin all mornings, by brewing my coffee (on one of our fave engagement gifts - the Cuisinart Grind-n-Brew - sheer genius! - well, except when Mr F sets it to grind coffee at 5 am before he goes to work and I shoot out of bed thinking it's Armageddon). After that, I sat down at my computer, just to quickly check if I got any emails I deemed fun and worth opening (essentially anything from friends, and not one of the stress-inducing emails from theknot.com which tells me I have 93 overdue items and 40 more coming up in the next month).

That's when I see that Future Mother in Law (FMIL) has emailed me. This is not extraordinary. FMIL emails me probably four times a week. In all honesty, I really don't mind, except for the fact that Mr F needs to realize how angelic and saintly I am for patiently responding to each of said emails (while my own mother's emails, also on the four-a-week rotation, languish away in my inbox, their winking smiley faces just waiting for a smile back, without even a red flag reminder to provide at least a glimmer of hope that they will receive a response).

I open the email to see these simple words: "Please add on Mr. X and Guest to the wedding list and also Mrs. Y and Guest. Thanks."

This is problematic for two reasons. Number #1, I don't want to add anyone else onto the guest list and definitely not in such a willy-nilly fashion; this should not be as if you're picking out a box of cereal at the grocery store, see a "buy two get two free" sign, and decide "aw heck, I'll get four boxes of cereal!". If four people are added on to the wedding that is not supposed to exceed 125 (acknowledged that I'm delusional on this point), then it should be a request and a carefully considered one at that.

Reason #2, is...sweet folger's house, what on earth is this "And Guest?" AND GUEST? I'm having heart palpitations. This is not the best part of waking up. This is like opening up Pandora's Swarovski-crystal bejeweled wedding box, and letting Decorum, Budget, and Sanity escape with a bottle of Grey Goose to run off to Ibiza to cause all kinds of chaos, never to return to my wedding experience.

Now I'm not an anti-guest person. Here is my stance. I believe if you are in a serious relationship (as defined by you) that you get to bring a date. I also think that if you're part of a group of people and you are the only one without a significant other there, then I might tell you that you should feel free to bring a guest (because I don't want anyone feeling badly). I know those rules involve a lot of gray area, but screw it - it's my party and I can make barely comprehensible rules if I want to. And in all reality, the reason behind my (sketchy) rules is that we are on a very tight budget and very much want to try to keep our guest list to a minimum to keep it an intimate affair (see reference to delusions above).

By inviting everyone with a guest (or anyone with a "guest" as opposed to "significant other," which means everyone has to be invited with a guest), we could take an invite list from 130 to 150 easy (all of which are presumably people I will never have met in my life...and in case you don't remember my ramblings from about a month ago, I'm not particularly keen on strangers seeing me profess my love and appear my most vulnerable on my wedding day). And ok, to tell you the truth, for the most part, the people who would be coming alone are people I don't give a crap about coming (i.e., second cousins and/or children of friends of In-Laws). So if being invited without a guest means that they won't come - so be it. (See, I can be selfish. I just hate to admit it.)

So I dashed off an email to Mr F, telling him he had to lay down the law with his mom about our "No Guests" policy and while I was at it, I told him to tell her that no kids (excepting our nephew) were invited either. Might as well throw in the kitchen sink.

Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut, Sometimes You Don't

OK, I know that's not really a song, but I consider any jingle that continues to bounce around my head ten years after they stopped consistently playing it on television to fall in the category of "song."


Anyway, this is only a brief post (I know, famous last words), to mention a story that I had completely forgotten to post until I was talking to a friend and listing reasons my parents are driving me crazy. And then I remembered this story.


First, you need to know that Mr F has some seriously wackadoodle allergies. He is allergic to fish, but not to shellfish and he is allergic to nuts and seeds, but not to peanuts. I know, it's the opposite of your typical allergies. Which I like since (a) I prefer lobster to halibut and (b) Mr F is pretty much opposite of a typical person. But Mr F hates when I blog about him, so I'll stop. Well, actually this whole story is pretty much peripherally about him, but I'll stop discussing his allergies. Not that they're not fun to talk about.


(But I do have one last thing to say while I'm on the topic. I have to admit that I almost thought our relationship wouldn't work when I learned about the allergies because of one word: sushi. Sushi is by far the most magical food in the world. In fact, if fish didn't have gills, I think they would have wings. Little flying angels that hop into my mouth in a savory disembodied way. (Note that nothing about my vision involves actually fish parts or eyes or anything icky like that.) By the way, I have thought about this long and hard and I have come to the following conclusion: the fish used in sushi is treated with some sort of addictive crack dust that is not visible to the naked eye. This is not a hypothetical. It must be true.



Anyway, what happens when a sushi lover meets a boy who is allergic to sushi? Well, she immediately plans to dump him. For those of you who judge me, a stomach flu on your house! You don't know what it's like to truly love...food. Luckily, Mr F first suggested that we go out for sushi, at which point I realized that Mr F was perfectly willing to eat the lamest kind of sushi - cooked seafood. Mr F basically likes the Ryan Seacrest of sushi - bland and adored by the masses - shrimp tempura rolls. (And uh, free of fish.) But while I hate American Idol, a little pre-Golden Globes red carpet never hurt no one, and Mr F and I found a beautiful happy medium for his allergies and my true love of sushi.) <---Note that is not a wayward parentheses, I just decided that my parenthetical was long, so I broke it up nicely in to paragraphs. You're welcome.

That being said, Mr F has allergies.

So about a month ago, I told my mom that we scheduled the tasting for the wedding food. If I can be honest (and I can, because my mom hasn't gotten this blog's link yet), I didn't really want my parents to go. My dad causes me a lot of anxiety in restaurants because nothing seems to meet his expectations (which is essentially getting a fillet mignon off the Wendy's dollar menu). In addition, I really think that the food should be our (Mr F and my) decision. I know we're not paying for it, but this is our gig. Let us choose the food. After all, do we not all agree that I pretty much obsess about food 24-7? But the parents are coming to the food tasting and I didn't fight it because I saw this fight happen when my brother got married and I don't have the energy to fight it.

So my parents asked to get a copy of the menu options, which I provided them, and after reviewing it thoroughly (dutifully expressing dissatisfaction at how few options there were) they started telling me what they liked. (Mr F is going to lay an egg when he reads this by the way - luckily, Mr F is not allergic to eggs. Unless they're fish eggs.)


And so my mom tells me that they are interested in the following appetizers to be passed during the cocktail hour: pesto chicken and the sesame skewers, among a few other things.


Let's break this down, shall we? Pesto is made with...you got it - pine nuts - to which Mr F is allergic. And sesame skewers - even less of a mystery - sesame seeds! Pure allergy joy.

So I suggested to my mom that perhaps we choose other, less nutful options to be served at the cocktail hour. To which my mom (who is fully aware of the allergen situation), says:

"Why on earth would you want to do that? Mr F doesn't need to eat every single hors d'oeuvres!"

Uhm...really? He doesn't? Don't you think, as someone who suffers from allergies and spends their whole life asking waitresses "what's in that?", there should be one day in your life that you can just pick up hors d'oeuvres off a platter with reckless abandon? And by gosh, shouldn't that day be your frickin wedding day?


Not to mention the fact that having my new husband go into anaphylaxis before we have even entered our reception might be a teensy bit inconvenient. (OK, he actually doesn't have a full anaphylactic response, but his throat does swell up and medical attention might be warranted.) Either way - not exactly how I envisioned my wedding day. But now that I think about it, I might want to get a medical kit wrapped in a ribbon with our wedding colors - the pictures will be adorable!


As my face turned redder with anger than a fresh piece of ahi tuna sushi, I tried to contain myself. But screw it, this one wasn't negotiable. I wish the following was said in the calm and authoritative tone that I imagined in my head before I said it, but instead I screamed at my mother like I did when I thirteen: "We are NOT having a single food with nuts or fish during the cocktail hour. That's it. I'm not going to worry about my husband having an allergic reaction at our wedding and I really don't care what you think." All that was missing was ending my tirade with "I HATE YOU" and running up to my room and slamming my door. (I would have slammed down the phone, but cellphones just don't give you the same satisfaction.)


In hindsight, I wish Mr F's allergies came up sooner and more often in this wedding, since I seem to have no problem standing up to my parents on this point to defend his honor. Perhaps the allergies could have been a catalyst to keeping the wedding on the water in May. Or having an intimate rehearsal dinner. Or having brunch in the hotel where the wedding is.

Or not.

You've Got a Friend (Who's Worse Off Than You Are)

Apologies for my lack of posting. Believe it or not, I've actually got a friend in town! She is one of my close friends from my previous home of the city of San Diego and thus, flexing my creative muscle, we shall call her "Miss San Diego." (This conjures a variety of mental pictures for me, not least of which is a beauty queen with a serious Mystic Tan problem and a Coors Light permanently adhered to her right hand, which isn't necessarily accurate, but I think we all know that life isn't especially fair. And it could be worse - she could be holding a Miller Light.)

Anyway, having a friend in town may not sound like a particularly interesting or significant feat to most of you, but having a friend visit is a wonderful thing for someone who moved across the country for their significant other and has spent their days toiling away planning a wedding instead of making friends. (Because despite my insistence, Mr. F assures me that the girls on "The Hills" are not actually my friends. I'm not sure if this is because they're idiots or because they don't know me - but either way - not my friends.) Anyway, having Miss SD in town has led me to some nuptial conclusions.


Conclusion #1: Planning a wedding is not as shiteous if you have friends in the same zip code.


I just realized that planning my wedding would probably be a whole heck of a lot better if I had a good friend who lived nearby. Certainly, it wouldn't stop my parents from being driver and navigator on the crazy train, but I think that it would nicely balance out the highs and lows of wedding planning (to clarify, this would mean actually creating "highs" and not just experiencing "lows") so that looking for invitations or auditioning DJ's would be fun (or at least fun(ny)), even if in the interim I had to argue with my parents about the guest list or my in-laws about whether I should wear my wedding dress to both of my wedding receptions (more on that later).


How did I come to this conclusion?


Saturday morning there is a torrential downpour (we shall call her "Hanna") and Miss San Diego and I decide to go try on my wedding dress for her. The bridal salon is also where I'm ordering the bridesmaid dresses from, so Miss SD decides we will also try on a bunch of dresses to try to figure out which she likes best (I gave my girls a bunch of styles and they get to pick whatever they like best to wear).


And then Miss SD says to the sales assistant "Do you have any dresses in the color that we're ordering them in so we can see what it looks like next to the wedding dress?" Great idea, Miss SD!! To this the sales assistant looks distraught. "Mmmm, I can look through the racks, but I don't think so." While Miss SD is modeling her dresses for me and we analyze the pros and cons of the top two, the salesgirl returns and says that we're out of luck. No burgundy color dresses to be found. She comes back with a swatch of color the size of a postage stamp and offers up the chance for me to hold it up to my wedding dress. A nice effort, but not what we had in mind. At which point she says slowly, "You know, I might have a dress in with some of the stock in the basement. Let me check."


She returns ten minutes later - victorious! She is holding a lovely satin burgundy dress. Although as I look closer at the dress, I realize it looks...small. Miss SD and I decide we love the color (which is good since I've already told everyone to order in this color), and Miss SD, ever game, takes the dress into the dressing room. She emerges a few minutes later wearing a dress that is clearly not intended for anyone with boobs. Or hips. Or a butt. Or a high school diploma.


A group of salesgirls and the salon's owner are all peering around the corner at her and seem to be having a discussion amongst themselves as Miss SD stands in the middle of the salon, open to all types of public humiliation. At which point, the owner of the salon says quite carefully, "Uhmm, I think that dress may actually be a junior bridesmaids dress." As in, a dress intended for a girl aged 8 to 9 years old. Excellent.

But what does Miss SD do? Does she flee to the relative safety of the dressing room to take the frock off upon realizing (actually, confirming) that the dress is something that has no place on the body of a 30-something year old?


No. She marches through the center of the salon and looks back at me, slightly lagging behind, mouth agape, while she shimmys through one of the top bridal salons in Maryland in a junior bridesmaid dress meant for an adolescent. "Well, what are you waiting for? Are you going to put on your wedding dress so we can see how this color looks next to it or what?"


Junior bridesmaid dress on a (sassy) thirty-something-year-old woman. All that's missing is a basket full of rose petals and a garland. I could not even contain my giddiness at the sight before me. A level of hilarity clearly not achieved when one shops alone.


Conclusion #2: No matter how bad your wedding drama is (for example, if you think it's so bad that you have to say....start your own blog about it), someone (*cough* Miss SD *cough*) likely is dealing with worse crapulosity.


It just so happens that Miss SD is getting married as well. Yay! But Miss SD's drama faaaaaaaar out-weighs mine. Boo!

This is not my story to tell, but what I will divulge is that Mr. SD's father seems not to approve of his son getting married at this juncture. (I know! Do people even do that anymore? It's so 19th century Jane Eyre! - Which ok, I didn't read, but strikes me as involving a lot of paternal "I disapprove of your romantic choices as we have a reputation to uphold in the community." And to clarify, Miss SD is not any of the following, which might elicit such disapproval: (1) crack smoker, (2) baby seal poacher, (3) unemployed gold digger or (4) circus clown. (Apologies to any crack smoking circus clowns who I have offended. xoxox.)

But this isn't just a fatherly "I need attention and I'm making a point" type of a situation (see, e.g., pretty much all of my blog posts about my parents). To the contrary, this was full-on borne-out just a week ago when Mr. SD's dad (or Captain Angry, as I will call him) was a no-show at the engagement party and made it abundantly clear that there is a strong possibility that he won't come to the wedding either. Over and out.

You want perspective - there it is. Which brings me to my third point.

Conclusion #3: You are more than likely not the only person keeping Beringer stock way up, because there are many many other women out there who are pushed to the brink by the wedding planning process (and by "brink" I mean "liquor store", where they buy a nice bottle of Prosecco because it's tasty and dry but cheaper than champagne). Translation: like Michael Jackson would say - You Are Not Alone. (Or at least as he would have said it before he stopped really singing and just playing with llamas and whatnot.)


(The earlier point of which by the way, brings me to something I've been thinking for a long time. Do you remember like 4 seasons ago on "The Bachelor" they had Andrew Firestone, who helped run the family vineyard? Do you think the major deciding factor in the selection process involved the fact that many women's modern day Prince Charming is not simply smart and/or rich - but rather, comes with a lifetime supply of free wine as well? Because that's my dream. It truly is.)


Ahem.


Having just spent three days with Miss SD and having waded our way through an unconscionable amout of Nobilo Sauvingon Blanc and evenings before (Jesus help us), vodka tonics (and damn it, their ugly stepsisters - chicken wings and pizza), I realized that I wasn't the only one finding that wedding planning was less utopian fantasy land and more giant black hole, slowly sucking the life (and romance) out of me. Every sentence started with a sip of wine and ended with something like this: "ME TOO!!!"


I hate the fact that what was supposed to be a happy event has caused me so much stress!

ME TOO!


I hate asking my in-laws for money and am thinking about just paying for this myself even though I don't really have the money to do so and much prefer a down payment on a house!

ME TOO!


I hate the pressure of deciding if letter press invitations are actually important or not!

ME TOO!


Thus, realizing that wedding planning is not just the sweet smell of flowers and joyous pre-nuptial perfection for all of us (but rather seems to be brie squares and Bordeaux for a rising number of women), it is my great hope that Miss SD will agree to guest blog about her experience here because I can't do her story justice. (I've asked her numerous times in person, but I'm hoping maybe a more formal invite in writing and with a red carpet and trumpets (it's called imagination, use it) will be more encouraging.)


OH! And I forgot to tell you that Miss SD is a wedding/event planner. So I thought I had anxiety about whether I would be able to live up to expectations? Screw that. Not even close. Try planning a wedding when every person says to you "You're so creative! You always do the greatest events. I can't wait for your wedding - it's going to be soooo amazing."


No pressure there. Unless you count the gravitational pull from the black hole.

You Can Check Out Anytime You Like, But You Can Never Leave

I've begun to realize that wedding planning is a lot like heartburn (both of which I am experiencing right now, which makes me an expert). When you're in the thick of each, all you can think about is how truly horrible it is. But then, as soon as it has subsided (and you are lazily paging through the new issue of "Modern Bride" while eating some spicy Thai food out of the container), your mind (or your stomach) conveniently forgets just how painful it was and you become convinced that you were overreacting and that everything is juuuuuust fine.


Until, like clockwork, the very same exact thing happens again.

Last thing I remember
I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before...

And so indeed, "hotel issues" have returned, mighty and strong, reminding me that they never truly go away. Welcome to the Hotel Crapifornia, such a lovely place.


My Dad called me last night, which I thought was extremely thoughtful of him since he isn't usually the one to pick up the phone. Unfortunately, the first words out of his mouth were something along the lines of: "I told Mom I would talk with you about something." Words such as these strike fear into even the most hardened of brides.

This could be heaven or this could be hell...

Like a dog hearing the rustle of the travel cage opening, my skin crawled, my ears perked up; I went on high alert. What was coming was not good. Stall him! Create a distraction!



"Soooooo Dad, I've been thinking that we should discuss the song we'll use for our father/daughter dance...have you thought about it at all?" [This won't work...he's too smart for that. I'm done. Shipped off to the kennel.]

"Oh yeah? I'd love to discuss that, hon!"

CRISIS AVERTED!


"Right after I talk to you about what Mom and I wanted to discuss with you."


CRISIS RETURNED. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim...I had to stop for the night.

So I mumbled back to him, "Uh, yeah, ok."


"Well you know how Mom and I found another hotel that people could stay in, right?" Note to readers: this might be the ultimate example of addressing the obvious. Although I peripherally addressed this before, I didn't discuss this to the extent it was an issue in my family (which I could, but take it on faith - I was annoyed about the fact that my parents wanted to provide a second hotel and told my parents so). So YEAH, I know they found another hotel.


More mumbling. "Yeah."


"Well, because the Marriott is such a nice hotel, of course many of our friends have chosen to stay there instead of the hotel attached to the wedding venue." My parents are truly obsessed with the Marriott. "And since that's the case, what we really wanted to know from you is whether you think you're going to want to hang out with us the night before your wedding...or whether you're ok with mom and I hanging out with all of our friends who have come from all around the country to see us and who will all be at the other hotel."


"Ummm...?"


"I mean, of course, if you want us to stay at your hotel, we can certainly stay there while alllll our friends are at the other hotel. It's what you want of course."


I'm calling "time out" for a moment here. Now while my Dad is giving his soliloquy, there is actually a lot going through my head (and believe it or not, despite what I'm saying, I'm not actually thinking "uhm").


I'm thinking: my parents TOTALLY SUCK.


Yeah yeah, I love them and all, and they're throwing me a wedding - I get it. But really, doesn't it SUCK just a little that they've put me in the position that I need to CHOOSE between saying that I want them to stay at the hotel with me and saying that they can go hang out with their friends at the other hotel a few miles away, when they have made it very evident that they strongly prefer the latter option? So yeah, of course I'm going to say they should go stay with their friends, but it makes me sad, since it seems to me that it shouldn't be much of a discussion. If all of this hullabaloo (a word I have clearly spelled wrong and which is certainly not in the Blogger dictionary) is over their daughter's wedding (which they are allegedly soooo happy about) - wouldn't they (no questions asked) want to stay with their daughter?


We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.

Guess Mom and Dad won't be tucking me into bed the night before my wedding.


And yes, I'm not going to lie to you (because our relationship is based on trust), there's another force at work here. There's definitely a little piece of me that feels something else. Which is why our conversation ended as follows:


"Sure, Dad, do whatever you want. If you and Mom want to stay with your friends, you should. But just so you know - this is exactly why I didn't want to have two hotels where people stayed, especially when the first hotel is lovely and affordable and attached to the venue. Because if everyone stayed in one hotel, decisions like this would not have to be made."


Translation: [Singsong] I was right! I was riiiiiigggghhhht!

Bermuda, Bahama, Come on Pretty Mama

I'm pretty sure I just scared off at least half of my readers by quoting from a 1990's Beach Boys song, but damn it, if you're going to write about honeymoons is there any better song to quote? And come on, isn't there something inherently cheesey about the word "honeymoon" anyway? And so, isn't a monterey jack-inspired song like "Kokomo" just about the most appropriate thing to kick off this post? If you disagree, you might want to stop reading because (a) there's just more of the same ahead and (b) I need to take a break because all this talk of songs-con-queso has made me want to go make some macaroni and cheese (powdered, not the mushy cheese in a bag kind which I find just too unnatural...cheese that does not require refrigeration makes me shudder).

[Back on couch with computer...fuller and fatter. Unfortunately we didn't have any mac and cheese in the house so I was forced to just stand by the open refrigerator and mechanically eat plain slices of American cheese...six of them. (And yes, I was forced! - there was no free will about it - I was under some sort of Kraft black, er orange-magic.)]

So back to my first point (which I'm pretty sure is going to be the only point): does anyone else hate the word "honeymoon"? To me, there's just something so skeevy and disco-seventies about it. I sort of put it in the category of the word "lover." Just hearing the word conjures up pictures of heart shaped hot tubs, leopard satin sheets and hotpants.

Given my discomfort with taking a vacation that repeatedly made me think of a place and time associated with Magnum PI's mustache, I actually took it upon myself to look up the history of this term. Lo and behold, I found that the first time the word was used in writing was in the 16th century in Richard Huloet's "Abecedarium Anglico Latinum," which stated as follows (ahem):

"Honeymoon, a term proverbially applied to such as be new married, which will not fall out at the first, but the one loveth the other at the beginning exceedingly, the likelihood of their exceeding love appearing to assuage, the which time the vulgar people call the honey moon."

All I have to say is that I read this passage three times now and all I got was something about love appearing to be a sausage.

This does not seem to be a good reason to cling to this term (not that I'm busting on sausage - which is delicious for many reasons, including that it satisfies both as a breakfast meat and for dinner on a bun). However, what I'm trying to say is that I think that the honeymoon needs a new name (and possibly a PR firm, but I'm just one woman). Moreover, if Richard Whooseywhatsie is saying waaaayyyy back in the 1500's that only crass and vulgar folks call the post-nuptial period the "honeymoon" - then why, on God's green Earth, are we still clinging to this crapola term 500 years later?

Thus I would like to propose a new, super modern, and badass name for the post-marriage-trip. The only problem is that I haven't thought of what this uber-fabuloso term will be.

"The Getaway"? I like it; it seems very slick - like a superhero's departure. To me it conjures up Superman and Lois Lane getting hitched and then ducking away from The Bad Guys to go to Fiji. Or better yet, Bonnie & Clyde hopping off to a Sandals resort. On the downside, I can foresee a wary travel agent calling the FBI to report the couple who wanted help with the "getaway."

What about "Respite"? I know it sounds a little, well, mature - like a vacation in an old folks home (Jell-O a deux!), but I'm pretty sure I'm just moments from a convalescence anyway so it could serve double duty. Or it could take a totally different direction - like "Sugarsun"! (Though I think it sounds like the name of a chewing gum.) Or "Molassesvenus"? (Which definitely sounds generally dirty and I don't have any particular explanation as to why). Or "Splendastar"? (Sounds like a fighter ship in the Star Wars galaxy.)

By way of explanation (since I suppose one is needed), all of these musings stem from the fact that Mr. F and I seem to be unable to make any decision whatsoever on the topic of our Post-Nuptial-Vacation. When we get annoyed with wedding planning itself, we just generally bandy around places located all over the entire world and then do nothing about them.

"What about Venezuela?" "Cool."

"What about Nepal?" "Yeah."

"Maybe we should go to Alaska!?" "Definitely."

And with that decided, I just sit and think about how the word honeymoon repulses me.