He Just Smiled And Gave Me A Vegemite Sandwich

By way of review, my parents and Mr F's parents were both, together, simultaneously (meaning, at the Same Time) in town this weekend. It was Parent-Palooza. Parent-Gate. Moms-and-Dads-a-Ding-Dong. The Parent Trap. Parents Galore. Dueling Parents. You couldn't walk across my apartment without tripping over a parent. I actually opened up my wallet to pay for a bottle of water and pulled out a parent.


The reason for the great New Jersey to Baltimore pilgrimage: the wedding tasting, the Mecca of wedding planning. It only takes the promise of a bite per person of six types of hors d'oeuvres, three salads, eight entrees and a plentitude of crispy crunchy sweet and munchy desserts to drive four Jews from central NJ to the greatness of B'more.


I would love to say I thoroughly enjoyed the tasting. Mr F did. But he can relax and enjoy life. I cannot. All I can say is that this experience certainly reinforced the notion that I am simultaneously exactly like, and also thoroughly appalled by, my parents. Le sigh. How can one escape such a chicken-egg conundrum? (Not to mention avoid the ancillary craving for a chicken salad or cheese omlette?)


We arrived at the venue with Mr F's Parents (who were staying with us) and met Big Hugs the wedding coordinator (who hugged each of us by way of hello) and sat waiting for my parents. Tick tick tick tick. It's funny how even though I know we're slapping down more than twenty grand on just catering alone, I still feel beholden to the chef, the coordinator and every one else who is there. Tick tick tick.



Finally, my Parents show and we proceed to the tasting room, which was really lovely. I had no expectations as to what the "tasting" would be like, since I've never thrown a party for 150 people before. Actually, I take that back. I've never thrown a party for 150 people before that did not involve kegstands. In the private room, they had set a single table just for the seven of us. I was feeling very fabulous.



We discuss napkin choices (who knew I had a choice?) and then the first course comes out. We taste lots of little bite size yum yums. I look over at my father who looks unhappy. This isn't unusual, but I was hoping for best behavior.


His brow wrinkles and he looks around the room, apparently perplexed.


After a few more moments (during which I don't taste anything but instead focus my laser-sharp peripheral vision on my father's knit brow), he turns to Big Hugs, who is sitting to his right.


He asks her, "Aren't we going to taste the wines?"


I'm mortified.


And yet, happy to have wine.


But also so nervous about getting drunk and looking like a lush in front of Big Hugs and the Chef that I barely drink. (Why do I care about this? I don't know.)


This is not so for Mr F. He drinks all 6 glasses of wine that were poured as "tasting" glasses. Mr F is three sheets to the wind.


Similarly, Future-Mother-in-Law is giggling across the table. She too, does not appear to be concerned that her pallet remain sober and cleansed to try and select the right foods. She is drunk.


Future Father-in-Law has turned the wine glass on its side like a rolling pin and is pushing it back and forth on the table. Although silent (as always), he too is pretty certainly drunk (or possibly baking an imaginary cake).


Me, my Mom and my Dad each have almost our entire glasses of wine full in front of us. For we only "tasted." (My Parents have done so because they are wine connoisseurs and don't drink the whole glass of wine; me, because I have a tendency to think all food tastes equally yummy after two glasses of wine, hence the ability to clean out my fridge in a single bound after a happy hour.)


Each progressive course comes and we taste, discuss and select. And then the desserts arrive and a discussion of wedding cake ensues (to have or not to have is apparently the question).


And then finally, we're done. And I pick up the buttery Chardonnay (which apparently we will be serving at the wedding) and chug the whole thing like Gatorade. Touchdown.


Yes, there is more (come on, a weekend with both my Parents and Mr F's Parents? - of course there's more) but no, I will not write about it now. I'm spent and dwelling on the fact that I left 5 perfectly good glasses of Merlot, Cabernet, and Pinot Grigio to be poured down the drain. Or more likely, consumed by the kitchen staff. Good for them.

Put On Your Red Shoes And Dance The Blues

Who'd have thunk it? For once, I am being decisive and Mr F is not.

My decision: a few weeks ago I decided I want to cross "choose first dance song" off my "To Do" list. After all, it's just blandly sitting there, taking up excess space between the jaunty "create table numbers" and demanding "select rehearsal dinner location." (Clearly, my list is not in any particular order, just massive amounts of things that need to be completed at some point prior to February 15th and/or before I lose my mind.) And given the fact that The List is more than one page long, I resolved to cross something else off. Come hell or high water. And that something to be crossed off is our first dance song. Because after a thorough review of said list, I decided that it required the least amount of leg work.

I can't help but think of the "First Dance" song as sort of like the "Prom Song." It seems to hold the same sort of overly-inflated importance prior to the event, making you believe that it must characterize your entire relationship (or all four years of high school). There's hemming and hawing (and in my high school - voting!) about the lyrics and about the mood and tons of other idiosyncratic details about the song. However, in reality, when the event itself arrives and the song begins to play, it's just not that big of a deal - the song could be just about anything slow and sweet and it would all be fine (which I'm slowly starting to feel might hold true for the whole damn wedding, but if I allow myself to continue to think that way, this whole house of cards will crumble and I'm pretty sure people will find themselves eating leftover tuna casserole and PB&J sandwiches for the rehearsal dinner and getting a mass email wedding invite).

Not to mention that I don't even remember my Prom Song and in fact, only remember that I voted for Madonna's "Crazy for You" which did not win.

Where was I?

Yes. Crossing off the first dance. I will remove it from my list - oh yes, I shall remove it.

So I did my research one night (said "research" involved reviewing my CD's, iTunes list, two glasses of white wine mixed with a dash of melancholy, and a whole lot of searches on You Tube (a great resource to hear just about any song by the way)) and found a couple of songs that I thought would work just fine. They were not songs I had heard at any other wedding, and they all seemed mildly reflective of our relationship (I say mildly, because there were some tenuous connections there, i.e., a song played in the first movie we saw together), but heck, I figured I would play the songs for Mr F and hear his typical wedding refrain of "whatever you like is fine," and we would be done.

So I put on the computer and played one of the songs for him. I yelled at him: "Listen to this! This is our wedding song!" And I tried to grab him and dance around the room with him.

He grumbled. "No, I don't like it. It's fast. First dance songs aren't fast."

Hmmm. Well that seems...judgmental.

"OK, that's fine. How about this one?! This one is slower!" And I played the second song.

"I don't like that one either. It's mushy. And weird."

Well, now - no need to be mean to the songs. And so it seemed that the guy who said he wanted a 3-minute telecast of NPR to be our first song suddenly had as many opinions about music production value as David Geffen.

It seemed that "choose first dance song" was clinging onto its place on the "To Do" list for dear life.

So for the next few weeks I would sit at my laptop in the kitchen and when Mr F would come into the room, I would launch a full-scale musical attack on his senses. I would jump out of my chair and try to waltz around the room with him, which generally led to his dismissing me by grumbling that he was tired and wanted to go to bed.

This was not going at all as I had planned. Here's the thing: like many other grooms before him, Mr F is not looking forward to the first dance. He does not enjoy dancing, let alone dancing in front of approximately 150 people (a number clearly growing by the minute) for approximately three to four minutes. And while we have already agreed that we will take dance lessons to alleviate some of his stress (although he is actually a great dancer and doesn't need lessons), he seems to be filibustering my mission to remove "choose first dance song" from The List (either consciously, or giving him the benefit of the doubt - unconsciously). Will the genteel Groom from the great State of Maryland please yield the dance floor to his Bride-to-Be?

Unfortunately, despite my decisiveness, this issue continues to be unresolved. Which is annoying me. I don't want to unilaterally select a song, so I was forced (yes, forced!) to do what every woman finds herself doing at some point: giving an ultimatum. I composed a list of ten songs and told Mr F he must pick by the end of this weekend. And if he doesn't? Well, nothing. There's nothing I can do. This is a hollow threat. Except that I will be a big pain in the ass to him and bug him incessantly about it, which as it turns out, usually ends up being enough.

You Say, You Want, Diamonds on a Ring of Gold (or Possibly Platinum)

I have boldly gone where few women have gone before. I conquered a new frontier: I modified my engagement ring.

The ring that Mr F proposed to me with was absolutely gorgeous - I loved it the moment I saw it. Well, ok, actually I loved that I was finally getting a proposal (after three years and a move across the country...woo hoo!). But once I took at look at the super sparkly ring before me (and it was realllllly sparkly - Mr F apparently got a little OCD prior to the proposal and had it professionally cleaned no less than three times before handing it over) - I loved it. The center diamond was pear-shaped, which I adored because it's so unique. And when I found out that it was his grandmother's ring I was head over heels. I loved that I was being entrusted with a (gorgeous) family heirloom. (And if my sweetheart didn't have to shuck out two-, three-, five-month's salary - or whatever DeBeers dictates one should spend on a ring nowadays - even better!)

However.

There was one thing I did not love. The color of the setting (which, by the way, is not an heirloom - just the diamond is). And thus, I'm sorry, but in this instance, I cannot be color blind. I have a dream and it does not involve yellow gold - the color of the setting of my brand new engagement ring. Now while I own a good deal of yellow gold and like it a lot, most of my jewelry is white gold or silver. More importantly, just looking at the ring I knew that it would look so much prettier if it were set in white gold or platinum. I found the yellow gold color distracting from the beauty of the stones. So this was not good.

Understandably, I was a little apprehensive about bringing this up to Mr F since I didn't want him to think I was anything less than thrilled about being engaged and about the ring. So I waited.

For a whole day.

Before I decided I had to tell him.

It's very interesting, the whole engagement ring phenomenon. Although the ring - this very expensive investment which is intended to be worn [calculating...sum reached] = until you die, it is something that the proposee (often) has no say in. Moreover, it is also something that becomes a reflection of you (the proposee and wearer of said ring), rather than a reflection of your fiance (proposer and later (hopefully) husband). No one sees a woman wearing an ugly ring and thinks "oh, her fiance has terrible taste." They think "That woman does not have good taste." Which is why I needed to tell him.

(Note: without this change, my ring was not ugly - it was still fabulous; I just obsess because I wanted this to be PERFECT if I was going to wear it consistently for 50 years, give or take.)

And so I casually (and by casually, I mean I planned what I was going to say for hours) mentioned this to him when we were out having celebratory drinks the next day. (On a totally unrelated note I have to admit that day was so much fun and something I had not anticipated about getting engaged...the 24-hour long celebration following the proposal, when it seemed overwhelmingly appropriate to scream at everyone we passed on the street - "we just got engaged!" and a champagne toast seemed to be the just the right complement to our shared glee for breakfast, lunch and dinner). Anyway, during that celebration, I casually mentioned to him 'how much I LOVED the ring, but I was slightly concerned that it was yellow gold since I didn't wear a lot of yellow gold...soooooooo, would it be a problem to change it...?'

dum dum dum dum dum dumdumdudududududud...[sound of my heart beating faster as I waited for Mr F to get mad or upset about the fact that the woman that he was marrying was so...well, superficial.]

"Of course - change it. I just want you to love it since you will be wearing it every day for the rest of our lives."

YES! He actually understood! The man who thought it was a-ok to sport jeans with holes in inappropriate places and who continued to wear, with disturbing regularity, a J Crew rollneck sweater dating back to 1993, actually understood why I wanted the ring to be perfect. Honestly, forget the grilled cheese with the face of Jesus, this was a goddamn miracle. [Dancing the happy dance around the streets of Del Ray beach, much to Mr F's amusement.] Mr F was two-for-two on our Florida trip. (Lest we forget, number one being that he proposed.)

Fast forward six months. Er, actually eight months. I know that the following makes me sound like I'm about 68 years old...but holy metamucil, where does the time go?

I still haven't changed the ring.

Why, pray tell? Because I am petrified that I will drop the ring off at some jewelry store to get it switched to white gold and they will lose it, misplace it, maim it, the store will burn down, giant flying monkeys will swoop in and eat it...you get the picture. And while these scenarios may seem a little, let's face it - excessive - because the ring is insured, that does not allay my fears. Because my favorite part of the ring is now also my biggest burden: I have been entrusted with Mr F's family heirloom and I am completely freaked out that I will be the one to lose it.

But it's only been passed down through like three generations, so it's no biggie, right? If it's just lost, we can always buy another one, right? Or not.

So I began a multi-state hunt for a place that would change the ring on the day that I dropped it off (so no ring sleepovers at the jewelry store) and, just as importantly, allow me to watch the jeweler do the work. You can imagine that this perhaps might not be the easiest task? It involved a lot of calls that went like this:

"Hi, I would like to have my ring changed from yellow gold to white gold."

"OK, we can do that."

"Great! I was wondering if you could get that done the same day that I drop it off."

"Uhm...well that would be very hard."

"AND...I would like to make sure the ring NEVER LEAVES MY SIGHT. Ever."

"Yeah, we're not going to be able to do that. Toodles, crazy pants."

I had that conversation, oh about, twenty times. OK, except for the last sentence. But you get the gist.

Until finally, my moment of great glory: like Galileo, Christopher Columbus, Neil Armstrong and so many others before me, I made a great discovery. I found...The Best Jewelry Store Ever. Even if it was an hour ride away. But lo and behold, they were good for their word (even if I had to sit and wait for a few hours until they got to my piece of jewelry). When it was my turn, I sat and watched through a glass wall (much like the "observing room" for doctors during surgery (or what I assume it would be like, since I've only seen it on "Grey's Anatomy") or the "one-sided glass" in police stations - ditto with respect to "Law & Order"), as they performed a minor operation on my ring.

And then they came around from behind the glass and handed it over to me.

It is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. Perfect. And in fact, it's like getting engaged all over again, because as I walked to my car that day I stared at my hand (much like I first did eight months ago). And then as I drove the car, I looked down far too frequently (mercifully avoiding any traffic accidents) to see how my ring looked while driving. It looked perfect! And then I looked in the mirror at my reflection to see how the ring looked as I was washing up for bed.

And it looked perfect.

Doctor Doctor, Can't You See I'm Burning, Burning?

I saw a therapist for the first time on Monday.

Now I won't say that there is a direct correlation between planning my wedding and the decision to see a therapist. It's more like the veil that broke the camel's back.

Mr F has been encouraging me to see a therapist for some time now given my proclivity to being overly stressed and anxious about just about everything. I have resisted mostly because while I think therapy is a wonderful thing, I tend to feel that it is something that makes much more sense for people who are dealing with "real" issues - like addiction, grief, or depression. Not so much for anxiety. It just seems so self-indulgent to see a therapist to deal with "stress" when people all over the world are sick, starving, and victims of violence and abuse.

That being said, the fear of blossoming into a fully formed version of my parents (who, the learned doctor informed me, are probably both dealing with severe forms of generalized anxiety disorder themselves) combined with quickly worsening and painful TMJ (from grinding my teeth at night from stress) finally was enough for me to agree that if speaking with a professional about my "issues" could ultimately make me a better person (better person = person not as crazy as my parents and with less physical symptoms of stress), then it was worth a try.

What is most fascinating is that I can write five pages on picking out china, but I don't have a lot to say on this. Mostly I'm writing in the interest of full disclosure and because I'm a little giddy at the recollection of our first conversation.

The Doctor begins by asking: "So, why are you here?"

"I knew you were going to ask me that! And I've been thinking about what I was going to say for the past few days. I think this has been a long time in coming. But the truth is that I've been really stressed lately and I have a lot of anxiety...about...uhm...hmm."

"About what?"

"I know this is going to sound funny, and I think it's really just a catalyst to get me here - and not the cause of my anxiety per se...but...I decided to come here because I'm really stressed about...Planning My Wedding."

"Hmmmmmmm." The Doctor looks down writes something (presumably "patient is crazy" or a picture of a bird going "cuckoo! cuckoo!") and leans back in her chair.

And then she said "OK, so tell me if you have any phobias."

"Wha???" Phobias? Did I hear right? Perhaps she said "tell me if you've picked out your phlowers?" No, no I think she did not.

Apparently what she did do was change the subject. Flat out just moved on. It was like I'd suggested we order a pizza and she responded with "Do you like my new sweater?" Not even a tacit acknowledgment of my statement.

I started to do my nervous giggle thing (which probably freaked her out more since I'm sure she suspected there were voices in my head telling me jokes) because at that moment I realized that even my PhD-holding-mental-health-professional couldn't provide any answers about the massive stress caused by wedding planning. Either that or I have a therapist with a severe hearing deficiency.

Well that's just about it. Except that it cost me $140 to learn that my therapist can't plan my wedding for me (and/or needs the Miracle Ear) and I got suckered into going back again in two weeks. I'm not really sure where this whole thing will get me (except for some potentially funny but unnecessarily expensive blog posts), but for those of you who are also stressed (but don't want to drop a Benjamin and a half on a shrink of your own), I'm happy to pass along her advice.

Unfortunately, most of this session focused on my crazy parents and my non-wedding-related issues so I have no advice to share, but I firmly believe that you should all stay tuned as I am certain that within $420 (also known in layman's terms as "three more sessions") we shall once again straddle the issue of the White Horse of the Apocalypse, the impending nuptials trotting toward me with advancing speed. Giddyup!

I Want The World, I Want The Whole World

I have always had a hard time with gifts. I love to receive an unsolicited gift, but I hate when someone asks me "What do you want for your...[fill in the blank] ___________ - Birthday? Chanukah? Anniversary? Valentines Day?" I end up distraught; the idea that someone is spending their hard-earned money on my whims causes me more stress than joy.



Now don't get me wrong - my position on this issue is a nuanced one. I'm all for a little consumerism and I love the idea that I might get surprised with a Birthday / Anniversary / Holiday present that is, say, a lovely new sparkly pink unsolicited iPod, but I have a terrible time demanding that such iPod be purchased.

Of course, the irony is that both my family and Mr F work on this premise (i.e., "It's your Birthday. What do you want?"). Needless to say, I end up not getting presents for many events because I cannot - without oodles of guilt - make such demands.

I'm pretty sure this guilt comes from a variety of sources - (1) my parents not having a ton of extra money when we were growing up, (2) their stress about said lack of money (and as a corollary, their kind reminders that that we didn't have spare money and thus I should appreciate every cent spent on my dolls (first), clothes (later), and college (ultimately)) and (3) finally, the oy vey on the crown of the Chosen people - Jewish guilt. The latter of which can account for pretty much every neuroses I have - from fear of airplanes to malnourishment. That being said, I'm absolutely sure it has a place here as well.

And while we're playing psychologist, if I had to venture a guess, I think that never writing a "list" to Santa (flat out telling the big guy what I want) has clearly had some far-reaching ramifications. I knew I was totally getting screwed with Chanukah, no matter what my parents claimed! Eight days, schmeight days.


Given my giant black sack of gift issues (gissues?), you might be able to imagine what a frickin conundrum "registering" has been.


At first, I thought "Well, put a ring on my finger and call me a wizard! If this isn't the best and most exciting thing in the WORLD! I can go around and pick things I like and they will just 'poof'...appear!"


Even before I got engaged this seemed like a pretty good gig. I actually remember watching the movie "Sleepless in Seattle" (like 900 times) and thinking how fab-u-loso it must be to walk into Tiffany's and just PICK THINGS.


My goodness, my Guinness, I have wanted to walk into Tiffany's and pick out things my whole life. Now I can! The magical ring gives me a power I have never had before. Precious, indeed.

But then, as I started to browse online and ponder what we "needed," I had an enlightenment.

I began to suspect that the items are not magically delivered to my doorstep and it seemed highly plausible that little wedding fairies are not the ones who place them on my kitchen counter while I am asleep. Perhaps...real live people buy these for me. People who work. A lot. They spend their hard earned money on the silver-plated soft boiled egg holder or the trio of pewter hand crafted bowls. It dawned on me that registering was doing exactly what I hated. I was asking people to buy me things.

Silly things.

And expensive things. That I don't normally buy. Ever. As I've mentioned numerous times, I try to buy things at discount stores. So going into Bloomingdales and registering for a $50 towel, when I know that I can buy that same towel at TJ Maxx for $10 is painful. It's like throwing away forty dollars. But it got worse than that. Because of China.

Sorry, I don't mean Beijing, or the home of the 2008 Olympics. (Although I'm still reeling over the fact that they wouldn't let the girl sing who was deemed "not pretty enough" to be the face of the Opening Ceremony.) Anyway, I meant "little c": china.

My family doesn't have heirloom china. And I love to cook. So it only makes sense that I would register for china, right?

Flash forward to Bed, Bath and Beyond (where I agreed to register since everyone can use the plethora of coupons they provide and everything will be 20% less). I am standing with my Mom in front of the china. Crying. I cannot believe that it costs $160 per place setting. Per place setting! And a place setting doesn't even include a SOUP BOWL. The point at which a place setting stopped including a soup bowl is clearly beside the point - but holy soup du jour - that is $220 for 5 pieces of china. Multiplied by 12. And my fiance is a total klutz. That adds up to well, approximately a few thousand dollars worth of heartbreak and broken china.

My mom is speaking to me in calming tones about passing down these bowls to the next generation. But it's just so much money. I can't get over it. (Note that the salesgirl is looking at me as if I am insane. I'm sure many people come in and pick the $300/per place setting without a second thought. I am clearly not that person.)

Despite my inability to pull the trigger (literally, I can't figure out how to work the stupid "scanner gun"), I do have to register for things. People will want to buy gifts for my shower and I don't want to end up with 10 coffee makers. (Or do I? Yum, I love coffee.) To avoid spending all of my days on the return line at Macy's, I need to register for things and so, it might as well be china. Because if I don't choose china, then I will just end up selecting...well, crap. And at full price. A spatula at $19.95? I mean, come on! It's a spatula. It's plastic. It should be no more than $5.


And to top it all off, the silliest part is that registering doesn't even get you what you want (or at least what I want) because you can't register at 20 stores for one thing each. If I push out of the way the troubling feeling in my stomach caused by demanding my friends spend tons of money on me and think about what it is that I really want, I realize that it's unique and beautiful heirloom items that I can't "register" for. I would love a piece of framed art or photography (bought online or from an artist's gallery) that we would have forever hanging on our wall that I would always remember was a wedding gift. Or I would like a menorah (not the ugly ones at Bloomingdale's or Bed Bath and Beyond but something beautiful and handmade) that I will imagine my kids will remember as the one they used for lighting the Chanukah candles each year. Or a totally unique hand crafted platter to serve food on at holidays - not the same one that a million people have in their homes because we all registered at the same place.

My head is spinning. And it's lunchtime. So I will make one demand that I feel wholly comfortable making. I'm going to let Mr. Chiu know that I would very much like him to deliver me some sushi.

I, Hate The Rain And Sunny Weather And I, Hate Beach And Mountains Too

Every time I try to start this post, a million different ideas float through my head. So I've erased my first sentence five times so far. In fact, although I haven't erased the previous two sentences (yet), I have no idea where this post is going. The problem right now is that there are SO many wedding-related balls in the air right now that I'm really not sure what to write because I can't focus on a single one.


Instead, all of them have taken up residence in my head swirling around on a constant loop. As I'm walking to work thoughts just sort of dart through my mind - I have to find another Cantor! Should I delegate the gift bags to my mom like my maid of honor suggested? I have to email her back to thank her for that suggestion. I have to call the event coordinator to ask about changing the tasting time! And that's just the ride downstairs in the elevator.


I'm exhausted by the time I arrive at my office.


The thoughts whiz through my head like airplanes on the beach during a three-day weekend advertising dollar drafts at the local dive bar. Flying fast and furious, back and forth. Before I can finish reading one, the next is already encroaching. And as a result, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to fall asleep. Or bury a hole in the sand and crawl inside.


The only thing worse than thinking of all the things that I have to do, is thinking about all the things that I'm waiting on other people for. Sweet malibu rum, I hate waiting on other people to get back to me.


Hate it.


Right now I'm doing a lot of waiting. Which is worse than a bikini bottom full of sand and no shower to be found anywhere. (Clearly, as fall approaches, I'm already missing the lazy days of summer. Granted, I haven't had lazy days on the beach for at least a year, since I moved from San Diego, but that's another story for another day...or a mental breakdown waiting to happen). Where was I?


Oh yes. Waiting.


Waiting.


[Yawn.]


Still waiting.


For what, you might be asking? (A good question.)


I'm waiting for my "day of" event coordinator to call me back. I'm waiting for my parents to confirm that they can attend the tasting if we change the date. I'm waiting for Mr F to get me the addresses of his friends.


I HATE WAITING.


I also despise waiting until after the Jewish holidays to meet with the new Cantor we found. I abhor waiting to hear back from restaurants I contacted about hosting our rehearsal dinner. I loathe waiting to get responses from international resorts I contacted about honeymoon resorts.


How can I get anything done if I'm constantly waiting for other people to complete their tasks? Planning a wedding is like a giant group project for Sophomore year English class. I hate group projects. I hate delegating. Because everyone lets me down and I end up doing twice as much work. (You can imagine that I am the paradigm of efficiency in the workplace.)


And did I mention that I hate waiting to hear back from my event coordinator? (You might know her best as Big Hugs.) And by "did I mention," I mean "I know I mentioned," but I don't think I really got into the meaty goodness of this topic and instead of nibbling on the bun of my boardwalk burger, I'd like to dive right in to the juicy center.


Lunch aside, the larger issue is this: I'm starting to hate my wedding coordinator. Yes, we definitely started off the wrong foot when she sent me an email addressing me by the wrong name. But I vowed not to let that affect me. And thus, it is the fact that she consistently does not return my phone calls or emails or morse code or pony express telegrams that annoys me and has not engendered a great deal of faith in her abilities.


While I understand that my wedding is still five months away and that she must have a boatload of brides to deal with, I hate the radio silence treatment.


This is all I would like when I contact her; a return email as follows:

"E&E,

I got your email. Thanks for contacting me! I am looking into your requests and will be in touch as soon as I can with answer.

BIG HUGS!!!!!!"

I would then like a substantive answer a few days later. Does that seem unreasonable? (No really, does it?)

But instead I get nothing. I have about a million questions to ask her and she won't call me back. And while I'm on the topic of Things I Do Not Like (also known as "Hate"), I also hate that I feel like everything I ask her is a "favor" somehow. And that I need to somehow pick and choose what I ask her to help me with.


Why do I feel this way? Because everytime I ask if the venue can do something for us, it's met with Big Sighs and then my favorite response: "I'll have to check and get back to you." Translation: "I will probably forget about this until you call and email me four more times, adding a ton of stress on to your shoulders and adding, but not subtracting, a single thing from your mile long list."


I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY THAT THEY WILL GET BACK TO ME.


With respect to my most recent questions, I finally did hear back from her. And what did I hear exactly? - That she never got my email. Yes, you read that correctly. I think my coordinator just pulled the "dog ate my homework" excuse of wedding coordination. (Despite the fact that I got an "out of office" auto reply from her after I sent the email, which demonstrates that she did indeed get the email; perhaps I should have explained that not "getting" the email and not "reading" or "responding" to the email are two entirely different things.) Not to mention that I left two voicemail messages.


Now I have to go order the pin I want to wear in my hair for the wedding since I can't do my hair trial until I have it. Which means I can't book someone to do my hair. And until I do my hair I can't schedule a make-up trial. Which is all very frustrating, because the hair pin is backordered so I need to wait a month for it to arrive.

I Write the Songs of Love and Special Things...or Part II of The Weekend

I woke up last night at 3 o'clock in the morning, feeling confused as I groggily recalled a fragment of my dream. I was sitting in front of a piano and an older man kept chanting the same song over and over and over again in Hebrew. And I kept telling him to stop, but every time I said stop, he would start all over again. It was my own version of Groundhog's Day.


Except that I wasn't actually dreaming. I was recalling the events of Sunday. Traumatic, no?



On Sunday, we were set to meet with Mr F's Cantor. This gentleman is a friend of Mr F's parents and also was there for the Bar Mitzahs of both Mr F and his younger brother. As my family doesn't go to temple and has no relationship with any Jewish officiant, this seemed like a no-brainer. (Note that not belonging to a temple does not apparently preclude my mother from going into hysterics at the mere mention of having a wedding that is not Jewish and/or is not conducted by a Jewish officiant and/or is during the Sabbath - a weekly event that I have never seen anyone in my family observe. Interesting phenomenon.)



As we pulled up to the Cantor's house I began to get inexplicably nervous. Butterflies were kicking around in my stomach and keeping the rhythm as we knocked on the door. The Cantor peered out at us. He was an older gentleman, and looked to be in his sixties, with the thick bifocaled eyeglasses that I associated with, well, Rabbis and other older Jewish people. "Mista EFFFFF. Soooo good ta see yooouuuuu." He spoke with the Yiddish/Hebrew accent that marked a New York Jew more plainly that holding a bagel with lox in the left hand and a Coney Island hot dog in the right one. (If you are having trouble picturing how you should be reading all of this dialogue, might I draw you by way of example to Mel Brook's character Yogurt in "Spaceballs".)



He shook Mr F's hand as we continued to stand out on his porch. Mr F said "This is E&E, my fiance." He shook my hand as well. We all stood on the porch awkwardly for another thirty seconds before it occurred to the Cantor to say "Come in, come in. Take a seat," as he indicated to a few couches in the corner.



We sat down on the couches and the Cantor started to make small talk with Mr F about his parents. And then he moved on to speaking about his own children. "My son, my son - he is a big time lawyer. He graduated from HARVARD. He works for a big firm now. Because he went to HARVARD. He was always such a good student. HARVARD!"



I found myself tuning out and looking around the room. I was used to the "kvelling" of Jewish parents. It was their icebreaker. Instead of "how are you" they say "my kids, they are amazing!" Although this was going on for longer than usual.



I tuned back in. He was now telling a story about how the judge that his son worked for bought him a Chanukah present of two rare Jewish texts - and the judge wasn't even Jewish! "What a mensch! Who can believe it? Me, for one, I could not believe my son to be so lucky."



This was getting a little ridiculous.



Mr F gallantly steps in to say "E&E is a lawyer."



The Cantor looks at me, nods, and goes back to speaking about his son. Two minutes later, he pauses and I think we're going to get down to chatting about me and Mr F, perhaps discuss how we met and what we were looking for in our ceremony. But instead, the Cantor starts speaking about his daughter. She's a doctor. They are so blessed, to have both a doctor and a lawyer. (I swear, you can't make this stuff up.)



And he goes on to talk about how she lives on the Upper East Side of New York, about her apartment - it's a co-op!, her job at the hospital (she had two offers at hospitals in NY - how to choose?) and how beautiful she is. Mr F is waved over the the refrigerator where her pictures are hanging up and duly acknowledges her beauty. And then, just when I think that discussion of the daughter has dried up - he goes on to discuss her son - his grandson ("the light of his life"). And how he loves bunnies and has tons of toys. Fascinating.


At which point, he says "Well, we should get down to it, no?" and I breathe a sigh of relief. I was thinking we would never talk about our ceremony - last I could recall, the actual reason we were here. And before I can open my mouth to ask a question, he says "so, first you come in and I chant the two blessings of betrothal. They are quite melodic and lovely. You will like them. Then I will chant the seven blessings. And I will need a piano. You have a keyboard right? They are wonderful. I say the prayer and then 'la la' the piano goes and it's wonderful." I'm looking around like a mouse caught in a trap (but I definitely got screwed on this one because I never saw even a damned square of swiss cheese). What in Moses' name was going on here? I thought that he knew from my Future Mother in Law that we didn't want any Hebrew in the ceremony? (Or at least "limited" Hebrew.) This sounded like our wedding was a brief visit to the Whaling Wall.


I knit my eyebrows together; I'm trying to use my ESP to get Mr F to look at me. He won't. Because he can feel the hate radiating across the couch over to him.


So I break into the Cantor's diatribe. "Uhm, Cantor - I think we need to take a step back. Perhaps FMIL didn't mention this to you, but we were under the impression that you knew that we didn't want a religious ceremony. We're not religious. So we don't really think that all these blessings are appropriate for us."

Mr F chimes in "Yeah, I don't believe in anything. I'm like the anti-Jew." A little much, but he's trying to help.

But I was proud. Now it was out there. He knew how we felt. We could move on and discuss some alternate English readings or other ways to incorporate the Jewish culture in to the ceremony without the stuffy verse.


"You will love the melodies. We will do the blessings. I will play them for you now. Listen."


All of a sudden, out of nowhere, he pulls out a tiny Walkman tape recorder, circa 1988, and instead of playing Prince's "Kiss", he presses play and we start hearing chanting. And more chanting. I look over at the Cantor and he's closing his eyes and lip syncing the words (actually much like I did when I was 12 and dancing around the house to a Prince song). I turn to look at Mr F who's sitting to my left and he is laughing so hard that his face is turning red.


I think I just got a disturbing glimpse into the boy that Mr F was at age 12. I felt like it was B'nai Mitzvah prep class all over again.


And since we were all reverting to age 12, I leaned into the couch and looked out the window and let my mind go blank as it used to when I was stuck in temple or doing anything religious (which is why I don't want to have that very same music at my wedding), concentrating on the fact that it really is quite amazing that the New Kids on the Block are getting back together and remembering that I (ironically) won a giant NKOTB poster at our former temple's annual Purim Fair (and wondering where in the world that darn thing is now...my parents' basement?). A few minutes later it was quiet. Mr F was trying to discreetly wipe away the tears of laughter from the corner of his eye and control his giggles.

"Well?" The Cantor was looking at Mr F. In fact, it seemed that unless I was speaking, the Cantor always looked at Mr F. I brushed the back of my hand across my cheeks. Perhaps I had a stowaway crumb and the Cantor couldn't bear to look at it any longer?

"Well, Cantor, it's a beautiful melody. But it's not really us. As E&E just mentioned, we're really not religious and we had hoped to skip all of the blessings in Hebrew and --"

"You can't hear on the tape properly. I will play for you. Come to the piano."

And like pigs, er - cows to the slaughter, we dragged ourselves over to the piano. My stomach grumbled. It was already seven o clock and I hadn't eaten lunch. I wanted a cheeseburger. Or lobster. Or a bacon cheeseburger lobster sandwich. I really was reverting to a passive aggressive twelve-year old.

"Let me get some hot tea. I need to prepare my throat." And so we waited while the Cantor sipped some tea to prepare his throat. We just stood by. Helpless. Prisoners of the seven blessings. My cheeseburger lobster sandwich would also have mayo on it.

And then he sat down at the piano and began to sing. A whole bunch of Hebrew stuff that I didn't know. And he kept going. And going. I looked around his house. He continued to sing. I began to meditate (if meditating involves violence and hatred). I imagined myself taking a mallet and smashing the piano. And then yelling at the Cantor that he needed to SHUT UP and listen to what we had to say. He continued to sing.

And when he was done, once again he looked at Mr F and he said "See! I told you that you would like it - it is a festive melody! When there is a festive occasion, you play a festive melody!" Finally he turned to me and said, "Right? Isn't this what you would play for a happy occasion?" To which I responded:

"NO."

Mr F looked at me with concern - his crazy Hebrew music-hating bride. And I looked back at him - squinting my eyes as if to say "I thought we were on the same page - I thought neither of us wanted chanting!!"

To which he responding - without saying a word - "I don't want chanting - but this is my parents' friend. SO BE NICE."

At the same time Mr F's eyes were warning me, the Cantor said, "I don't know what you mean."

I thought for a moment and then said: "Well, I would play something that I actually understand. I don't understand a word you just said. I would play the Beatles, or Jack Johnson, or something that means something to me. This is precisely the reason that we don't want Hebrew in our ceremony. We don't know what you're saying."

"Would you like me to sing it again?"

Mr F and I were a team again; we exchanged bewildered glances and a silent "NO!" but before we have even finished the conversation with our eyes, the Cantor has broken into song. Again.

Do you understand?? HE IS SINGING AGAIN. It's like we're in a Bob Fosse musical. I can feel that we're just two minutes away from jazz hands and excessive wearing of black tights.

I can't believe it, but I am the father in "Footloose." I hate music. It is evil. It kills young girls driving in cars at high speeds.

"Cantor, Cantor - it's beautiful, but I just don't think it's 'us'," Mr F finally interrupts him.

The Cantor pauses for a moment and looks pensive; then he exclaims in glee, "OK, I will read it to you in English! Then we can use that...although of course I have to read the last verse in Hebrew or you're not married."

And before we can say "no thank you", he is off to the races. And this is what he read:

Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who has created everything for His glory.

Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who fashioned the Man.

Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who fashioned the Man in His image, in the image of his likeness and prepared for him from himself a building for eternity. Blessed are You, Who fashioned the Man.

OK, so those are only the first three blessings. But really, we can stop there since we've already reached what I find fundamentally wrong with Judaism. I'm sorry, but I'm just not on board with half the blessings at my wedding focusing on how frickin great man is and how I'm so psyched that God allegedly created him first. And yes, I understand that I'm saying words that others before me have said and "keeping tradition alive", but screw it - it just doesn't sit right with me and I don't want to say it. And all that aside, honestly, all of those words - even in English - mean absolutely nothing to me. It's like reading the instructions for building an IKEA bookshelf aloud at my wedding. Which might actually be better because then I could have a valid excuse to serve Swedish meatballs.

So I decide to lay down the law and tell the Cantor my feelings on Judaism and what we really want and that if he can't provide it, that we fully respect that, but perhaps this isn't the best match. But instead, I start to cry.

Holy burning bush, Batman. I jump up and run out the door.

I walk around our car and take deep breaths before returning back inside. I apologize, having decided that I'll make it through this meeting if it's the last thing I do.

Luckily, a little tears seemed to moisten the gears of the Chosen People's negotiation as the Cantor pronounced: "OK. I think...we do not need to do the Seven Blessings."

Hallelujah.

"Cantor," Mr F says, "How about we run through the entire ceremony so that E&E and I get a sense of the whole thing?"

"OK. Well, first, before the ceremony you will sign the ketubah. Do you have a ketubah?"

"No."

"You must get a ketubah. You can get it in a Jewish bookstore."

"OK, thank you."

"And then, after we sign the ketubah - do you have a ketubah yet?"

"Uhm...no?"

"You can get one anywhere - in a Jewish bookstore, online, whatever. But you must get one."

"OK."

"And you need an easel. To display it during the ceremony."

"OK."

"Are you going to display your ketubah in the home?"

"We don't know. We don't have one yet."

The Cantor goes on to explain that during the signing of the ketubah portion prior to the ceremony, he will ask Mr F if he agrees to take on the very important responsibility of caring for his new bride. And he starts to move on to the next portion of the ceremony.

"Excuse me - but Cantor - what do I say?"

He looks at me. "You do not say anything. I am asking Mr F if he is ready to take on his responsibility."

"But I think we should share the responsibility."

He looks at me as if I am a slow child. A very slow child. "Well you know E&E, should things not work out - things aren't really equal. You know that he would have more responsibility. So he must agree to this."

"No, I'm sorry, Cantor. But I disagree. I think we both should have the responsibility."

He looks at me kindly, as one might look at an injured mare before shooting it in the head to put it out of its sad misery. "But that's not how it really is, E&E."

"Actually Cantor...I'm a lawyer. And that is how it really is. There is this thing they have now - it's called 'No Fault Divorce.' So that's how it is."

Let's just say that this continued on. And on. And on. The Cantor broke into song no less than two or three more times. He pressed us to include other blessings. And all of it was fine for I had already resolved that we were not using him. That being said, the moment we left I burst into tears again in the car.

I just thought it would be so different.

I thought he would ask us about ourselves and want to know us and hear about the hilarious story about how we met in California (even thought we were both from NJ!) and hear about our first and perhaps our second dates (the second date being the day after the first, and yes, the third being the day after the second). I imagined that after knowing us, we would transition into explaining how we envisioned our ceremony and the Cantor would work with us to reach that goal.


Mr F and I drove in silence for a few moments (except for my sniffling) before he asked if I wanted to talk about it. I tried to explain but wasn't doing a very good job. At which point Mr F said to me, "How about some pizza?"

He looked at me as I dried the tears from my cheeks and under my eyes. I held up two fingers: "I want TWO slices."

We made a quick jughandle and popped into Scotty's pizza on Route 33 in New Jersey. Sweet ten commandments, was it a crappy day - but boy, this was the best frickin pizza ever.