Life According to Mel Heth

New Name. New Address. Last Post.

2011-08-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I found a slip of paper in my baby book that had a list of names on it my mother had considered during her pregnancy with me. I think the top, starred girl name on the list was "Melissa/Misty." Thank God they didn't go with that as a nickname. We had a friend with a poodle named Misty. "Holly" was also on the list, which I always thought would have gone nicely with "Hetherington." If I were a boy, they were thinking they'd go with "Brent."

Though they chose "Melissa/No-Misty," I answered to "Heather" for much of my life, thanks to my last name. Teachers often called me Heather. People who met me and forgot my name used that one in its place. Coworkers mistakenly summoned me by it.

The name confusion is probably the one thing I won't miss about losing Hetherington.

Actually, that and having to write or say 12 letters every time I spell out my name.

But even with the few upsides to changing, the thought of a different moniker has taken me awhile to fully accept. You might remember my freakout about changing my initials. And then there was the heel-dragging on filling out forms on MissNowMrs.com. I've stretched the process out for 5 whole months (yes, today is our 5-month anniversary) and now it's pretty much totally complete.

My new last name is actually a beautiful one. It means "of the sea" in Greek. Funny because Melissa means "honeybee" in Greek, so now I'm Honeybee of the Sea. Brings sort of a cute visual to mind.

I was messing around on Etsy the other day and decided to create a treasury around the idea of Greek seas. It sort of made my new last name feel even prettier...

So now that I've made my peace with being a "Maris" instead of a "Hetherington," I've decided it's time to retire this blog and move over permanently to 'S Wonderful.

I still plan to write goofy stories and personal insights over there, even though I initially started it to be a blog about married life. I will still be Mel Heth on the inside. Just with a bit of a twist on the outside.

I really hope you'll all follow me over there. Update your blogrolls and reader feeds.

It's been so great getting to know you all over here. Wonderful, really...

See you soon at http://ourlifeofwonderful.blogspot.com/

Getting Cheeky

2011-08-16T16:32:00.001-07:00

I had a very visual reminder this past weekend of how much I need to get back into shape. And maybe spend some more time in the sun. And perhaps invest in a cellulite-reducing cream.

Find out all the dirty details at 'S Wonderful.

Havisham, Here I Come

2011-08-14T22:45:00.000-07:00

I'm over here at 'S Wonderful, writing about being a lonelywed. I guess I should let you all know that very, very soon I'll probably be posting over there all the time. Two blogs is one too many for me, and this URL is becoming outdated. I'll let ya know when I make the switch and I hope you'll all continue to follow me over there! Even if I do become Miss Havisham in the next couple weeks...

Diary of a D Cup

2011-08-09T14:59:00.000-07:00

Do you ladies out there know your real bra size? Not the one you think you're supposed to wear, but the real, true one you should be special ordering from Vicky Secrets?

Check out my latest 'S Wonderful post and you may be surprised by what you learn. I know I was!

Sometimes Even Sneaky Peekers Receive Surprises AKA Nick Jonas Has Nice Hair

2011-08-07T21:03:00.000-07:00

Before Christmas when I was in second or third grade, my older sister caught me and my cousin Kim peeking at our unwrapped presents. I knew where my mom had hidden them, and was certain my sister wouldn't hear what we were up to, so we went on our merry way and rifled through the Christmas shopping bags.

When my sister found us, she gave us a stern lecture but promised not to rat us out. Lie. She totally told on us. And of course my mom threatened to return all my gifts to their stores.

It's fitting that some twenty-odd years later, my niece peeked at a birthday present I'd bought for her.

I think it was 6 or 7 years ago when I'd taken the birthday outfit I'd purchased over to show my sister. I left it in a bag in the living room and when I went to leave, I noticed that the bag wasn't how I'd left it. I asked my niece, we'll call her Al (like that Paul Simon song) and I believe she tried to deny it at first. Then I think she burst into tears and said she really liked the skirt. I didn't know whether to laugh or give her a time out.

Then the next time I saw her, she gave me this. Which I've saved all these years...

In case you need a translation, it says: Dear Auntie, I'm sorry
I peeked in the bag, but I am glad to be just...

like you and Kim. Most of all is to get a boyfriend when I'm 30 and get married.

I think it's hysterical that her apology included a littler buttering up about how she liked being like me and cousin Kim (my partner in crime for childhood gift peeking) but even funnier that at age 6 or 7, she was concerned with getting a boyfriend when she was 30. I'm pretty sure I was still in my 20s when she wrote this—it was nice of her to up the age on her note.

This year, Al is turning 13.

And in grand auntie tradition, I planned a very special night out to celebrate her induction into teenagehood. Her favorite food is Chinese, so I took her to Chin Chin on the Sunset Strip for dinner. After that, we did a little shopping at Hollywood & Highland and grabbed a pastry at Beard Papa's. Then we hiked up Highland Avenue to the Hollywood Bowl where we had tickets to see Hairspray. The big bonus for my niece: Nick Jonas was playing one of the lead roles. (Though Harvey Fierstein blew everyone else out of the water).

My sneaky little niece figured out her birthday surprise before I took her Friday night.

She knew what night we were doing our big celebration and when she saw a commercial for Hairspray on TV, she was certain that's what we were doing. I can't believe she found me out again...

The only person who turned out surprised that night was me: Nick Jonas was shockingly entertaining. Who knew?

I guess after peeking and foiling my own surprises as a kid, I can't get upset that my niece operates the same way. I wonder if she reads ahead in novels like I do. Thank goodness for both of us that there are still unexpected treats out in the world. Like Nick Jonas's biceps.

The Great Kid Debate

2011-07-31T22:14:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, I got stuck in an elevator at IKEA. This was my first time ever being stuck in an elevator.

I was riding from floor 2 to floor 1 with three friends from high school, two toddlers, three babies, two strollers and a shopping cart. It was hot in there. The alarm was ringing loudly. When I finally figured out which switch had been tampered with by tiny hands and the doors opened, I was hankering for an adult beverage.

The funny thing was that right before we got into the elevator, we were discussing whether or not I wanted kids. Whether I was really cut out for it. When we emerged from the stalled IKEA car, my girlfriend said, "That was a sign!"

I said, "I know - a loud one with alarm bells screaming DON'T DO IT!"

"No," she said. "A sign you should do it. You were totally calm in there."

And therein lies the debate that my brain and uterus seem to be having on a daily basis. My womb insists that I should for sure have kids, that I can absolutely handle it and that I might actually like it. Then my brain jumps in and explains that I love my free time, love dinners out with Mr. W, love drinking wine and traveling, am not a fan of poop or throw-up or bratty friends or sleepless nights. My brain reminds my baby parts about the news story I just saw about the kid in Florida who killed his parents with a hammer and the little girl on Oprah with multiple personalities.

For every positive I can think of, there are about a thousand negatives or concerns to match it.

The main being, I just don't really know that I ever want to take on that kind of responsibility.

My Creative Director at work has told me multiple times that I would make a great CD myself one day. Every time, I smile and say, "no way." I don't want the responsibility. I'm flattered by his confidence in me, but I'm a Peter Pan girl. I'm not looking to leave Neverland anytime soon.

You could totally handle the kids thing, my uterus, friends and family say.

I could probably handle running a half marathon multiple times in a month but I don't want to do that. I could handle giving up chocolate and wine, but I don't want to do that either. I'm a pleasure junky.

So the debate continues.

I'm kind of wishing they made muzzles for biological clocks.

Community Cravings

2011-07-27T11:05:00.001-07:00

Last Friday night, I was running an errand up near my beloved hometown and I ran smack dab into my cousin and her two sons. We were both at Home Goods and ended up goofing around for a good thirty minutes in the store together. Even though it was 9:00 at night.

It made me miss Montrose.

That's the town I lived in for 8 years before I moved in with Mr. Wonderful. My grandmother's father was one of the first real estate developers there, so my family has lived in the vicinity for 3 (or rather 4 if you count my nieces) generations.

It is virtually impossible for me not to run in to familiar faces on the streets up there. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see my cousin out shopping.

These things don't happen to me in Hollywood.

The past several times I've gone to Montrose to see friends or family, I feel a little ache in my gut. It's a very charming small town (the main street is the one Will Ferrell went streaking down in Old School) with tree-lined streets and neat little houses. It feels safe and inviting. Cozy. Like home. Mr. Wonderful often calls it Mayberry.

But I realized on Friday night that the quaintness of the town isn't why I miss it. I don't want to move back. Don't want to retire there.

What I miss is the community it holds. The connections I have there—from high school, from my college coffeehouse job, from family and friends of family. It's really neat to know so many people in such a small space.

It seems to me that one can create a similar sense of community almost anywhere. People do it in their neighborhoods in New York City. And even when they live miles apart from neighbors out in the country. There has to be a way for me to cultivate that in Hollywood. I'm just not entirely sure how.

I know people routinely develop little friend circles by frequenting bars or particular shops or gyms or yoga studios. Sadly, I'm not über motivated to do any of those things. I think I'm more drawn to trying to meet friends of friends in the area. I do know some great people in town. The Boss and his awesome wife live just a few blocks from us and have had me over for some fun little get togethers. But of course, I crave more because of what I used to have in Montrose.

Mr. W has teased me recently after we met a couple of his friends' girlfriends. I was so enthusiastic and immediately wanted to be BFFs with them. Mr. W totally pinned me as a stalker and told me to simmer down or I'd scare them away. (I friended both on Facebook anyway...) I guess I was just hoping to find a new hiking buddy or movie pal.

It's sort of like being single again. I have to figure out how to hit on people in a non-creepy way. So, of course, I'm looking for advice. How do you guys build out your communities without seeming like desperate social rejects?

I'm Thinking of Adding a Pear Tree. And a Partridge.

2011-07-24T22:35:00.001-07:00

Yesterday's backyard harvest was one of the best ones yet! I ate all 5 of the strawberries, made a tomato-basil salad with a couple of the big guys above and whipped up zucchini pasta for dinner tonight. Maybe there'll be a stuffed pepper dinner later in the week.

For some more pics of our little backyard farm, check out 'S Wonderful.

A Quiet House Makes a Thankful Heart

2011-07-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today thanking my lucky stars and thinking about the effects we all have on each other's lives. I can't help it—I get a little schmoopy when Mr. W is away for work.

Read my post here.

Nothing Satisfies Quite Like the Real Deal

2011-07-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

I eat dark chocolate almost every day.

I keep a stash in my desk drawer and peel into it in the late afternoon, pretending I'm just out to get my fill of antioxidants. But really, I just want the chocolate fix.

I've tried substituting other things. Fruit. Almonds. Cottage cheese. Milk chocolate. Which usually just leaves me eating more and more to try to fill the original craving. Nothing is as good as a little square of the dark.

But what if all my dark chocolate was out of the country for 7 weeks? How would I hit the 75% cacao spot in my stomach?

I suppose I would schedule as many activities as I could and start a million craft projects for my Etsy store and try to finally get my chocolate-eating butt in gear when it came to writing. At night I would lie in bed, missing the chocolate. I would get up and hike the next morning with an apple or a graham cracker and feel reasonably satisfied, but not fully.

I would drink wine alone on the couch, remembering times chocolate had been there with me, laughing over a mishap on Iron Chef. I would tend all the vegetables in the backyard, wishing chocolate was around to give me a little energy boost.

I would see movies with friends but think about having chocolate's hand intertwined in mine during the film.

All the distractions in the world couldn't quiet the chocolate yearning. Which is why it's going to be so hard to go without him for the next 7 weeks while he's in London working on that damn movie again.

Is It Better to Contract or Expand?

2011-07-14T22:57:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I broke down and joined Twitter. Feel free to follow me...

My main motivation for this was the thought that maybe I could promote my Etsy store on there after I beef it up a little. And maybe someday, promote a book I write. I also felt a sort of duty to my job to round out my grasp of social media. Everyone is tweeting now, everyone is liking everything on Facebook.

The problem with adding another site to my collection of online endeavors is that I now have yet another time sucker to keep me from writing (or blogging or giving scalp massages to my new groom). And it has me wondering whether it's smart to expand all this Internet stuff—indulging hobbies on Etsy, documenting life on the blog, socializing with old friends on Facebook—or if I would be wise to simplify. Contract. Decrease.

I appreciate social media as a marketing tool. But in my effort to embrace social outlets, I'm worried I'm going to keep myself so occupied, I'll never actually have anything to market there.

So I'm wondering where you all net out with this stuff. A lot of you blog. Do you lose hours on Facebook? Do you tweet? And if you do it all, do you find it hard to balance? Is less more here or do I need to widen my perspective?

Men Are from Mars. And Sometimes So Are Their Daughters.

2011-07-11T16:14:00.000-07:00

My dad worked for the same company for 44 years.

He started out there as a slick-haired 18-year-old and retired at 62, the grandfather of three girls. I have no idea how he stuck with it for that long.

He used to leave for work every day at 6:30 a.m. and return home at 4:30 p.m., change his clothes and retreat to his rocking chair where he would engross himself in crossword puzzles or the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. By the time my mom got home at 5:30, he was refreshed and ready to hear the tales of her hen house-like office job.

He had a system and it worked.

When I read the book Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus in college, there was a section in it about men "going to their caves" that immediately made me think of my dad. That's what he was doing in his rocking chair: removing himself from society so he could recharge his batteries.

The book said women dealt with stress differently, but I don't think that's the case with all of us.

You see, lately I've been noticing that I too do better if I can "go to my cave" after a hard day. Although I've been living with Mr. Wonderful for almost 8 months now, this just occurred to me last week. I was having a particularly frustrating time at work and one night Mr. W wasn't home yet when I arrived.

I poured myself a glass of wine. Decompressed. Shed my grumpiness from the prior 9 hours. By the time Mr. W got home, I was perky and pleasant to be around. (My mother and sister are rolling their eyes and muttering "liar" right now.) Every other day last week, I wasn't in the best mood when I greeted my hubby.

I really think the alone time did the trick.

Not quite sure yet what to do with this information. Maybe I need to tell Mr. W not to talk to me for 15 minutes when I get home. Or maybe I need to make it a habit to lock myself in the bedroom for a little while until I can have a peppy attitude.

Just when I think I've learned everything I could from my parents, dear old dad gives me another life lesson...

The Beauty of a Staycation

2011-07-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

The big, fat Internet company I work for threw us a nice juicy bone this past weekend when they gave us not only Monday but Tuesday off for the 4th of July.

Mr. Wonderful and I debated on whether we should take advantage of my free holiday and go on a trip somewhere, but the idea of not packing, not getting travel weary, and cleaning out the garage (note: garage cleaning is NOT vacationary AT ALL) appealed to me more. So a staycation it was!

Rather than just hang around the house and catch up on chorebies (sometimes even hobbies feel like chores...) we brainstormed some ways to spice things up. When Mr. W proposed the idea of visiting the LA County Arboretum and Botanical Gardens, I was sold. We've always been big fans of those sorts of places.

We loved strolling the gardens of Paris in 2009.

And we dug Kew Gardens outside of Richmond in the UK.

The Arboretum definitely satisfied our European garden appetite. Visit 'S Wonderful to check out some of the cool pictures we took while we were there:

http://ourlifeofwonderful.blogspot.com/2011/07/all-this-and-they-filmed-fantasy-island.html

A Little Smidge of Horrifying Humor

2011-06-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

This isn't necessarily a story I'd normally broadcast all over the Internet, but I found it quite funny and my pants are too tight today (likely cutting off bloodflow to my brain) so I'm going to share it.

Let me first start by putting us all on an equal plane: we all have body hair. In weird places. I think everyone has experienced the boobie creeper hair that pops up overnight. (A friend of mine once called it haireola.) And we've all caught the glint of a random chin whisker in the mirror. Some of you even have patches on your toes that require shaving.

So it should have been no surprise that I would end up with a tickler in my nasal cavity.

It all started Sunday when Mr. Wonderful and I went to a screening of Cars 2 and, in the darkness of the theater, I thought I had a cat hair up my nose. Every now and then, I'd breathe out and feel something up there. But I didn't seem to be able to whisk it away with the back of my hand.

Maybe it was the wine I had later in the night, but I stopped noticing the feeling and figured the stray fuzz/cat hair/phantom poker had disappeared.

Then I went to work Monday and felt it again. And I knew.

After work, I greeted Mr. W in the kitchen and told him I thought I had a monster nose hair growing in my right nostril. I don't think he signed up for that kind of talk when he married me, but he's stuck now.

I assembled my tools: a hand mirror, a pair of scissors and a set of tweezers. I sat down in the bright evening light by our sliding glass door and peeked up my nose.

Sure enough, there it was. A rogue hair growing from somewhere far up in the cavern down toward the entry hole. Tickling. Horrifying.

I'm happy to say that he is much shorter now. And that Mr. W has not served me divorce papers. Likely because of that one random sprout he gets on his earlobe sometimes.

Ah, the joys of getting older. I seriously do not even want to know what else lies ahead...

Mano Y Mano

2011-06-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today talking about hand-holding. You can read the post here.

Um, and while you're over there, wanna add your name to my followers list? It feels awfully lonely on blog #2 with only one devotee. (Thanks for your loyalty, Scribe!)

When One Moment Passes, There's Another Right Behind It

2011-06-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

Upon returning from my two-week honeymoon last month, I found myself thinking a lot about time limits. Not deadlines, exactly, but rather periods of time you know won't last. (I guess life is a period of time we know won't last, but bear with me...)

On vacation, you don't really know if the time you have in a particular city or a particular park or at a particular restaurant will be your one and only, so you generally tend to soak it up in a most magnificent in-the-moment way. You live each second. You enjoy experiences to an extent you might not at home. Because home is available. Like the nice guy you put off dating because you know he'll always be there waiting for you.

My return from Italy left me thinking, "how can I create that same sense of urgency and commitment to the moment in my day-to-day life?"

I did it when I got laid off in 2003. I got up every morning and made the most of every day—sometimes writing for hours on end—because I knew it wouldn't last forever.

But in the safety of my gainfully employed nest, I can't seem to push myself to live with the kind of vigor that comes naturally on trips and during bouts of joblessness. And unfortunately, once you've experienced that feeling, when you're not sensing it you sort of feel like you're not living.

If only I could fully convince my brain that life is short and every day counts, even if they're spent at your stand-up desk.

I want to be burning with desire to write. I want to hustle to churn out query letters or Etsy business cards or even that scrapbook of my half marathons. But I keep thinking I have all the time in the world for that. All the time in the world to fritter away on Tivo and Facebook.

Any suggestions on how I can get myself to start making more—making the most—of every moment? Even if it's not in a piazza in Italy?

Pucker Up!

2011-06-19T23:08:00.000-07:00

I'm blogging over at 'S Wonderful tonight. Talking lemons and future lemon orchards and limoncello. Ah, to be a real farmer someday...

Um and also, here's a little shameless promotion of some of my recent Etsy additions. Gotta plug the goods anywhere I can, right?

Upcycled jewelry catch-all

Italian leather journals with eco-fi felt cover buddies

Upcycled travel jewelry box with eco-fi felt flower

Upcycled travel jewelry container with eco-fi felt owl top

Sc Sc Sc Score!

2011-06-16T13:19:00.000-07:00

You guys, the Ttt Ttt dude got moved to a different floor. This means my eye twitch and neck spasm might stop!

What's more exciting though, is that I got a stand-up desk today.

Several weeks back when I was in the throes of insanity with Ttt Ttt and my new seating situation, I decided to put in a request to the ergonomics department to get my desk elevated.

See, I work for an Internet company that believes everyone should be equally miserable in grey, 4.5-foot-tall cubicles. But having my desk raised meant I could look over the walls and actually see my team members again and potentially attain an altitude above the jet stream of Ttting.

Then the Universe threw me a huge bone by not only enabling me to get my desk raised, but to have it moved over to a seat that was being vacated by one of Ttt Ttt's coworkers. I now have a view out the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows. Score.

In addition to my boosted morale, I'm pretty sure that I've extended my life expectancy. According to the American Cancer Society, "women who reported more than six hours per day of sitting were 37 percent more likely to die during the time period studied than those who sat fewer than 3 hours a day."

Yikes, right?

I've also heard that standing releases certain enzymes that help your metabolism. All in all, it just seems like a healthier option for getting through my 9-6.

The other benefits I discovered this morning after I moved in? I feel super productive like a cat who is continually springing into action because I'm on my feet. And even better than that: when a good song comes on iTunes, I can totally dance in place. Awe. Some.

Good Thing I Wasn't Wearing Wooden Shoes When I Stuck My Foot in My Mouth

2011-06-13T10:55:00.001-07:00

This past weekend, I attended a very lovely wine-tasting bachelorette party in one of my most favorite getaway cities, Solvang, California. It's practically a second home for me—I've tried new dishes there, completed a couple of half marathons, and even rung in the New Year with my parents. Its windmill-lined streets and Danish charm have a very special place in my heart. However, it's a pretty funny little town.

Founded by Danes in 1911, it has retained so much of the original architecture and culture that it almost has a Disneyland-like feel to it now. You sort of expect to round a corner and see someone in a giant furry pastry costume waiting to pose for pictures with you. It's odd and sort of wonderful that this kind of storybook land can exist just north of Santa Barbara and right in the midst of Central Coast wine country.

Given its kitschy nature, I wouldn't expect it to be a huge destination for international travelers. Which is why I was sort of surprised (perhaps I shouldn't have been) when we pulled up to our hotel and the bellhop promptly informed us that the Prince of Denmark was staying there.

We walked into the lobby and a few of the girls from our group were commenting on the heavy police presence outside.

"The Prince of Denmark is staying here," I told them. "Because of course if you're the Prince of Denmark, you're going to visit Sooolllvaaang on your trip to the states."

There was heavy mocking in my tone.

A couple of the girls got very wide-eyed.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" I asked.

They smiled and nodded.

I snapped my big fat mouth shut and froze.

The Prince breezed past me, likely thinking to himself, "Stupid American."

I guess if I were Princess of the U.S., I'd want to go visit "Little America" in a foreign land, too. And I probably wouldn't be too happy if some snarky local made fun of me for it.

Denmark, I would like to formally apologize for my insensitivity. I welcome you back for an American-made aebelskiver anytime you'd like to come.

And Now, a Very Special Story about Night-Before-Wedding Sex Talks

2011-06-08T09:43:00.000-07:00

My mom reminded me recently that a rather hysterical night transpired before my walk down the aisle and I forgot to document it here.

It was the eve of the wedding and, with much fanfare, my matron of honor sister had welcomed me into her home for a slumber party. There was a little white bouquet on the guest bedroom pillow for me, streamers on the wall and a banner that said, "Tomorrow's the big day!" with a picture of me and Mr. W on it.

It was all fantastic.

But the highlight of the night came after my sister, nieces and I had changed into our jammies and were lounging in the family room.

I don't quite remember how it all started, but Younger Niece, who is 12, whispered something to Older Niece, who is 16, that caused Older Niece to sort of scamper across the couch and let out a wail. (We call her Moana because of the frequent moaning she does when she doesn't like things.) After a little prodding, we got Younger Niece to just ask the question out loud. She was in a safe, family environment—we would be honest with her and not punish her for being inappropriate.

"I just wanted to know if it's verbal sex or oral sex," she said.

And then my sister and I proceeded to pee our pants.

The conversation that ensued was something I could have only dreamed of the night before my wedding. Endlessly entertaining. Highly informative. I went to sleep that night feeling like the most knowledgeable virgin bride on the block...

Monogram Mourning

2011-06-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

When Mr. Wonderful and I got engaged, there was never a question that I would change my last name. If I had told him I wanted to keep my maiden, he would have been fine with it. But I'm a traditionalist, and I also happen to really like his last name.

See, even though I adore Hetherington (sounds like royalty, doesn't it?), adopting Mr. W's will make it a whole 7 letters shorter. And that's great because "Hetherington" gets cut off all the time on documents and fill-in-the-box forms. It also causes me to get called "Heather" a lot (which I often jokingly attribute to my striking likeness to Heather Locklear. Ha.).

So all was well and fine with my adoption of the new moniker until I realized it was going to affect my initials.

(Cue some sort of dramatic musical ensemble.)

For one, I sign my initials on work stuff several times a day. I'm so used to sort of connecting the "M" and the "H," I don't really know whether I'll ever be able to break myself of the habit and write any other letters. I'm also a habitual user of "MH" when signing off emails.

When I came back from the honeymoon, my Creative Director had edited some of my project documents and in each one, where I had put "MH," he changed it to "MM." The new initials. It pained me. In my spleen.

To me, initials are almost like my first name and changing them is like changing my identity in some way. Who am I going to be if I'm not MH????

I'm having a hard time with this, people. And I think I'm going to have to practice writing "MM" a hundred times before it comes naturally from my hand.

The worst part? My new full initials are "MAM." And you know how I feel about ma'am...

Putting the Details in Writing

2011-05-30T16:15:00.000-07:00

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today, talking about the plan manifesto Mr. Wonderful and I have started to help us figure out how in the world we're ever going to get that vineyard one day...

Can a Tic Beget a Tic?

2011-05-25T17:37:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks before I left for my honeymoon, my team at work had to move to a different floor. They're consolidating everyone onto 4 floors instead of 5, so we're pretty much sardined into the available spaces now. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened in life, but I am definitely having a hard time adjusting to the change.

Particularly because of my new cubicle neighbors.

Especially the one with the tic.

I'm not sure what day I first noticed it. I think he may not have been in the office the first few days after the move. But then, one afternoon, I heard it.

Ttt Ttt.

It's sort of like a tisk sound, but also sort of like a tapping noise. It comes in twos and threes, quickly sputtered. Sometimes it's rapid fire. Other times, there are big gaps between outbursts.

People, it is like Chinese water torture of the ears.

I turn up my headphones and I can still hear it. It's the perfect pitch to cut through other sound. And it's driving me batshit crazy.

I think I'm developing an eye twitch as a result of hearing it so often.

Do you think I could get fired for muzzling a coworker?

If Only Intuition Spoke a Little Louder

2011-05-23T12:57:00.000-07:00

I felt off the minute we stepped onto the train.

We were hurrying along with the crowd and when Mr. Wonderful tossed our suitcases into the designated storage area, my stomach twinged.

Then as we walked almost the entire length of the train car to get to our seats, I thought, "We should move the luggage closer."

A beggar woman came through our car after we'd been in motion for thirty or forty minutes, and again I had an uneasy feeling. But I said nothing.

When we reached our destination, my suitcase had vanished.

The sickening feeling of discovering that was worse than when I've been robbed before. This was my honeymoon. And I'd purchased a bunch of (not so cheap) new clothes for it. And I'd been so selective about the souvenirs I chose for my nieces. And the little reminders Mr. W and I would take home to keep around and smile at and think of our special trip together.

I ran down the platform, whipping my head in every direction trying to spot the person who had taken my bag. Mr. W searched every car on our train.

I'm sure my suitcase got off 3 stops before we did.

And so I began to wonder if it was intuition or manifestation that was at play before we left. Should I have trusted my instincts? Or had my worry put an energy into the Universe that caused my feared outcome to come true? I asked my friend Janice what she thought when we met her for a drink by the Pantheon. Janice knows stuff. She has a Master's Degree in Spiritual Psychology.

She said it was intuition for sure.

Unfortunately, that almost made me feel worse. If only I'd listened to that little uncomfortable voice. Maybe I'd have my favorite turquoise sweater and the underwear I'd worn on my wedding day now.

I like to think that I'm not a huge "stuff" person. I regularly purge things from my life and donate them to Goodwill. I'm not a person who needs to own a $500 purse or fancy jewelry. I am a sucker for things with sentimental value, though. And maybe that's why this is hitting me so hard (still...even though I've been home for 2 days...). I feel like the world stole my nostalgia. I won't be able to put on my sundresses and remember how I wore them in Capri. I won't be able to look at the bottle of olive oil in my kitchen with the little lemon stopper on top and think about our stay in Ravello.

I know I'm being a big baby. They're only things. No one was hurt. It's all replaceable. But it sure was a stinky way to end an amazing trip.

I'm hoping I'll get over it soon.

Nudity Research is a Must for Future Endeavors

2011-05-19T01:18:00.000-07:00

So wouldn't ya know it: Mr. W and I took the ferry to Positano yesterday and right there in the middle of the public beach for all eyes to see were four (FOUR) topless girls. Eight boobies shining in the sun.

Mr. W quickly tried to convince me to go down on the beach and join them, but I didn't have bathing suit bottoms (or even nice underwear since we're drawing close to the end of the trip...) and I certainly wasn't going to just sit in my skirt and no top.

The lesson here, kids, is to always research things like this so you can plan ahead. Otherwise you'll just end up with a bad case of nudie-jug jealousy.

The Thing about Going Topless in Amalfi

2011-05-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

If you read here regularly, you may remember that one of the goals of Mr. Wonderful's and my honeymoon was for me to go to a topless beach. Initially, it was one of my Things to Do Before Turning 40, but I think after I notified the husband of it, it quickly became an important goal for him.

Sorrento was our first coastal stop, and because it's mostly up on top of cliffs, I didn't see much hope for finding a beach. Next was Capri, where again it was quite a hike to get down to the coast.

"We'll find one in Amalfi," Mr. W assured me.

But Amalfi is quite small and the only easily accessible public beaches are right in the harbor. Our hotel was across the street from one, so after we checked in, I stood on our balcony and carefully examined its inhabitants.

They all appeared to be wearing bikini tops.

I told Mr. W that there was no way I was taking my top off when no one else on the whole beach was.

"I think maybe I'm just going to have to forgo crossing 'go topless' off my list," I said.

"Noooo," he whimpered like a kid who just had his gelato stolen.

Then he quickly offered a solution: we would rent a boat and take it around until we found a beach. There had to be a secluded spot somewhere where I could, as Nilsa says, Free The Girls.

This seemed like cheating to me. The original goal was to go to an actual topless beach and participate in the festivities. But I didn't want to let Mr. W down.

So we rented a boat.

Giancarlo and some other sunburned young Italian buck explained to us all the rules of boat rentals. They showed Mr. W how to operate everything and drop the anchor. Then they explained to us that we could only "park" 100 meters from shore and that under no circumstances could we go to the beach. Giancarlo had been arrested for doing so (which they both found hysterical...I'll bet he had a topless girl with him too...).

After dropping Giancarlo and his sidekick into another boat, we took off wondering whether "don't go on the beach" meant not to beach the boat or not to trespass onto any actual sand. I didn't want to risk it. Particularly if my tiny American tatas could be out in the open for the Italian polizia to behold.

But then I thought again of my sad puppy dog husband.

So when we found a beautiful little cove and he slipped the anchor into the Mediterranean, I untied my bikini.

The water was much too cold for me to swim to shore. But we did document the incident. And although you can't see them (thanks to my highly strategic cropping), my hands are making sure no one gets too good a view of what was going on.

I'm not sure this counts as fulfilling the actual goal, but considering how many barriers we came up against, it sure seemed like a good effort.

You Wanna See Capri? It's Gonna Cost You!

2011-05-13T15:12:00.000-07:00

Off the coast of Italy lies a little island that is not only the birthplace of my beloved Caprese salad and the shortie pants I like to wear in summer, but home to the Mediterranean's Rodeo Drive.

The tiny streets of Capri might as well be lined only with candy shops and bakeries. Each window you look in boasts a rainbow of shapes and colors, trying to lure you in. "Indulge here," they whisper. Fendi. Roberto Cavalli. Hermes. Bvlgari. Prada.

Gabbana never seemed so dolce.

A girl could blow ten handbags full of cash here. And it's not just the stores that getcha.

When we bought tickets to take a boat to the famed Blue Grotto, we paid in the marina. Then we paid again for an additional ticket to actually enter the grotto. And of course there was a fee for renting the canoe driver who would paddle 10 feet to get us into the cave. Altogether, it cost us each 25 euros. A beautifully orchestrated racket.

They even charged us a euro to walk into Giardini Augusto for a view of the flowers and the cliffside. We later discovered we could've walked right in, had we taken a different route.

The bottom line is: Capri ain't cheap.

However, the price you pay for the attractions, the irresistible gelato, and the fashion (which I didn't have room for in my suitcase) are returned to you in vistas everywhere you look.

Capri, you and your delicious salad have won me over. Keep the change.

First She Whacked Me with a Rolling Pin, Then She Stole My Heart

2011-05-11T01:01:00.000-07:00

If Rome is like a passionate kiss, Naples is like a kick in the shin.

Mr. Wonderful and I arrived Monday morning after a nice train ride and a grungy metro hop. I knew immediately once we got to the underground platform we were not in Rome anymore. Designer heels had given way to beat-up kicks. Fine tailored suits were replaced by tattered leather jackets and greasy hair. I'm pretty sure one man on the subway had a Tuberculosis cough.

When we emerged at street level, we were immediately assaulted by honking horns, pieces of trash blowing down the sidewalk, the smell of gasoline fumes and cigarette smoke. I thought we might have accidentally gotten off at Hell instead of Stazione Cavour.

For every dimple of charm Rome flashes with a flirt, Naples reveals a scab and a scar. But then she beckons you closer, lifts her skirt, and offers you the most delicious slice of pizza you've ever imagined. And suddenly, you're in love.

After quickly recharging at our oasis of a hotel, we headed back out to the chaotic streets to find a pizzeria Mr. W had read about online. This was when I felt myself start to fall. Like when you find yourself suddenly attracted to the scraggy biker in your chemistry class, despite the fact that he hasn't showered in 3 days.

There's something endlessly endearing about the way Neapolitans desecrate their city with graffiti but then drape it in pride with Italian flags. And then there are the beautiful Italians eating pizza...

I have never in the States seen a beautiful woman polish off an entire pizza in one sitting. In Naples, it's just another lunchtime. Try as I did, I couldn't finish the whole thing. Next time, next time.

Thank goodness I have an excuse now to return to this new city I adore.

Familiar Faces in Faraway Places

2011-05-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wonderful and I arrived to Rome Saturday night at 11:00 p.m. Exhausted and famished, we were anxious to get to our little apartment near the Spanish Steps. But when our driver rounded a curve and the Coliseum was to our left, strategically lit against the night sky, food and a bed no longer mattered. We were in Roma!

We ate dinner close to midnight and every bite of proscuitto, every morsel of tomato, tasted like the best I'd ever had. The wine was like water, quenching my thirst. It is so easy to sink right into this city.

So here we are thousands of miles from home, and yet so much is familiar. Mr. W remembers the street grid from his other visits. He navigates like a local. Our favorite gelato shop is right where it was before. And the best treat of all: I have a friend in town!

My ex coworker from long ago—and currently amazing travel blogger—Janice (of After the Artist's Way) is here. So amidst the throngs of strangers, Mr. W and I met up with her to visit the catacombs. There she and he are, walking to the bus station after our tour. She is decked out in her Vatican best, looking like she's lived in town for years.

It's funny to be so far from home and having such fun with a once local friend. It's funny that she and I had seen each other only once in about 6 or 8 years, and yet our paths crossed enough that we could enjoy a whole day together. This world is very small. There's no way to fully experience that than to get out and see it. It astounds me every time I travel.

Funnier yet is that we have other family friends who will be in town when we return to Rome after our Amalfi Coast stops. What are the odds? We'll try to meet up with them too.

Here are Janice and I enjoying a dinner near the Trevi Fountain. It was lovely to be able to share the experience and talk about boys and giggle. It was wonderful to be reminded again of just how tiny this earth really is.

Italy, I Think I Love You

2011-05-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

By the time you read this post, I'll be in London or maybe even Rome. I'm meeting Mr. Wonderful in the Heathrow Airport where we'll embark on our honeymoon.

When we first started thinking about where to go for this essential post-wedding vacation, we talked a lot about Japan. We felt we'd seen quite a bit of Europe and that it might lead to a bigger adventure if we visited a new continent.

Then one day last fall we were running errands and I got an idea. "What about the Amalfi Coast?" I asked him, already knowing the answer.

Mr. W is a sucker for Italy.

Before I went with him in 2009, I had such a romantic notion of what it would be like there. I remember reading Eat, Pray, Love and just hanging on every page, visualizing the piazzas and monuments and pasta. And when I went, I discovered it was all true.

Funny side note about that book: Mr. W and I had only been dating a couple months when I read it, but even then in the infancy of our relationship I knew I was falling for him. I thought about saying, "I Think I Love You" to him on more than one occasion. And then my crazy copywriter brain realized that if you turned that phrase into an acronym, it was ITILY. Italy.

One chilly winter afternoon, as Mr. and I laid on his bed reading, I started to stare off into space and he asked what I was thinking about. "Italy," I responded, holding up my copy of Eat, Pray, Love. But what I really meant was ITILY.

I told him this story a year or so later, and the acronym became a code word for us.

Now it seems only fitting that we're visiting that country for our honeymoon.

Here's a clip of one of the things I'm looking forward to most. The Blue Grotto on the Island of Capri. How can you not just swoon over the singing?

Homegrown Produce

2011-05-03T17:47:00.000-07:00

I'm posting over at 'S Wonderful today, sharing some pictures of the tasty treats growing in our garden.

Take a look!

Take Responsibility. Take Back the Power.

2011-04-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

We've all been there. Feeling kicked and down. Like the world (or maybe just one or two people in the world) are against us. Like we are innocent victims.

We get cheated on by lovers. Betrayed by friends. Ousted by employers. Wronged by family. Chased by debt collectors. And we tell people our sad stories. We explain that things "are the way they are" right now or forever because of what happened to us.

But imagine the power we would seize if we took some responsibility for where we were in our lives.

When I got laid off in 2003, I felt like someone had slapped me in the head and thrown me in the gutter. My wails of woe were loud and constant. But at some point I realized that I had a hand in my fate. A big one. I chose to go into an industry that is rocked by change and lost clients and reorgs more often than not. I also chose to have a less than stellar attitude from 9 to 5. So although it stung like a mutha when I got let go, the good news was that because I had played a part in the whole situation, I could wield my power to cast myself into a new one.

Same thing when I got cheated on. It wasn't fun, but it also wasn't entirely his fault. I'd made a decision to be with someone I knew was probably trouble. I chose to stay with him even though the relationship was riddled with my criticisms and his retaliations.

Stepping back and asking, "What was MY role in this?" helped me see (over and over) that I had the ability to influence every place I'd landed in my life. And I think that's amazing. Victim, schmictim, right?

We're all going to have bad things happen to us. But the place we choose to go after those things happen is totally in our control. Every single day is a chance to turn things around or take a different route to get you closer to where you really want to be. You just have to start by looking at yourself and admitting that maybe you could have done a few things differently. Once you know what they are, do them.

A little responsibility goes a long way. Take it and go power yourself up!

Listlessness

2011-04-27T12:41:00.000-07:00

I am a hoarder of folded papers and chicken scratch. I love lists like Lindsay loves booze and Paris loves animals that fit in her purse (Has anyone heard that she has a teacup pig? I did not know this, but now I want one).

Just about every week, I fashion a little folded piece of paper that houses my To Do list, grocery lists, birthday gift lists, lists of crafty things I want to make. You name it, I've listed it. Without my lists, I feel lost. And sometimes I write stuff down just so I can cross it off and feel like I've been extra productive.

But this week, in my freaky WhatNow newlywed phase, I started to question The Lists. Because even though Mr. W and I are desperate to lay down details about our future, we also seem to be totally mired in continual To Dos. I've been feeling like I have no time to just be. And The Lists might be the biggest culprit.

So I've been living listless for the past several days. I don't know yet if it's really having a huge impact on my "being" time. But it sort of makes me feel a little more spontaneous. And I think it may help stave off my early-onset Alzheimer's because it's forcing me to actually remember things rather than just looking at my paper scraps for a reminder.

We'll see how it goes. Although there's no way I'll be able to pack for Italy next week without my clothing matrix...

Welcome to Some Kind of Wonderful

2011-04-24T22:10:00.000-07:00

Everything changes when you get married, doesn't it?

Well, maybe not everything. But I did decide to create a second blog now that I'm a Mrs.

Introducing the new space for tales of my life with Mr. W: 'S Wonderful

A Slight Case of the WhatNows

2011-04-19T10:42:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wonderful and I have only been married for a month and already we're in a funk. Okay, not really a funk but a sort of hazy jumping-off point. The dress has been packed. Gifts have been stowed. Thank you cards have been sent. We finally have our freedom back (if you don't count the backyard and its continual beckoning for us to come out and dig it up).

With all this time and mental space on our hands, we've both been feeling a growing sense of What Now?

I guess this is why so many married couples scoot right on to having babies. (Don't get any ideas, I'm not on that track AT ALL.) I thought we'd get to this point, I just didn't realize it would be so soon.

Maybe it's all my Turning 35 baggage weaseling its way into our relationship. But Mr. W seems just as antsy as I am.

We want to put color to our goals. We want to define the dream details so we can start working toward them. But there are so many possibilities. And the ultimate goal we keep coming back to is at least 5, if not 10, years off. So what do we do in the meantime?

This is sort of the plaguing question.

Do we just keep plugging away in our current life situations? Do we go live somewhere foreign in a year while Mr. W works on a film? (Doesn't seem possible with our collective mortgages, but maybe...) Do we try to somehow downsize in an effort to get closer to the early retirement we both crave? Should we build that chicken coop and get a couple hens?

We sat down the other night and tried to start brainstorming a list of words to describe the kind of life we'd like to build from here. It pretty much led us to believe we need to win the lottery and move to wine country where we'll run a dozen different odd job businesses.

Mr. W tells me I need to write a bestseller. I guess my What Now should really be a Write Now. I'll get right on that, Mr. W...

And a Happy Birthday Back Atcha

2011-04-16T01:06:00.000-07:00

In honor of Mr. Wonderful's 37th birthday today and National Poetry Month (thanks for the reminder, Sizzle!)...

The rustling leaves of a eucalyptus;

The lingering tingle of morning kisses;

Hummingbirds bathing in a sage fountain;

Hollywood at the top of our mountain;

Bedroom darkness behind canvas drapes;

Little vines striving to deliver our grapes;

Cool wood floor warmed by the sun;

A glittering skyline when day is done;

The musk of espresso rich in the air;

Just enough couch for two cats to share;

Artichoke triplets nearly ready to eat;

The scratched tabletop where we rest our feet;

An open glass door with breeze blowing through.

Home is the space where I can be true.

More than a place.

My home is you.

Nothing Says Happy Birthday Like Telepathy and a Toilet

2011-04-14T22:29:00.000-07:00

You know how some people start to look like their pets after they've had them awhile? Well over the last couple years, Mr. W's brain has started looking like mine. Or maybe mine looks like his. Anyway...

I think it all started when I bought him port wine glasses pre-Christmas of '09...and then a week later he bought himself port glasses—even though we never really talked about him needing a set. Then there was this incident with our trip to Napa last year. Then there was the day a few weeks ago when I watched Mr. W pick up the exact same things in the exact same order that I had just picked up at Williams-Sonoma.

But the kicker happened sometime last week.

Since the wedding, we've been working hard on sprucing up our yard—Mr. W even replaced a faulty backyard waterfall with the cool pot fountain below.

As part of our spruce spree, we've been doing a lot of browsing at different pottery/plant/pond stores, and we've come across quite a few adorable Buddha statues. I told Mr. W I thought we should get one for the backyard. Then I was at one of the local malls and wandered into a sort of ramshackle Asian store that had Buddha statues in the window. I bought a small one for Mr. W to keep on his desk and another for me to keep on mine.

When I got back to work, I IMed him to announce that I'd bought him a present. "I ordered one of your birthday presents just now," he replied.

At home, I handed over my jolly Buddha treasure and he just stared at me. "Did you buy me a Buddha statue for my birthday today?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

This little guy arrived yesterday. How cute is he, seriously?

Buddha wasn't the only special treat I got from Mr. Mental Telepathy. He also made me fantastic French toast with strawberry-mascarpone spread on Tuesday morning for my b-day.

And when I came home that evening, there were several surprises waiting for me.

But the best surprise by far came on my birthday eve, when I walked through the front door to discover this right in our entryway. Bow and all.

Because nothing says, "Happy Birthday" like a shiny new crapper.

Turning (T)Hurty-Five

2011-04-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

Today is my last day of thirty-fourhood.

Many years back, I wrote a long list of goals for my life: places I wanted to travel, little life to-dos, and a couple of biggies with age deadlines attached. One of these was "Have a book published by 35."

As you all know, I've published a lot of blog posts. But I've yet to grasp the crispy body of an actual printed book with my name on its cover. And that makes the impending twist of tomorrow sting a little.

On the one hand, the whole "Do this by this date" kind of goal making is silly to me. Even if I'd been busting my hump writing novels and self help manuscripts every day I still may not be published by tomorrow. Fate does have a say in these things. On the other hand, maybe if I'd put a little more importance on my "By 35" due date, I would actually have a book published. Before tomorrow. Perhaps goal lists are great motivators. Particularly when you're the kind of person who has trouble motivating.

So I'm turning 35 and there's a big fat hole right there on my mental mantle. Sure there's a beautiful wedding picture up there and some truly amazing travels and lots of friends. But no book. Perhaps I'll have to scribble down "40" on the list.

Which reminds me, I'm hoping to cross at least one of my to-dos-before-40 off the list next month on my honeymoon. Yep, as mentioned in this post, I'm going to attempt to go topless on a beach. For five seconds. If I can handle it that long.

I also have some plans in the coming months that involve this blog. And a new one I plan to launch. And hopefully I'll be more disciplined about my writing projects, so maybe that published book will rear its head in this lifetime.

In the meantime, to make myself feel better, I launched an Etsy store today. There's barely anything on it—I have lots of work to do at home and lots of ideas populating this little brain. But I thought you guys would enjoy seeing the first draft:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/hauterubbish?ref=pr_shop

Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Wife.

2011-04-06T17:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, I forgot I had a husband.

I was at the dentist, chatting with the hygienist about recent events and I said, "Yeah well you know my fiancé was away for two and a half months."

"Your husband," she corrected me.

Oh, yeah.

I hadn't been in for a cleaning since I moved in the fall, so I also had to update my contact information. They gave me form to fill out. And I had to check the "Married" box in addition to writing out my new address.

It was bizarre.

After adding Mr. Wonderful to my health insurance at work, I also had to go in and change my status in our system from "Single" to "Married."

I don't feel married. I don't feel any different than I did before Mr. W and I started cohabiting in November.

I remember how weird it felt to call him my fiancé. This whole husband business is even weirder. It makes me feel like I'm 65. I was a swingin' single gal for so long. Now I'm an old married lady. You notice that people always refer to singles as "girls" but marrieds as "ladies"? I assure you, I'm no lady...

I had one of our cute wine bottle vases on my desk Friday and a coworker said, "Now how does one go about cutting the glass for that?"

I answered, "The husband built a fancy rig in the garage."

"Your husband," my cohort corrected. "Say it."

"My husband built a glass-cutting rig." It felt like a giant wad of Bazooka gum in my mouth.

I know I'll get used to this. But, right now, the strangeness of it all is sort of entertaining.

Enough to Feed a Flock of Five

2011-04-04T13:14:00.000-07:00

If you've read this blog for awhile, you probably know that I own two cats. Some would say that makes me a cat lady (I just searched "cats" in my blog post library and came up with 33 posts...). Some would subscribe to my theory that you're only a crazy cat lady if you own 3 cats (you get one because you like pets and then another to keep the first one company, but there's no reason to ever get a third). Some of you won't make it past this first paragraph to even read what sort of feline fiascoes I'm going to describe here.

Anyway, my cats are very Laurel and Hardy in their physiques. Monty, below, weighs about 20 pounds and only reaches speeds of 0.5mph when he is waddling to his food bowl or sprinting away from the sound of the trash truck. Mr. Wonderful and I often joke that Monty could feed a family of five for at least a week if the Apocalypse hit.

Oh but he's such a handsome boy.

My other cat, Zoë, weighs about 8 pounds and is constantly spazzing out, running around the house and burning calories. I think part of the reason she weighs less is because her brain is about a quarter the size of Monty's.

But she's cute so we love her.

Due to some longstanding trauma from losing pet cats to hit-and-runs as a kid, I do not let my current kitties outside. And for the most part, they don't mind. They live in the lap of luxury—particularly now that we're in Mr. W's house with big bright windows that cast lots of warm sun spots on the floor for them.

But this weekend when Mr. W and I were outside working on our garden, I decided to let the felines loose in the yard.

They were both pretty nervous about the new surroundings. Monty seemed to be trying to walk extra gently on the grass, unfamiliar with its texture. And Zoë's tail was puffed much of the time, despite the fact that she was purring.

They'd been outside for about 5 minutes when I heard a hawk screech from the eucalyptus tree at the end of our street. I looked up and saw another hawk fly in and land next to where the first one was perched. A bit more screeching and THREE more showed up on the scene. They began to circle overhead.

"Oh my God," I said to Mr. W, "I think the hawks are after the cats!"

We quickly collected the chubby and skinny furballs (which in itself was hilarious because Mr. W holds cats pretty much like he's holding out a rotten gallon of milk) and returned them to the safety of the house.

Within seconds, the hawks were gone.

Apparently, they too, can spot a fat feline that's capable of feeding a family of five pre- or post-Apocalypse.

This Life on a Loop

2011-03-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

At 3:30 a.m. the morning of our wedding, I woke up to the sound of falling rain. I laid in bed caught somewhere between slight panic that it might continue until 2:30 p.m. when we were supposed to do pictures at the park, and relief that it was happening now and might be over within the next few hours.

If it had rained, everyone would have survived. We would have called it good luck and tried to stay dry as we dashed from cars to buildings.

But it didn't rain. Fortune and the forecast smiled on us and we got to enjoy a nice mud-free couple hours of picture taking. And then jubilation ensued...

The day after the wedding, we drove to Santa Ynez, one of our favorite wine-tasting spots, for a mini-honeymoon. It was pouring so hard on the drive up, the windshield went completely white a couple times.

"We are SO lucky this weather is happening today," I said more than once.

We were so lucky that everything we'd worked so hard to plan went off without a hitch.

We were so lucky that our guests crowded the dance floor and filled the air with laughter—even when I had the DJ play Xanadu. We were lucky they loved our food and our cake and our speedy ceremony.

Before we hit Santa Barbara, Mr. Wonderful grabbed my hand and sheepishly told me he already had something planned for our one-year anniversary.

"I booked us the Caveman Room at the Madonna Inn," he told me.

The Madonna Inn is where we got engaged. The Caveman Room is one of their most popular suites and has to be booked months in advance. I am so lucky to have a man in my life who possesses the forethought—and thoughtfulness—to plan an anniversary trip for us an entire year in advance. Ooga Booga Mr. Caveman Wonderful. I'll find myself something leopard print to wear that weekend.

When we returned from our mini-escape and I (finally!) had some time to read my favorite blogs, I came across a beautiful post from Mandy at You've Got to Be Kidding Me. It's about how much she loves THIS life. This one right now. And how she doesn't want to say goodbye. How she wants to live it on a continuous loop.

Me, too, Mandy.

All this luck. All this love. I want to pass through it a million times and a million times again after that.

One Week In

2011-03-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Mr. W and I celebrated our one-week anniversary. Don't worry, we're not planning to celebrate every week, it just seemed like the first 7 days of wedded bliss deserved dinner and a movie. At the very least.

Before we left for our big night out, Mr. W pulled up some video that a friend had shot during our ceremony. It wasn't anything fancy—just a clip taken with a digital camera. I bawled my eyes out watching it.

Our ceremony was only about 5 minutes long. But it was truly the most special 5 minutes of my life, thus far.

Years ago, I attended a wedding at an estate in Cape Cod where all the guests simply stood nearby as the bride and groom exchanged their vows. It was so intimate. So special. It made all of us feel so integrated into the process. We were right there, at the bride and groom's level. I decided that day that I wanted my wedding ceremony to be structured the same way.

So last Saturday, our guests gathered on the patio of Ramsey's, right at our level, right up by our sides as we said our I do's. I cannot tell you what it was like to walk outside into what felt like a giant circle of love. It was truly amazing. Like I had a hundred arms around me. Like I was enveloped by a gigantic hug.

It wasn't the vows that did me in. Or the exchange of rings. I didn't shed a tear as we spoke to each other and looked into one another's eyes.

It was the kiss that got me. That last punctuation at the end of the story.

Once we kissed, we were officially married. I remember thinking that I should stop kissing him because I felt like I could have gone on forever. I was so excited and overwhelmed and warm from the bodies all around us, I wanted to just keep on celebrating with kiss after kiss. As soon as we parted, on came the tear faucet.

I think that was the only time I cried all night. And it was my favorite part of the night. Coming back up that aisle—as husband and wife. We had done it. Our hearts were sealed. And almost everyone we loved was around us, cheering for what we'd done. Rooting on our relationship. Lifting us up beyond the high we were already on. All to the tune of U2's Everlasting Love.

I don't think a day will come that I'll be able to watch that video without crying.

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful

2011-03-22T22:25:00.000-07:00

Great day. Great catch. Grateful for everything (including the fact that he let me post his face on the blog for what may be the only time ever)!

Louder Than Words

2011-03-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

Recently I was at a party and struck up a conversation about dating with one of the women there. She told me about how the suitors who were pursuing her had both professed their undying adoration, but weren't making much of an effort to actually see her.

"Actions speak louder than words," I told her.

Such a simple phrase. Such monumental consequences.

The evil ex I had before I met Mr. Wonderful filled my ear with such saccharine, I nearly had to see an audiologist. He told me I was the girl he'd waited his whole life to meet. And then he got someone else pregnant.

When I met Mr. W, I wholeheartedly embraced the fact that he wasn't a words man. He was quiet. A slow mover. But absolutely unwavering in his caring behavior. He never made me doubt how he felt. He always showed me. Even when he let me hang after saying I love you—it took him about 30 days to say it back—his affection and attention were constant. Solid.

Yesterday he returned from his 9-week work stint in London. 7 days ahead of our wedding. We didn't need words. The minute we saw each other, we just smothered one another in kisses.

This morning, as we lay cuddled in bed, he told me he felt like he was starting a new chapter in his life. I rolled over to tell him how I felt. Ever so gently, he pushed my cheek in the opposite direction. He could have said, "Damn girl! Your breath smells like a sewage plant!" But instead he just quietly turned my mouth hole away from his nose holes.

That's my man of action. Always showing me what I need to know.

The Upside of All Those Thank You Notes

2011-03-10T15:47:00.000-08:00

Recently, Mr. Wonderful asked me to send myself a thank you note for writing so many thank you notes to our wedding guests. It's a task I didn't really think about until I had my first wedding shower and had to write 20 of them. Then after the second, I had to write about 15 more. Then there were the ones after the bachelorette party (Dear sister, thank you for the candy thong. It really made my whole night!) And as more and more gifts come pouring in through the mail, my writing routine remains constant. It's a big undertaking and can be a bit daunting at times.

But then, when I actually sit down to write, I'm totally overcome with gratitude. I truly feel the thankfulness infuse my body (and my pen) as I tell people how much I appreciate their thoughtfulness. It makes me want to be equally thoughtful choosing my words and expressing my thanks to them.

I also think it has been making me more aware of the good things in my life. It makes sense—practice hones skills, right? Thus, practicing being grateful in my notes is making me better at it on a day-to-day basis.

Sure, it may culminate in weepy sessions in the car where I am overwhelmed by how lucky I feel to have such amazing people around me, and to be marrying such an incredible guy. But the tears are a small price to pay for the warm fuzzies.

I may try to continue the habit even after all this wedding hoopla dies down. Or at least I'll write myself that note Mr. W told me to send.

"You Look Like Crap" Is My Least Favorite Sales Pitch

2011-03-07T14:38:00.001-08:00

This weekend, my mom, sister and I went to the spa for some pre-wedding relaxation and rejuvenation. As I laid face-down in the massage cradle, trying not to drool, I thought, "This must be what heaven feels like." I really think the best possible afterlife would be back-to-back spa days.

I appreciated that my aesthetician didn't tell me my pores looked like grubby, downtown potholes. She was kind and gentle and whispery.

A huge departure from the dermatologist I met with a couple weeks ago.

I think I've mentioned it on here, but getting married does some funny things to your head. You start looking at yourself a little differently because you know you're going to be taking pictures that will last a lifetime and suddenly you feel like you MUST look the absolute best you've ever looked. I have friends who got nose jobs before their weddings. Boob jobs. Spray tans. Teeth bleaching. You name it.

Well, my wedding hangup was a little bump next to one of my eyebrows. It's not even noticeable in pictures, but it bugs me. So I decided to see a dermatologist about getting it removed.

She was running 25 minutes late for my first appointment. Her nurse told me that was typical—and that sometimes she scheduled appointments only 5 minutes apart. When she finally came in to check out my bump, she was a little hopped up, possibly high from her onslaught of patients.

"What are we looking at today?" she asked, motioning for me to lay down on the table.

"I have a little cyst or impacted pore or maybe a mole that I'd like taken off. I'm getting married in a few weeks and want my face all smoothed out for the wedding."

She leaned over me, inspecting my head. Not a single line creased her face.

"You need Botox," she said matter-of-factly.

Now, I have a fair share of crinkles here and there, but no one has ever pointed them out to me. Or told me straight up that I need cosmetic correction on them.

"I'm not really a Botox kind of girl," I said, wondering if I offended her—there's no way her flawless skin was natural.

"But you're getting married. And that line between your eyes— You should get Botox."

We went back and forth a few more times as I tried to let her down easy. I was not going to buy into a pitch at a doctor's appointment. That's just wrong. She started to sense my annoyance.

"You have very pretty eyelashes. So long!" she smiled, trying to win back any shred of affection I may have had.

"Thank you."

"Do you use Latisse?"

Oy vey...

I think I'll stick with the spa in the future.

Doh! My Days Are Almost Up

2011-03-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

The other night, I had a startling thought: in less than 3 weeks, I'm not going to be engaged anymore.

Although I'm very excited to finally marry my sweet dream man, I also feel a little sad that our engagement period is drawing to a close. I don't know if it's because Mr. Wonderful has been in Europe since January 10, or if all the wedding chores have overpowered the moments of reflection and appreciation, but part of me feels like I haven't even fully had a chance to enjoy being engaged—and now it's almost over. Poor me, cry me a river, I know, I know.

It's just that there's really something sort of magical about that anticipatory state. It's really fun to look forward to things. As antsy as I was for Mr. W to propose, I also got a kick out of the continual wondering, is he going to do it tonight? Even after I had the ring on my finger, I caught myself thinking that a couple times when we were heading out to nice dinners.

Oh, how important it is to live in the moment.

I'm going to try very hard to soak in the last fleeting days of being a fiancé. And when Mr. W comes home on the 12th, I'll try really hard to focus on him and the excitement of our impending big day, rather than the laundry list of last minute things we'll have to do.

A friend told me Monday that she wishes me peace of mind and presence of heart on the day of our wedding. Seems like a good thing to hope for every day before and after it, too.

No Ma'am

2011-02-25T10:27:00.000-08:00

I wish I could remember the first time it happened. I'm sure that time was the most scarring. Maybe it's the increase in crow's feet around my eyes, or the engagement ring on my finger, or the frumpy sweaters I've been wearing this winter, but I seem to be getting called "ma'am" more and more often.

And I don't like it one bit.

Sure, I'm turning 35 in a couple months. But HUMOR ME people! "Ma'am" makes me feel like I'm 67. Grocery checkers and restaurant hosts and theater ushers would put smiles on so many more middle-aged women's faces if they would just refer to us all as "miss." Not so hard. But oh so very effective and endearing.

Mr. Wonderful knows how much I hate the word, so every now and then even he will give me a "no ma'am" answer when asked a question. I yell at him every time and he just smiles wickedly.

I'm sure there are people out there who appreciate being called ma'am. When Mr. W and I were in Arezzo, Italy, we listened to a British woman correct a sweet teenage Italian server because he called her "misses" instead of "ma'am." She was 108 years old, I think. You know who else probably appreciates being called ma'am? Trannies.

Speaking of which, I had my bachelorette party last weekend and about 20 of my friends headed to a transvestite bar in West Hollywood with me for dinner and drinks. The girls dressed me up as a disco bride—with "something blue" platform shoes, fake eyelashes, silver glitter eyeshadow, and of course a sparkly veil. As the night wore on and the drinks kept landing in my mouth and the trannies kept coercing brides-to-be onto the stage (there were 4 of us, apparently Hamburger Mary's is a popular spot for bachelorette parties) I added a pair of candy underwear to my getup. And yes, I let a gay man eat off the butt crack portion of them. Because I'll never have an opportunity like that again after I'm married.

There were some outrageous Ma'am Mans at the bar, singing for us.

One of my girlfriends was going to the bathroom and the lovely lady above was standing nearby. When my friend passed, she slipped on the bottom of the lady's satiny gown and took a digger that left her with a bruised knee. Maybe if she has said, "Excuse me, ma'am" beforehand, it wouldn't have happened.

I might need to do some research and head back to Hamburger Mary's to find out whether the "girls" there would rather be called "miss" or "ma'am." Miss is just so much more benign. I would use it all the time if I were working out in the public. It's irritating that men don't have a young man's versus old man's word for mister. I'm sure a bunch of men got together back in the days of developing Latin and decided to punish women by inventing a word to make them feel like aging hags...

But seriously, would you ever see the innocent, young girl below and call her "ma'am"?

I didn't think so.

Be Gone Demons!

2011-02-17T16:25:00.000-08:00

One Halloween when I was working at the coffeehouse in college, my fellow barista and I decided to dress up as an angel and devil for our morning shift. She spiked her short hair into two horns and wore a sassy red dress. I went for a disco look with a silver slipdress, wings and a glittery halo. Knowing how much our regular customers enjoyed our theatrics, we were really hamming it up that day. At one point, I tried to channel the famous quote from SNL's the Church Lady, and I shouted:

"Circumcise the demons!"

Yes, that's what I said. It took me a minute to realize I'd gotten the wrong "cise," in my oh-so-loud declaration. I should have said, "Exorcise the demons." But alas I yelled about penis surgery in front of all my customers. Then I ran into the kitchen and hid while laughing hysterically.

But that story isn't the point of this post.

The focus of this one is that I have an exorcism-warranting situation going on in my house.

Since I moved into the beautiful mid-century Hollywood Hills house I love, (I'm kissing up, Universe, do you hear that?) it has literally been one thing after another. First the roof leaked (even though it had NEVER done that before) on my grandmother's dining room table. Then the garage leaked onto her chairs I was storing there. The Internet also broke one night and Mr. W had to stay up until 1 a.m. to fix it so I could work from home the next day.

After Mr. W left for London, sh*t really started going down. The sprinklers wouldn't shut off. Then that pipe burst, warping the floors, infusing the house with wet wood stench, causing me to have to sleep with a loud fan outside my bedroom door for an entire week. Oh and we can't forget how Mr. W's bathroom cupboard door came off in my hand during the flood cleanup.

Monday morning when they came to take away the fan, I was overjoyed—finally everything was calm and I could exhale. And then I found gooey stuff in the freezer Tuesday. An entire pint of lemon sorbet had liquified. The freezer was broken! I was in the process of making a gorgeous BBQ chicken pizza when I discovered this issue, and when I went to pull the pizza stone out of the oven it cracked in half and my pizza fell upside-down on the oven door. I wanted to punch the frigging house in the face. And of course, I had JUST run the cleaning cycle on the oven two days prior.

I am now convinced that the house is either throwing a fit because it doesn't want a female in it, or I'm putting out so much nervous energy I'm short circuiting everything around me.

Mr. W ordered a repairman for the freezer (all the way from London while I was sleeping because he's sweet like that). I'm hoping he shows up with a Bible and shouts, "The Power of Christ Compels You!" a few times at the back of the fridge.

Just to be extra safe, I'm going to burn some sage in the house this weekend, though...

Trail Service

2011-02-13T23:16:00.000-08:00

A friend and I were recently talking about church and hiking—which in my book are one in the same. Some of our more devout friends don't exercise on Sundays or the Sabbath because those are meant to be days of rest. Meant only for worship and spiritual restoration.

But I realized today, as I climbed the hills near the Hollywood sign, that hiking (and any exercise outdoors) is my form of worship. It not only enables me to honor the beauty and wonder of the natural world, it allows me to honor the strength and capability of my body.

What better way to say thank you to the Universe and heavens than push your ability and bask in the glory of your physical capabilities? All the while, marveling at the bright blue sky and scent of sagebrush and sight of horseback riders. It makes you appreciate the world around you. And the world inside of you. It taps a well of gratitude like no other.

And there's a meditative quality about hiking—the rhythmic crunch of your steps balanced with the whoosh of your breath. Like a tribal beat. It clears the mind and refills empty vessels in the soul.

I really think there's nothing like it. And there's no other place I'd rather spend a Sunday morning than on the side of the mountain, celebrating all that exists inside and outside of me.

Burst Pipe. Burst Bubble. It's all the Same.

2011-02-07T11:45:00.000-08:00

Is there a famous quote about expectations being the root of all disappointment somewhere out there? Because man alive, ain't that the truth.

Before I got engaged, I thought planning a wedding would be a snap. I'm an organized individual who loves DIY projects—what more could you need to throw together the perfect Big Day setup? I forgot to factor in all the people who would be attending that Big Day. And their opinions. And preferences. And the beefs they would have with the way we're choosing to do things. I forgot to consider the stress that inevitably comes with planning any event.

Moving in with Mr. W was much the same. I had these romantic notions about what it would be like to hunker down in his house. I'd have a lovely yard in which to relax. I'd have more space and an actual garage where I could park my car. And then I got there and storage was limited. My commute had about 150 moronic drivers on it. That lovely yard sucked every ounce of energy from my body for a week straight.

And then Mr. W left. And the sprinklers wouldn't shut off. And the new avocado tree got weepy. And last week it started to smell like wet cardboard or barnyard in the house—and I couldn't find the source.

Until last night.

I had been sniffing around since Wednesday, trying to trace the stench. Then I was walking into the kitchen and noticed the wood floor in the hallway was warped. Had it always been warped? I couldn't remember. I've only lived there 2 months...but I was pretty sure it wasn't buckling before. Suddenly I realized the smell might be connected to the floor, so I laid down and put my ear to it. I heard ocean. Not a good sign.

Unsure of what to do, I called Dirty Painter and he told me to go downstairs into the rental unit. I had to sort through a dozen sets of keys before I found the ones that would let me into the guest house. The air was thick with humidity. The sound of rushing water echoing through the empty space. I got back to a locked door that led underneath the house, fumbled with the keys again and slid it open to find a small geyser shooting up from one of the pipes attached to the water heater. It had sprayed up all over the support beams and insulation. All the way up to the wood floor in the hallway...

Dirty Painter rushed over to help turn off the water and clean up. When I went to Mr. W's bathroom to get some old towels, his cabinet door fell off in my hand. Because of course that's what else I needed to happen in that moment.

I had to go to my parents' house to shower this morning. And I flushed my toilet last night by pouring bottled water into it.

I can't decide whether someone put a hex on me or if I'm manifesting more stress in my life because I'm putting out so much frenetic, anxious energy right now. All I know is that wrapping up wedding details, working with a cut staff at my job, and trying to handle the woes of homeownership (or in this case, rentership) is pushing me dangerously close to the edge of insanity. Thankfully, I'll probably fit into that tight wedding dress no problem...

Social Experiment: Juju Bombing in Burbank and Beyond

2011-02-02T16:25:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I was reading my favorite blog, when I came across this post about how homeowners Sherry and John found a hidden message in their new abode. I'd never heard of anyone purposely leaving a note to new occupants in a house—and I loved the idea of it.

I loved it so much, I started thinking that maybe I could steal it.

If I randomly stumbled across some message of love and advice, I would think it was a gift from the universe. It would make me happy. So why not do something similar: modify the message, leave notes randomly around for others and then feel happy that someone else could read them.

Given that I'm in the midst of wrapping up wedding plans and, thanks to layoffs last week, am now the solo writer at my job, time got away from me after I read Sherry's post. But today I decided to carve out a few minutes to re-craft their message and start the experiment.

Here's what mine says:

May today bring you peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities in yourself and others. May you use the gifts you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. May your soul enjoy the freedom to sing, dance, live and love.

I printed out a page with my message repeated over and over, then I cut two copies from it and put them in my pocket.

I decided I would plant one inside David's Bridal when I went out at lunch to pick up ribbon and sash fabric for my flower girls' dresses.

It was sort of funny scoping out a spot to drop it. I felt like I was sneaking around; getting ready to commit a minor crime. But I left it on one of their counters and I hope either a bride or salesgirl will discover it and smile today.

I stuck the second one in the bathroom at work. I don't know how many women there are on my floor here—maybe 50+. When I entered the ladies' room, 3 of the 5 stalls were filled. I contemplated sticking my little note in the stall somewhere...but that felt kind of creepy. However, I didn't want anyone to see me drop it on the sink. (These were funny things to be considering while I was sitting on the pot, by the way...) In the end, I just took my sweet time washing my hands and flung the note next to the hand towels. Hopefully someone who needed a pick-me-up message found it after I left.

I'm not sure if it's the spreading of good juju that makes this little project so thrilling. Or if it's the sneakiness—the not wanting to be seen dropping my notes. But it's sort of fun. And now that you've read what I passed along, I hope maybe your day is a little brighter too.

Moments of Focus Amidst the Blur

2011-01-30T23:07:00.000-08:00

This process is a strange one. A whirlwind of activity. A torrent of planning. All leading to a one-day performance of a well-rehearsed show. That makes it sound disingenuous , but somehow it feels pretty authentic. It's a production, but it's one into which you're injecting your desires and personality and preferences.

There are plenty of days that you're so mired in the to-dos, you lose track of what you're even to-doing. You find yourself mindlessly pressing a stamp into gold ink. Tap. Hit paper. Repeat. You find yourself swimming in a sea of dish towels and cheese platters and ribbons you can't break during the un-wrap because they'll represent the babies you're supposed to have. You'll smile and say thank you to the avalanche of well wishes. You're not used to being in this position—there at the center with all eyes upon you. You do better as the one-liner sarcastic-remarker a the back of the room. The guest of honor isn't a role you've played in the past.

And in your unfamiliarity with the situation, everything will start to blur.

It'll come at you faster and faster until you've 48 days to go and you can't seem to keep the dishes clean because you keep getting new ones that need to be washed. Every weekend will include the smashing of boxes and discard of tissue.

But every now and then, you'll catch yourself in a moment and time will stop. The blur will sharpen and you'll remember what awaits you.

Driving in your car, you'll hear a disco song and your mind will wander to an image of yourself wearing the gorgeous gown, dancing on a parquet floor. You picture your nieces gathered around you, taking turns holding your hand, spinning, grinning from ear to ear. And suddenly, there in your car, you'll be crying. Sobbing in sweet anticipation of what's to come.

Or maybe you'll be buried under mounds of cards with veils and blenders on them. Thoughtful messages from caring women in your life. Wrapping paper and torn envelopes will surround your sandaled feet. And you'll get to a particular gift from your mom. A poem attached to a handkerchief with a small angel charm sewn to it. A message from your two grandmas who are no longer with you. A message channeled through your mom that could have been written by these two women as if they were sitting at the kitchen table all together. It'll stop you dead in your tracks. It'll fill you with love and longing. Gratitude for what you had in them and what you will have in 48 days with your new husband. And you'll wish so much that you could talk to them and see the joy in their faces during this time. But you'll feel them. And you'll know that when you dab your eyes on that day with that hanky, it'll be their hands wiping your face clean.

Things will continue to go in and out of focus. Surely, even after every single to-do has been done and every scene perfectly rehearsed, it will still feel like a blur. But those moments when the fog clears and the feelings are crisp—those are what will make it all worthwhile. Those are what will define this time.

A Peek into the Neuroses of a DIY Bride

2011-01-25T12:53:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I had a particular friend who loved to come in my room and move things a quarter of an inch. She knew that I had everything arranged just so and that I would be able to tell if she scooted anything out of its place.

Even back then, I was a card-holding control freak.

I actually come from a long line of control freaks. My grandma threatened to call my sister's baby (or was it her cat...now I can't remember) a different name because she liked it better than the chosen one. My mother will not let anyone else host Thanksgiving or Christmas because only she knows how to do it "just right." And then there's me: the girl who still carries a check register and keeps her account balanced to the penny at all times.

Given how thrilling it is for me to wield my organizational and decision-making power, it should be no surprise that I decided to DIY so much of my wedding stuff. The budget was also a huge consideration. I just can't see why I'd want to spend hundreds of dollars paying someone else to do what I can do myself. (And maybe do it better, says the control freak...)

The other upside of DIYing is that no one else anywhere will have the exact same details I have. My wedding will have totally unique elements, and to me that makes it feel even more special.

The first things I started working on after Mr. Wonderful greenlit the project were my invitations. Was it a bit of a pain to make 80 of them? You bet. But it was extremely gratifying to pack them up and mail them last week. I had to conceal Mr. W's identity on the one below so that there's no temptation on your part to stalk him...

The next big endeavor was the shoes. It was so much fun sewing the pearls and crystals to the first one. The second was a pain in the ass.

This weekend, I wired pearls and crystals onto a vintage hair barrette I bought on Etsy. I couldn't believe how well it turned out, or how easy it was to do.

And also this weekend, I hit the Los Angeles flower mart with my food and flower expert friend so we could practice assembling bouquets and centerpieces. It looks like I'll be able to buy all the flowers I need for a mere $250. I cannot understand why anyone would want to pay a florist when it's so easy to put together pretty arrangements on a shoestring! Pardon my un-ironed tablecloth.

All the crafty projects I've been working on have been a real mix of joy and frustration. At times, they've felt like burdens. Other times, they were the perfect escape.

In the end, I know they'll make my wedding exactly the way I've dreamed it to be. And that makes the control freak inside a very, very happy bride.

Latitudes of Gratitude

2011-01-20T13:10:00.000-08:00

Okay fine, I admit it—I took the lazy man's approach to that headline. Rhyming is always my go-to when I'm in a hurry. And these days, I'm in a hurry almost every moment of the day. Even when I'm sleeping, I think I'm probably rushing through REM so I can wake up and get stuff done.

I did find a few free moments Monday night, however. And I used them to attend my very first meditation class.

It was quite fascinating, listening to the teacher's lecture on shedding self consciousness; attempting to stay serene for 30 whole minutes when the most I've really ever tried to meditate is about 120 seconds; hearing questions people had regarding their personal meditation practices.

But the highlight of the night for me was a quote the teacher recited.

Acceptance culminates in gratitude.

Perhaps this is a core Buddhist principle and I'm just too far removed from that philosophy to know it. But oh the power of that statement. Imagine if by accepting different things in our lives, we could actually become grateful for them.

The idea of this appeals to me greatly, and also seems like the biggest struggle in the world. I am very good at accepting certain things—waiting in traffic for example. Often, it allows me to listen to great music or just have quiet down time. So even though it can be frustrating, there are may instances in which I end up being thankful for it.

Other things—people, rules, ways of thinking—are nearly impossible for me to accept, let alone be thankful for.

As I pondered the quote after class, I realized that just like meditation, gratitude must be practiced to be perfected. You almost have to force yourself to feel grateful for it to start coming naturally. Force yourself to look at the positives; to find reasons to say thanks. "Force" is probably a terrible word to be using here, considering we're talking about acceptance... But I think in some situations, a gratitude journal or ongoing list of upsides is the only way one can reach a point where they really accept something and see it for its goodness.

It's even harder for me than usual to adopt this way of thinking right now. I am swamped at work, carrying the Giant Wedding To Do list with every muscle in my mind, trying not to count the days that Mr. W has been gone, looking for breathers in my over-booked social calendar. Frustration feels a lot more comfortable right now than gratitude does. But I guess that just means it's that much more important for me to try to cultivate gratitude every day...

Aren't We All Just Looking for Our Sleepless in Seattle?

2011-01-12T11:23:00.001-08:00

I'm listening to my ipod on shuffle right now where Nat King Cole is crooning "Stardust"—one of my favorites from the Sleepless in Seattle soundtrack.

That movie wrecked me when I was a teenager.

The way it so expertly proposed the possibility that there is magical love out there just waiting for us to find it.

I remember lying on the roof of my parents' motorhome one night during a camping trip, staring at the stars, wishing with every fiber of my adolescent being that I would find real love. The kind that made me want to use words like "magic" and "incredible" and "unconditional." My yearning felt as big as the sky. My fear that I would never actually find that kind of love felt equally as big.

I carried that fear with me through my 20s like a heavy cloak that hid me from the light of a Sleepless in Seattle love affair.

Thinking I wouldn't find it perpetuated the lack of it in my life. Then I turned 30. And went to therapy. And got cheated on.

Suddenly I realized I didn't just deserve the very best kind of love, I was going to find it. I was like a detective who was two clues away from solving the case. I was so close.

It didn't arrive at the top of the Empire State building, but Love did arrive. And it was better than I had imagined that night on the roof. Better than Sleepless in Seattle. And the best part about it is that the script is still playing itself out.

Getting Done the Farewell To Dos

2011-01-11T11:14:00.000-08:00

We had a lot to check off the list before yesterday.

We tore up, tilled and replanted the entire front yard. Then potted the miniature olive tree we bought. A reminder of our trip to Greece and the Tuscan-style vineyard we hope to own one day.

We got our marriage license.

We chose wedding rings—me a band of diamonds that matches my engagement ring; him a brushed Tungsten band.

We put stamps on all of our wedding invitations so that I can mail them today.

We discussed important house details, like how to turn the sprinklers on and off, how to reset the wireless Internet, which buttons on the remote control different functions on the stereo.

We kissed each other extra times, trying to stockpile the sensation so it would last us through the next 60 days.

We practiced the dance steps we learned. I forgot most of them, but he reminded me and we vowed to run through them many more times in that final week when he comes home.

We touched-up paint.

We plowed through DVDs we wanted to watch together.

We IMed each other while he sat in the Virgin Atlantic lounge and I sat in the dim corner of our living room.

And now there's an ocean smack dab in the middle of us.

I'm looking forward to putting "cross that ocean" at the top of the To Do List.

So Over the Whelming

2011-01-06T14:47:00.000-08:00

I just looked up the word "whelm" to see if it was in fact a word on its own. Here's what Merriam-Webster.com had to say about it:

whelm: to turn (as a dish or vessel) upside-down usually to cover something : cover or engulf completely with usually disastrous effect.

I am the dish. I am the vessel.

But the funny thing is that I keep turning—so one minute I pop up out of the water and dry off, then the next I'm upside-down again, covered over. Whelmed.

The past six months have included more milestones and transitions than I've experienced in the past six years. There was the engagement. And the beginning of the planning. And the offer on the house. Then the moving of the roommate. And the moving of me. And Christmas. And wine-tasting after Christmas (which was fun at the time, but man could I have used those two days more productively). And the relandscape.

And now we are quickly approaching the part where Mr. Wonderful leaves me for London for two months and I climb into the saddle of house guardianship, while trying to keep all the wedding plates spinning at the right speed.

Last night I was trying to finish a slideshow we're putting together to run behind the bar at the reception and Mr. W came to tell me he was going to bed...and I melted down. My vessel capsized and the next thing I knew, I was drowning in tears.

I don't like to ask for help. I am a control freak to my core. So I usually take on too much, thinking I can handle it all (even when I'm already overcome by other things, like for example the fact that my fiance leaving town and not returning until the week before our wedding). And it always leads me to the same end spot: Stress. Overwhelm. Bathroom blubbering.

Mr. Wonderful told me I need to seek out assistance. I need to communicate to him—or family or friends or strangers in line at the grocery store—that I need help.

I'm going to try. Maybe I'll start by asking you guys to help me remember that I'm supposed to be doing this...

Gay, White Guys Don't Make the Best Manual Laborers

2011-01-02T17:36:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve of 2005 was probably my wildest. I was single, carefree, and open to kissing anyone who came my way at midnight. I got myself dolled up in a tight shirt, went to a friend's house party, drank wine, scoped out my prospects. When the clock struck 12, I must have smacked lips with a dozen different boys. That last year of my twenties was one I wholly dedicated to living life to its fullest. I sowed oats. Maybe acted a little scandalously here and there.

Thank goodness I got that out because this New Year's Eve, I shoveled dirt.

Mr. Wonderful and I have spent the past 3 days relandscaping the front yard. I've never done such hard labor. Nearly 8 hours of turning soil, digging up rocks, pulling old ivy roots. I've helped him in the yard before, but nothing like this. My back hurts. My calves hurt. My arms hurt. My fingers hurt. Seriously.

We spent New Year's evening making sugar cookies in our robes. We didn't even make it until midnight—we hit the pillows at 11:00 and slept like the rocks we'd collected in the front yard.

Earlier in the night I told him I couldn't handle another day like that one. I needed him to get some help in the yard. So he put an ad on Craigslist.

Now, generally when Mr. W gets people to help in the yard, it's nice, quiet, young Hispanic guys. They hang around Home Depot looking for work and they've been quick to respond to his ads online. This time, he said the guy sounded white on the phone. Artie. I wondered why anyone—of any ethnicity—would want to work New Year's Day.

We were in the trenches early that morning. I was trying to pull up thick roots left from some hedges near the driveway. Mr. W was beginning to help me when a navy BMW sped up into the cul de sac.

"That Artie?" I asked, laughing.

"Yeah right," Mr. W laughed back.

The next thing we knew, a mustached guy was walking towards us asking if it was Mr. W in the dirt. It was Artie. I almost fell over.

He seemed a little flamboyant to me. When he took off his long-sleeved shirt my suspicion he might be gay was confirmed. There on his bicep in simple, san-serif type was one word: "Chad."

A gay, white man who wants to do yard work on New Year's Day?

I spent the next several hours creating a mental list of reasons Artie may have answered our ad. Maybe he was a writer and he was doing a story on landscaping. Maybe he lost a bet. Maybe it was some sort of foreplay with his buddy who accompanied him (Jeff, not Chad. And he left after about 30 minutes because he didn't feel well.) Or maybe he was a serial killer and he was going to use that shovel to bury me and Mr. W somewhere under the new avocado tree.

When he finished (earlier than we wanted him to...) he asked if he could leave his shovel and get it later. Creepy deepy. Mr. W told me I was over-reacting. He said he himself might start answering Craigslist ads and helping people do work in their yards on the weekend.

I just hope he doesn't come home with a tattoo for Chad.

Happy New Year everyone!

My New Home for the Holidays

2010-12-21T15:28:00.000-08:00

It has officially been one month since I moved in with Mr. Wonderful. And I'm happy to report things are going quite well. As you can see, he allowed me to fancy the place up for Christmas. Although I refrained from setting up the cat nativity scene out of respect to his manliness.

Up until this week, I was having some pangs of longing for my apartment. Whenever the thought of that place would cross my mind, one word came up: HOME. I lived there so long, it was completely my haven. That place where I would shut the door and exhale. It was wholly my space and nothing comforted me quite like it.

I remember thinking during my last move - to London in summer of 2009 - that if I had my car and my cats and reliable Internet access, it might feel more like home.

However, when I came to reside in Mr. W's, I had all of those things. And it still didn't feel like that exhaley haven I craved.

The first time I drove up to my town after the move, I felt the prickly warning that tears might be on their way. It's not that I wasn't happy to be living in the big city of Hollywood, it's just that my sweet small town of Montrose had such a different, familiar, welcoming feel. It made my chest hurt.

But something sort of amazing happened Monday night. I went back to Montrose for a haircut appointment. And when I got on the freeway toward Hollywood, the pang sort of reversed. I was longing for my new home. My home where Mr. W and my cats and my Christmas tree were waiting. My home where the entry hall closet is crammed full of perfectly organized stuff because we don't have enough storage space. My home where the roof leaked on my Grandmother's dining table Sunday. My home where I see grapevines from my bedroom window. It's my new exhaley haven.

I'm looking forward to celebrating there on Friday night and Saturday morning. Just me and my little fiance/feline family. And I'm a bit worried that when Mr. W returns from his travels abroad, the house is going to feel more like mine than his.

A Cure for White Man's Overbite?

2010-12-13T11:56:00.001-08:00

If you asked any of my high school friends about my ability to dance, they would probably bite their lower lips and say, "She has a tendency to do this."

I've never had much rhythm. As a kid, I wanted to join a cheerleading team but it was expensive and I don't think my parents wanted to deal with driving me to practice and competitions. So while some of my friends were cultivating the ability to groove to a beat and pick up the latest moves from their instructors, I was writing poetry and playing out dramatic storylines with my Barbies (yes, I was a late bloomer).

I would only dance to slow songs at school dances. And in college, when we started going to clubs, the white man's overbite would creep out every time. Thankfully, my kind friends would point it out and laugh hysterically so I could amend my facial expression when necessary...

I've gotten better about the lip-biting, but I still wouldn't say I'm a great dancer. Unless there's disco music playing. Then I can tear it up. But dancing properly at weddings and stuff? Definitely not my forte.

The night Mr. Wonderful and I got engaged, we were celebrating with drinks and dessert at the Madonna Inn, when suddenly the lead singer of the band said, "Now we'd like to have Melissa and Mr. W come to the dance floor for a special dance in honor of their engagement."

We both froze. And Mr. W's then roommate, Dirty Painter, laughed really hard.

He knew we couldn't dance. But there was no getting around it for either of us. We were on the spot. So with a couple dozen people watching, Mr. W and I took to the dance floor and tried to perform while the band played "Crazy Little Thing Called Love." We were both blushing profusely and I was sweating like a transvestite in a trucker bar. So many eyes on us. So many toes attached to my feet. So much room on that parquet floor. And it's not like Mr. W has stellar dance skills and could just lead me around, hiding my ineptness.

We were a pretty sad pair. And we knew this spelled big trouble for our first dance at the wedding.

But being the über thoughful superhuman he is, last night Mr. W gave me an early Christmas gift: 2 private dance lessons for us to squeeze in before he leaves to work in London for two months. I'm hoping this means our toes will be twinkling and our overbites will be concealed by the time the big day rolls around.

Did I Forget to Mention the Upsides?

2010-12-10T15:14:00.000-08:00

Because my last post served mainly as a snapshot of the challenges of my new cohabitation situation, I thought I would balance it out with a look at the positives. There are quite a few, you know. Like...

Being able to talk to each other in person at night. Previously, we would each stay on IM until bed in case one of us wanted to tell the other something. This meant continual computer checks and, at times, long pauses between answers. Now I can yell down the hallway or whisper in his ear. While I'm addressing Christmas cards or petting the cats or filing my nails. Hooray for multi-tasking!

Mouthguard kisses. Hot, right? Well they're a heck of a lot better than the little smoochy face on IM.

A garage. I've never parked in a garage before. I mean, I've parked in a garage. But I've never had my own spot in one. It's quite delightful. My car will stay dry if it sprinkles at night. There's no bird poop on my windshield. And if I happen to need some drywall screws or Halloween costumes on my way to work, they're right there for me to grab...

The (Angels Singing in Heaven) dishwasher. This might be my favorite acquired item. I cannot tell you how many nights I spent cursing under my breath as I washed my dishes by hand at the apartment. Having a dishwasher is seriously the best thing ever. I haven't loved loading and unloading something this much since I got that Fisher Price shopping cart when I was 3.

Mr. Wonderful's cooking. It's Shut Up Good. Sometimes I think the food turns to gold when it hits my lips. The man is talented.

The view. Yes, that's it up there. The house is technically in The Hills (yes, those hills), so we have an incredible view of downtown LA from the front deck and living room window—and you can see even further from the top terrace patio in the backyard. Swoon.

A composter with live worms. Not dead ones.

My very own bathroom to stink up. Yes, I know I had my own bathroom at my apartment, but whilst living there, I would have to use Mr. W's bathroom whenever I stayed over. Now I can better maintain the facade that I am a delicate flower whose fragrance never shares a likeness with 3-day old hard-boiled eggs.

Grapevines in the backyard. Every morning, I open the curtains behind our headboard and stare out the window at the few little grapevines Mr. W has planted in the backyard. It's such a nice thing to wake up to. And it's totally helping me manifest that vineyard in our future...

The built-in exercise. I have to climb a couple flights to get from street-level to the house, and I'm really hoping it helps burn some of the thigh fat. I also feel like I have to walk a little further to get anywhere in the house. And then there's the constant sweeping. Surely, I'm going to be in killer shape by the time the wedding rolls around (99 days from today!)

The wine fridge. It's overstocked. We have bottles on the floor that won't fit in it and it's an absolute delight to go shopping around there and find the perfect pairing for whatever Mr. W's cooking!

The W. Of course that's the very best part of living with him. The living with him.

Cohabitation and Recalibration

2010-12-07T15:38:00.000-08:00

When it comes to personal living spaces, I'm a bit of a brat.

It's not that I've never shared a room or a house with someone. I don't remember it, but my brother and I shared a room when I was a baby. Then in college I had bunk beds with my roommate for 7 months. And my evil ex lived in my house for 3 months.

The difference with the two latter instances was that there were second homes involved to which one or the other of us could flee. In college, I could retreat to my parents' house and my childhood bedroom. When I was living with the ex, he was gone a lot at the fire station.

This is the first time I've really been in a 24/7 cohabitation situation.

For the last 8 years, I've been in my beloved apartment with only the cats. The 5 years prior to that, I lived in a cozy studio. And for almost 21 years before that, I had my own space at my Mom and Dad's.

Now I have a bathroom. And a desk/workspace corner.

It's weird.

Don't get me wrong: I'm overjoyed to be living with Mr. Wonderful. I wouldn't want anyone else as a housemate. But there really is a lot of adjusting and recalibrating going on right now. For both of us.

Downtime is different. There's a sort of sense that "stuff" should be getting done. Cat litter particles should be getting swept; rugs should be getting vacuumed; dishes should be getting scrubbed. Routines have changed. Rather than the normal race-around-getting-ready-leaving-debris-in-my-wake modus under which I normally operate, I'm trying to put things away and be more conscientious in the morning. Which adds time to my previous primping timeline. Working out is also different. It's much harder to get out of bed with a warm body next to you. And if you make it out of bed and that poor body has to see you with a greasy ponytail and yesterday's black socks doing step aerobics in his office, well, I hope he doesn't go blind from the horror.

Poor Mr. W has had to adjust to an additional facet of cohabitation that I've fortunately dodged. He's allergic to cats. And now he's living with 2 (and a half if you count the fat one as 1.5). He's come to tell me seven or eight times in the last 2 weeks that my little Zoë has thrown up on something. Like his couch and rug and old VCR. (He presented that last one like a tray covered in bio-hazardous material. It was kind of awesome.) His tingly nose has been driving him nuts, despite the purchase of two giant air purifiers.

On top of that, I'm sure my chick-knacks around his house are a little unsettling.

But we're working hard at acclimating. Saturday I bought Mr. W a mini tiramisu cake to honor him for being such a trooper. And Sunday, after about a month of meltdowny-ness and a ridiculously busy weekend on my end, I came home to a bouquet of flowers.

So, it seems we're doing some things right. And hopefully they'll continue to dull the growing pains.

Ode to My Apartment, The Final Act

2010-12-03T13:05:00.000-08:00

I saved my favorite room for last.

My bedroom was the room in my house that came to represent me most. This was not by accident. In 2006, I decided that my semi-tortured single self deserved a sanctuary. I wanted a space that captured my personality and welcomed me into it whenever I passed through its door. I wanted it to feel bold and bright and remind me that I was also bold and bright. I was not a girl in need of a boy. I was not a girl who wished her bed had someone else lying in it. I wanted this to be MY room to the nth degree. With a mattress I could lie on and stretch my limbs across to touch all four corners—leaving no room for anyone else. And a bedspread that a male would never pick. This was going to all about me.

So I did something I thought I'd never do. I bought a schmancy expensive duvet set from Pottery Barn. And when I moved a week ago, it broke my heart a little that I wouldn't be fanning it out across our guest bed (which is in Mr. Wonderful's office). When my niece told me she would take my bedspread, I almost cried. That single item had become my pet over the years. It represented a time of independence for me. Of repair. I didn't want it to go to the Goodwill. It needed to be passed on to some other deserving soul. Like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

It makes my heart sink a tiny bit to look at the pictures above. That single girl I knew so well and tried so hard to take care of is moving on. With luck, she'll never ever have to buy a ME bedspread again. And her bed will always have a soft concave spot carved out for her lifelong partner. But don't be surprised if at some point, she writes about taking a nap under her niece's duvet.

Too Much Sh*t in My Purse

2010-11-28T21:15:00.000-08:00

Nearly two years ago when Mr. Wonderful and I took our first big, long vacation together to Italy and Greece, we discovered that my capacity for load-bearing is severely lacking. If I have too much sh*t in my purse, I lose it. Not like I lose the sh*t in my purse—I lose MY sh*t.

Despite the fact that I'm a backpacker who has ferried 30+ pounds of gear on my back into the desert and the mountains, I cannot handle having a heavy coat, a purse and a duffel bag hanging off my body. I might have thrown a duffel bag several feet in LAX at an early hour when we were departing for that Greece/Italy trip. I might also have thrown several temper tantrums because I had two cameras, a mini tripod, maps, a wallet and many other items in my purse while sightseeing throughout Europe. It seems that I am just not made for carrying loads over a certain weight.

Knowing this, it wasn't a huge surprise that I came within inches of a full-blown meltdown Tuesday night. For the past several weeks, I have been carrying not only physically heavy loads—back and forth from my house to Mr. W's—but hefty mental cargo, in the form of to-do lists and continual planning and transition emotions. You see, last weekend I moved into his place.

My apartment of 8 years was packed into a million boxes and bags (some of which landed in the trash and Goodwill). My car became a mini moving van, seeming constantly filled with stuff that needed to be relocated somewhere. My routine and normalcy were hit by a tornado. It all felt very, very heavy to me. Too much to do. Too many ends to tie up. Too many things to find spaces for in this new life. Too little time for it all. Tuesday night, I wanted to strip it all away, strip off my clothes, and go running into the night with nothing weighing me down.

But I didn't. Instead, I came to my new home and told Mr. W that I was so DONE with the moving process I wanted to cry. And he hugged me and told me that it really was done—I had cleaned the last traces of my life out of my apartment that night. I had only one home to bear, not two. Things were going to get lighter. His hug was like helium.

I don't know if I'll ever adjust to having baggage and belongings and burdens pressing down on me. I might have a lifetime of meltdowns in my future. But at least I know there'll be someone there to scrape me off the pavement and throw my purse over his shoulder. Even if it's overflowing with sh*t.

Ode to My Apartment, Part 3

2010-11-22T21:54:00.000-08:00

When I turned 28, I remember thinking I was getting old. Almost 30. I was single, unhappy in my job and in much need of a wild night out with girlfriends. So I wrangled about half a dozen of them and we headed out to Hollywood's Beauty Bar for an evening of martinis and manicures.

The problem with this idea was that I wasn't a martini drinker.

The bar offers a variety of fruity doozies disguised as martinis. They go down like liquid Jolly Ranchers. I remember I had a bad farmer's sunburn from hiking that morning, and the martinis took the sting off in no time.

Not being a martini drinker, I didn't know that it wasn't a smart idea to consume them like the water cups they give you at marathons. One at every mile.

My college roommate was with us that night and I hadn't seen her forever and it would have been rude to turn away a drink she purchased to celebrate my birthday. So I downed them left and right until I was smiley and slurry and making friends with guys named Sven.

I woke up fully clothed on my couch at 3:30 a.m. It was Easter and I knew I'd have to meet my family in the early afternoon. I thought I had it in the bag. I drank a little water and retreated to my bed to "sleep it off."

When I got up several hours later, my college roommate called to check on me. She wanted to come by to show me her recent wedding pictures. I sat at my dining room table with her, spinning and sweaty as she thumbed through the album. Finally, I excused myself and retreated into my adorable mint green 1950's bathroom to puke.

Yaking when you're in your later 20s is so much harder than when you're in your early 20s. I remember thinking I was going to have to call an ambulance. Surely, I was dying. My poor roommate came and brought me a glass of water. Which, of course, made me vomit again. I apologized profusely and told her I probably needed to lie down. Or go to the emergency room.

I didn't get up for about 5 more hours when it was time to go to my Grandma's house for Easter. I looked like I had crawled out of the sewer. Thankfully, a little honey baked ham and Hawaiian rolls did me right. I was back to my old self by bedtime.

But I haven't had a martini since. And I think every now and then I could hear my bathroom murmuring, "Thank you."

Ode to My Apartment, Part 2

2010-11-15T17:05:00.000-08:00

In 2003 when I got laid off from my advertising job, there were some days when I never left my apartment. Maybe it was because I was depressed. Maybe it was because there was really no need for me to go outside other than to collect the mail from my front porch. During my 4 months of unemployment, my house became a cocoon of comfort for me.

I would sit at the table, at my desk, on the couch, on the floor, pounding away at my laptop keyboard, pouring my heart into a novel attempt. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I remember thinking, "Wow THIS is what it could be like if I became a real writer." I could just wake up in the morning and start working on my book. I wouldn't even have to put on clean underwear. But I wouldn't have any human interaction, either. And despite the days that I spent willingly avoiding contact, that was the thing I missed most about being employed.

I did a lot of cleaning during that time. And rearranging of knickknacks. When you spend that much time in one space, you can't help but want to spruce. I refused to paint, though, because I was convinced I'd fall in love and move on before the paint job really became worthwhile. Here we are, 7.5 years later...

My sweet living room has gotten me through a lot of rough patches. The carpet in it has been a soft landing place for me many times. Its electrical outlets have powered my writing and reading and online dating. And even though its walls stayed a bland shade of off-white, they also kept me safe and sheltered, in career sickness and in health.

I am 100% sure there will be nights that I miss this little place.

1095 Days

2010-11-11T13:55:00.000-08:00

Three years ago today, a wonderful romance started over a pot of fondue and a couple glasses of wine. We started with cheese, in four months we'll end with cheers. I guess it'll be more of a beginning than an end, but you get where I'm going.

I had forgotten until I went back and read this post that Mr. Wonderful made a joke about us being married on our first date. So last night, as a friend of ours was talking about how he may have met the girl he's going to marry, I asked Mr. W when he knew that I was The One.

"Was it after our trip to San Francisco?" I guessed.

That was our first weekend away together—to a wine festival in the city. We'd been dating two and a half months by that point and I was 100% sure I was crazy about him. Even though he knew he might be falling for me, he wouldn't say the words for another six months.

"Yeah, I think I knew because you didn't bug me," he replied.

Ah yes, that's what love is. The winning recipe for an engagement ring: don't bug them. You don't have to be witty or pretty or interesting. Just refrain from bugging.

Good thing he was nice to me when he took me out for a schmancy dinner at Spago Monday night...

Happy 3rd Anniversary to my other half. :* :* :*

My Favorite Mistake

2010-11-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

Funny things happen when you get engaged. (Or maybe it's just me.) In addition to having surges of fear, you sort of find yourself cataloging your life up to this point. You think back on all the past loves that led you to this one. Sometimes you smile at the memories. Sometimes you cringe. Sometimes you thank the heavens for the lessons.

As I've thought through my modest list of relationships, one guy clearly stands out to me as my favorite mis-match. He's the perfect combination of timing and learning and endearment.

I met Patric (no k) when I was 29. I had just started my current job, had just come out of a failed attempt to rekindle things with my college boyfriend, and was itching to have a carefree, hot summer romance.

Patric was only 26, the coworker of my best friend's husband, and a month away from moving to New York City. He asked me out after we spent a day at the beach with my best friend's family. I told him I wasn't sure if it was a good idea—he was leaving the state in 30 days, after all. But he was cute and charming and it was summertime. So I caved.

On our first date, I got a nice dose of Patric's dramatic side. I made a joke about how my voice sounds like a muppet's and he reached across the table, taking my hand (my best friend likes to think that he pressed one finger against my lips and shushed me, but I don't think that's how it went) and said in a sultry, whispery voice, "Don't talk like that." That moment pretty much set the tone for the next few months. Intensity. Theatrics. And of course, entertainment. I don't think I've ever written so much poetry as I did that summer.

His NY move date got pushed by several weeks, which meant we had more time to cultivate our tumultuous relationship. I saw Patric cry in Target. I laughed hysterically with him over inside jokes we made. I found myself, on more than one occasion, feeling like the only girl in the room—or the universe. He knew how to cast a spell, that boy.

There were plenty of things I didn't like about him, but knowing I might only have him for a short time prompted me to try to appreciate every moment. What a great lesson that was.

Before he left, I gave him a wooden box filled with pictures and poems and other things to remember me by. I decoupaged a page from the Thomas Guide with my neighborhood on it so he could think of me across the U.S. whenever he saw it.

When he told me he couldn't handle the long distance, I was heartbroken. Even though, on some level I knew it was for the best. He wasn't the right fit.

The wooden box appeared on my doorstep a couple years ago with one poem still inside it. I appreciated that he returned it. I even called to thank him, but never heard back. Lack of response adds to his drama. I've stalked him a little on Facebook and I'm glad to see he's happily married now. I'm also glad that he gave me that one summer.

Ode to My Apartment, Part 1

2010-11-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

We finally closed on the house. Which means a whole lot of change is going to be upon me soon.

Last night, I got a little nostalgic knowing that it would be my last time voting at the poll I've been going to for years. My parents' address is still on my driver's license, so I get to go vote at my elementary school. As I walked out of the auditorium last night, I paused to look at the lunch tables. I remember sitting there, awkward and skinny, not wanting to eat my sandwiches. It made me a little sad that I won't have a reason to go back for visits anymore.

As part of this whole packing-up-and-moving-on process, I'm feeling compelled to write posts honoring the apartment that has housed me for the last 8 years. I never thought I would be there so long. I remember talking myself out of painting and making changes many times because I thought, "I'll probably move soon anyway." Oh, how time flies.

The little yellow 1950's masterpiece below is my kitchen. It's a place that I have loved and hated through the years. Loved its extensive storage space, its warmth, its ability to provide me with what I need to prepare great meals. Hated it for being the place that forces me to do dishes. I cannot wait to have a dishwasher.

It's also the place where Mr. Wonderful cooked for me the very first time.

Before he and I met in person, we teased each other back and forth online about who would cook for whom first. Naturally, the gourmet won.

He showed up to my house with chocolate soufflé batter in a Tupperware container, a bottle of wine and all the fixings for chicken Marsala. He was wearing a brown and turquoise striped shirt and I remember being excited because I was wearing the same colors. A sign, perhaps.

He seemed a little nervous as he found his way around my kitchen utensils and pans. I sat on the counter and watched him, thinking his awkwardness was adorable. Maybe he was just thrown by my olive green 70's stove...

After we ate his delicious soufflé and polished off the bottle of wine, we sat side-by-side on the couch looking at vacation pictures on his iphone. I was enthralled in the images of Italy when he grabbed the phone from my hand, took me by the shoulders and kissed me. The rest is a post for another time...and maybe another website...

Thank you, Kitchen, for helping facilitate that first kiss.

Because How Else Would I Sign Escrow Papers?

2010-10-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

I knew that buying a house could be stressful. I think I've heard that it's a line item on The Most Stressful Life Events List. But for some reason, I really didn't think it would be so bad. I figured that with Mr. Wonderful's extensive real estate knowledge and my stellar credit history, the whole process would be a snap.

Oh, how the Universe loves to eff with naive people.

Every step of this process has been riddled with mishaps, hassles and anxiety. It sort of felt to me like if it could go wrong, it did go wrong. The funny thing is that for almost 3 months, I sat waiting to hear whether all the banks associated with the home's short sale would be willing to accept my discounted offer. 3-stress-free months that I should have used to gear up for the past 4 weeks.

Because once we got the go-ahead, all hell broke loose. Papers were faxed (long distance in one case) back and forth, then deemed unreadable. Documents were misplaced. Parties involved were misnamed. Deadlines were missed—spawning even more stressful deadlines to try to make up time. The clock was constantly ticking. My heart was constantly palpitating. And most of the time, I didn't even fully understand what was going on because Mr. W was acting as the point person for a lot of stuff.

Given how things had been playing out, I should have known that I would have to sign my final escrow papers yesterday. The day of my company Halloween party and potluck. And I should have known that another ridiculous deadline would call for me to drive to the escrow office...dressed in my zombie bride costume...rather than have the notary come to me. I should have also expected that I'd be waltzing into Chase bank in that same costume to make a wire transfer. Feel like a tool much? Um, yeah.

I can't exhale about the whole thing yet because we haven't officially closed, and of course there's an issue still up in the air that could make or break the deal. I'm hoping all works out and that by Tuesday I'm toasting the new house and stopping the heart palpitations. Otherwise, I may turn into that zombie bride permanently.

I Breathed the Same Air as Oprah

2010-10-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

And it wasn't as exciting as I thought it would be. Maybe she's better one-on-one.

I saw her Tuesday at the Women's Conference of California. I've attended events around the conference in the past couple years, but this year I was lucky enough to get a ticket to the main event—where I got to listen to legends like Sandra Day O'Connor and Diane Sawyer, passionate powerhouses like Suze Orman and Jillian Michaels, and inspiring activists like Eve Ensler and Maria Shriver.

Michelle Obama also participated in the morning session, causing crazy human traffic jams thanks to the heightened security. Sadly, I didn't find her as compelling as I thought I would. She was good, don't get me wrong. I just expected to be more moved by her.

One of the highlights was listening to hilarious Brian Williams talk to NY Times columnist Nicholas Kristof, Nike chairman Phil Knight, and Starbucks President Howard Schultz about "Men Who Get It." I love that Brian Williams can deliver a joke just as well as the NBC evening news.

I almost rubbed elbows with Oprah's best friend Gayle King as she walked past me on the expo floor. And I was excited to see Rita Wilson up close. Jessica Simpson was adorable in person, and I wanted to put Giada De Laurentiis in my purse and take her home with me. I had her sign a cookbook I bought and I told her how much I loved her short ribs with chocolate recipe. She gave me a huge Giada grin and said, "Isn't it good?! Thank you for making it." How adorable is that? Seriously.

The theme of the conference was "It's Time," and at one point Maria Shriver spoke about all the different things it could be time for each of us attendees to do. It got me thinking about all the things it's time for in my life.

It's time to get married.
It's time to buy a house.
It's time to really, finally feel like a grown up.
It's time to stop stressing.
It's time to really learn to meditate.
It's time to make time to write.
It's time to stop making excuses.
It's time to lose the muffin-top.
It's time to expand my cooking horizons.
It's time to adjust my 401k allocation.
It's time to slow down.
It's time to do more for others and the world without sacrificing self care.
It's time to commit to change.

What time is it for you?

Different Paths, Same Destination

2010-10-22T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have racked my brain trying to figure out if there's a "right way" to tell someone they deserve better than who they're dating, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist. Particularly if you're related to the person you want to advise.

Prior to meeting Mr. Wonderful, I brought home several guys of whom my sister did not approve. She tried to communicate her feelings in different ways—sometimes with sarcastic remarks, sometimes with serious warnings, sometimes with leading questions. No matter what approach she took, it felt like she was telling me I had failed. Her judgment of my boyfriends felt like judgment of me. And the hardest part about it all was that there were many times when I knew she was right.

I would rationalize my decisions, telling myself that she and I were different and she didn't understand where I was coming from. She wasn't born in the same decade as I was; times had changed. She didn't get it because she settled down so early.

But the thing she knew that I didn't was that dating should be built on a foundation of happiness. That crying or feeling disappointed or unsure were telltale signs that things weren't right. She wasn't trying to condemn me or my choices, she was trying to protect me from making mistakes and getting hurt.

Unfortunately, her disapproval hurt too. And compounding that was the inadequate feeling I got when I looked around my family and saw that everyone had gotten married and purchased homes by the time they were my age. I felt so far behind. How would I ever catch up? How would I ever live up to the expectations they had set?

Then, when I met Mr. W, everything changed. My sister still voiced concerns about him (worrying his quietness might not mesh with our loud, obnoxious family) but they didn't matter anymore because I knew he was right for me. Suddenly that was all that was important. I didn't need a house or 5 kids because I was happy with what I had in the moment.

I've thought a lot about what it will be like when my nieces start dating. I'm sure one or all of them will bring home boys that the rest of us don't like. But I'm going to do my best to make sure they know that just because I may not choose the same person for them that they've chosen for themselves, it doesn't mean they are wrong or incapable of making smart decisions. My uncertainty about their boyfriends is not a reflection on my feelings about them.

We all have to take different paths and follow different timelines to get to where we want to be. All that matters is that happiness is the place we end up.

Interspew

2010-10-20T10:33:00.000-07:00

If you've ever looked for me online beyond this blog, you know that I work for a big, fat Internet company that's known for treating its employees well and its stockholders not so great. It's a place where ideas are welcomed, friendliness is the norm, and social decorum is upheld in most every situation.

So yesterday, I was truly shocked when a coworker came back to his desk from the restroom and announced that someone had blown chunks all over the sink, trash can, and floor.

That's not the way of our company! If you're going to puke here, you make it to the toilet! And if you accidentally miss, you clean up your mess!

Horrified, I avoided going to the women's restroom for as long as I could. I didn't want to catch an updraft of what was pooled up in the men's.

When I finally couldn't hold it any longer, I walked down the hall and noticed that several yards beyond the entrance, a couple people from facilities were dousing the carpet. Remember that powder stuff from elementary school that they'd always sprinkle on puke? Pretty sure they were using that. And they had a yellow caution sign. Slippery when wet...with vomit. I was so grossed out.

When I came back out of the bathroom, I heard two girls in nearby cubicles talking about the incident. I couldn't help myself. I walked over and asked, "What the heck happened?!"

One of the girls chuckled and said, "It was an interviewee."

Wow. How'd you like to be that guy? Wouldn't you reschedule if you had the stomach flu? If I were him, I don't even think I'd accept the job after this. Unless I wanted to be known as Ralph for the rest of my tenure here.

Maybe he was actually just an employee from Google playing a nasty prank...

Los Olivos and Other Magnificent Fruits

2010-10-18T21:22:00.000-07:00

It's no secret here that Mr. Wonderful and I are winos. In the almost 3 years we've been together, we've visited Napa and Paso Robles twice, the wine country around Santa Barbara five times and the Burgundy region of France once. But all these places have so much more to offer beyond wine alone. There's a wholesome earthiness about each of them that I just adore.

My favorite town in the area above Santa Barbara is a little spot called Los Olivos. I loved running through this area during the marathons I did. I think the population there is only about 5,000 and it has every lovable quality a small town could possibly have: cute shops, charming restaurants, friendly people and a great sense of community. The wine tasting rooms don't hurt either.

When we visited Los Olivos over the weekend, they were having a little street festival, complete with craft stands, barbecue and, as you can see, lots of tractors.

There were also a live country band and some meandering square dancers. There's something so honest about this kind of place. Just good folks trying to live a good life. It's really endearing. Every time we visit, I tell Mr. W I want to live here.

The weather wasn't great, but the landscape around this part of California is always breathtaking. Golden hills dotted by oak trees. Wildflowers and small farm plots. Rows upon rows of gorgeous green vines. We were a bit surprised to see that many of the vineyards hadn't yet harvested their grapes. Apparently the chilly weather this year forced the winemakers to push back picking.

The cacti out front of Alma Rosa's tasting room were beautiful. I don't know what kind they were, but their fruit grabbed me right away. Don't they look like big, fat Christmas lights or holiday ornaments?

On our way back to the 101 freeway, we couldn't resist stopping at a roadside pumpkin patch. We bought two sizable pumpkins for $4.00. Mr. W said he felt so bad they were so cheap that he wanted to give the farmer a $20 tip.

I hope that one day (if I'm still writing here) I'll be writing from the hills above Santa Barbara, finding time to blog between raising my chickens and sheep, and tending to my pumpkins and grapevines.

Give Me Some Demerol, Please!

2010-10-14T22:53:00.000-07:00

You know those women who yell at their husbands when they're in labor, "YOU did this to me!"? I'm feeling like one of them.

Bless Mr. W's heart for proposing to me. And convincing me to buy a house. I just wish it wouldn't have happened all at the very same time. The pains of these labors are making me want to treat him like the man who got me pregnant.

We are in the throes of escrow. Which is probably totally cool if you don't have deadlines at work and 96 ribbons to glue to 96 candle holders. No, I take that back. Everyone I know who has ever bought a house said it was stressful.

Much like working in advertising, there's a lot of "We need this RIGHT now!" So you frantically scramble to produce requested items, and then you sit. Every day this week, I've come home to a different packet of stuff on the front porch that needs to be signed and returned. I'm ready to amputate my own hand just so I can have a break from signing papers.

Then there's the behemoth of a To Do list I'm carrying around in my mind. ALL the packing. ALL the moving of things. The garage sale I need to have. The couch I need to sell. The envelopes I need to print for our wedding invitations. And Thanksgiving is only 42 days away! The holidays are coming!

It's enough to make me want to grab someone by the collar and tell them to give me drugs and wake me up when it's all over. I would say, "Thank God we're going to Santa Barbara to drink wine for the weekend," but I almost think I'd rather be here cleaning out closets...

Knocking Knees

2010-10-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

When I was first learning to drive, nothing scared me more than having to navigate my way from the freeway on-ramp into speeding traffic. My fear made me drive slowly and more cautiously—thereby annoying other drivers so they were even less likely to let me in.

Several years ago when my ex-boyfriend moved in with me, I sort of resisted letting him make my apartment feel like his own. I never encouraged him to put his art on the wall or knickknacks on the shelves. Instead, I found places for them...which made it seem like he was just a visitor in my apartment.

If you're not picking up on the theme here, it's about me struggling with The Merge.

My latest difficulty with this concept doesn't involve fear of crashing or a mental siren telling me I shouldn't have let my boyfriend move in in the first place. Nope, this time the merge-worry is of the what-if-he-dies variety.

In my decade of dating before Mr. Wonderful, I became quite accustomed to seeing the backs of men as they walked away from me. And through all those losses, I knew I could always retreat to my single life. Like a convenient side street that ran parallel to the freeway. It was calm there. There weren't other people around. Everything was familiar.

Getting married is like entering the merge superhighway and knowing that you don't want to get off because most every exit leads to a bad part of town. I'm going too far with the driving analogies, aren't I?

The bottom line is that if, God Forbid, something should ever happen to Mr. W, I won't just be able to go back to my old single life like I used to. We will be so inextricably linked. My every emotion will be intertwined with and pinned to his existence. He will be my other half. And that wrecks me. Because someday, I might lose him. And even if it's 50 years from now, that just means I'll have to carry around 50 heavy years of memories.

Merging is scary.

My older sister told me this sort of fear was totally normal before one gets married. I thought people only got worried about being committed to the same person for eternity and how that could be like eating the same thing for breakfast every day for the rest of your life. But apparently there's this whole other chapter in the wedding jitters book.

I remember when I was in college, in my on-again off-again relationship, I thought the only emotion I could feel that would be strong enough to overpower love would be hate. But now I think maybe fear is the only equally powerful feeling. To let yourself love someone SO much makes you SO vulnerable. It's seriously terrifying.

Vietnamese Corn, 5-Spice Pork Belly, and Kevin Bacon

2010-10-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

I never pictured myself becoming a "foodie."

I grew up loving TV dinners, mac 'n' cheese and Hostess desserts as a kid, then graduated to fancy establishments like The Olive Garden and El Torito as a young adult. The real culturing of my palate started slowly in my mid-twenties. I discovered that I loved a good, bloody steak with a glass of red wine. Then I slowly began spreading my oral wings into the realm of higher-end ethnic foods and pricier vinos.

When I met Mr. Wonderful, all hell broke loose.

He introduced me to proscuitto and cheese plates and the culinary joy that is Katsuya. He scrambled my taste buds and now there's no going back. We live to try revered restaurants. We watch The Food Network and The Cooking Channel. We are willing to spend $8 on a hunk of taleggio.

Last night we joined Dirty Painter and Southern Belle at Susan Feniger's STREET in Hollywood. My mouth hasn't been so happy in months. Although everything I tasted was absolutely incredible, the highlights of the night were the Vietnamese corn with 5-spice pork belly, hot chili pepper and scallions; the kaya toast—white toast with coconut jam that you dip in a fried egg and dark soy sauce; and the Burmese melon salad with toasted coconut, peanuts, fried onions and sesame ginger dressing. Seriously amazing.

And it might have tasted even better after we spotted Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick dining in the corner. I think Josh Radnor from How I Met Your Mother was also there.

Just when we thought the night couldn't get any better, the server showed up with this:

Do you see why I am ruined?

LA PR in STL and FL

2010-10-05T17:02:00.000-07:00

Lots of people in lots of places have ideas about what Los Angelinos are really like. Thanks to Hollywood, the Venice Beach boardwalk, and shows like LA Ink, people from Phoenix to Philadelphia believe that most of us are surgically enhanced bimbos, tattooed freakshows or burnt-out surf bums who know nothing about what goes on outside our sunny little bubble. At least that's what I think the perception is outside my sunny little bubble...

Given the stereotypes that exist, it's no surprise that I feel a sort of duty to defend homegrown Angelinos like myself when I travel to places like the Midwest.

This weekend was a junket of sorts, where I had to properly represent myself as a So Cal girl, a bride-to-be, a future family member, and a future wife to Mr. Wonderful.

At our first stop, St. Louis, I did my best to ingratiate myself to the Greek family and friends who are inheriting me. Mr. W and I aren't high up on the list right now because we're not having a proper, enormous, ethnically appropriate wedding. But I think I was charming enough that the small group attending will still like us when all is said and done. The worst thing anyone said to me while we were there was, "You smile too much." And that came from Mr. W's hilarious 7-year-old niece. So I think I'm in the clear.

The best thing anyone said was not actually to me. We were taking pictures with a group of friends and new acquaintances near the St. Louis arch, when one of the girls asked Mr. W if he could do a backflip across the street. He looked at her quizzically and answered, "No."

Then later she asked me if it made me nervous to date someone with such a dangerous job. Visual effects producer isn't exactly a risky profession... "Aren't you a stuntman?" the girl asked Mr. W. And using my PR skills, I held myself up instead of rolling on the ground, laughing at her mistake. The only stunts Mr. W ever pulls usually involve a fly swatter or high-jump to reach a piece of fruit in his fig tree. (Oh, but he's very very macho. Don't get me wrong.)

When asked if the bar in St. Louis was different from bars in LA, I took the opportunity to explain that LA has many pockets and a wide variety of hangout spots. We are not crazy, $30-for-a-beer, hoity toity animals out here, people. We are just like the rest of you.

During the second leg of our tour, in Tampa, I did my best to prove the worthiness of my engagement to Mr. W's mom and stepdad. I shared pictures of the bridesmaid dresses, my own dress, the reception venue. I commended his proposal. I made jokes about how I'd always let Mr. W be the boss in the relationship. And on our second night, his parents toasted me as a new addition to the family.

It's hard work convincing so many people that you're an ok gal. Thank goodness my Communications degree required some PR studies...

Goal Keeping

2010-09-28T16:18:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure when the lists-making first started. May have been college. Or even high school. But for many years now, I've been documenting my evolving life goals in journals and on notepads.

It's fun to look back and see what mattered to me when I was 19 or 25 or 31. Some things haven't changed (travel and writing) some things have melted into nebulous blobs of uncertainty (children). Some things—like "meet the man of my dreams in the next six months"—just make me shake my head and smile. Some goals just can't be tethered to a time line.

This is what I told Mr. Wonderful when he approached me recently, suggesting that we make a list of all that we want to accomplish after we're married. He thought we should break it down into one-year, 3-year, 5-year and 10-year categories, but that seemed a bit too strict to me. After all, we really have no idea where we'll be in 3 years. We could be living in Barcelona. Or I could be a famous author. We could discover a new varietal of wine grape. The possibilities are endless, really.

So Mr. W drafted a big long list of places he wanted us to visit and things he wanted us to do, and emailed it to me yesterday for my input.

I thought long and hard. I mentally scanned the globe, adding exotic destinations to the travel list. I contemplated my career goals. Thought through the things that mattered in terms of my health and upcoming marriage. And then I remembered the list of To-Do's-Before-40 that my girlfriends and I made on our 30th birthdays.

The only two points that were still etched in my memory from that missing list were 1) Eat an oyster shooter and 2) Go to a topless beach. So I added them to Mr. W's draft.

I also felt compelled to reorganize some of his line items that I knew we might actually accomplish in the next year. Visit the Amalfi coast, Capri, Naples and Rome (this is our honeymoon plan). Do more stretching and more cardio. Get back to cooking one new dish a month. Plant a more plentiful garden. Organize the house properly after I move in.

I sent it back to him and he replied later saying he had made a couple more adjustments and marked the type in red. Of course, there at the top of our One Year Goal List in glowing crimson were 1) Get Pumpkin to eat an oyster shooter and 2) Take Pumpkin to a topless beach.

Surprising? Of course not...

Shoe Bedazzle: Before and After

2010-09-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

I'm sure my male readers will really love this post...

When I started looking for wedding shoes, my main concern was comfort. Given that the shoes may not even make a single appearance during the evening (because they'll be hidden under my gahorgeous dress) it seemed silly to spend a lot of cash on super fancy footwear.

I wandered into DSW one day, and when I saw these cute comfy beigey-gold little slippers, I thought they might be exactly what I needed. I already had a pair like them in black—so I knew they were comfy. And it seemed like they could be easily embellished with elements that would match my jewelry and dress. (Plus they were only about $30. Score.)

I sewed one pearl on them above before deciding I might need to snap a pre-makeover picture. As you can see, they're sort of a brushed silk type fabric and are completely flat—which should help my dogs from barking too much at the end of our reception.

I used some leftover Swarovski pearls and crystals I'd purchased to make wedding jewelry (that's another post) and spent the evening sewing everything into place.

I think they turned out pretty cute, and will serve me and my toesies quite well on the dance floor!

Feeling Baaad about the Meat Eating

2010-09-22T15:28:00.000-07:00

Is it the height of hypocrisy to call yourself a carnivore and an animal lover? I certainly felt conflicted over the matter when I went to the Los Angeles County Fair this past weekend with Mr. Wonderful and Southern Belle. I had been looking forward the baby animals more than anything else—even the old-time western photos and the mariachi band. So I was delighted when our first stop turned out to be the petting zoo.

The pygmy goats are by far my favorite. Mr. W and I often joke about how we're going to have "kids" one day...but they'll be baby goats (Get it—"kids"? Knew you'd love that). They're like little puppies who jump all over you and want to play and eat your socks. So cute.

The black lamb reminded me of my 20lb. black cat. He also reminded me that I'm proud to be a non-baby-eater. That is, I won't eat any animal that's a baby. No veal. No lamb. No suckling pig. I've also pretty much taken duck and rabbit off my list. Those animals are pets to me, not food. The baby chicks made me feel pretty guilty about my poultry consumption...

And the ginormous pigs made me sad that I love bacon so much. And salami. And ham. Serrano and proscuitto. Pigs are really brilliant, sweet animals. It's a shame they taste so good. It seemed like a slap in the piggy face that right outside the petting zoo barn was a stand selling chocolate-dipped bacon churros. Do you think they know it's THEM cooking when they smell bacon?

We did cave and eat pulled pork sandwiches for lunch. I said a little mental prayer for forgiveness before chomping down on that delicious barbecued meat. Dessert, although more humane, was brutal by sheer volume. It might do my waistline some good to add the ice-cream-animal to my Do Not Eat list...

How to Make a Vase out of a Wine Bottle

2010-09-19T22:04:00.000-07:00

This may be the first of several peeks into the DIY activities of our wedding planning—and if you're not into DIY, I apologize for the boring post. If you like this kind of stuff, you'll love the degree of engineering Mr. Wonderful put forth to make it happen. Yet another reason he has earned that name.

A few months ago, I was on Etsy and I saw these. I thought they were so cute, and being the winos we are, Mr. W and I agreed it would be fun to try to incorporate something like them into our wedding decor. I loved the idea of using our favorite wines as the vases/table names so that people would look at their place cards and see "Melville Chardonnay" instead of "Table 8." Always up for a challenge, Mr. W started researching bottle cutting options. He tried the lighter fluid-soaked string approach. Then a tile saw. But this latest contraption really does the trick.

I have no idea how he figured out the best way to construct this little tool. I told him I want to enter it in the local elementary school's science fair. The bottom of the bottle rests on the rollers, and the opening fits on a (lubed with WD-40) rubber cork.

There's the bottle suctioned to the cork.

He then clamps a couple of blocks up against the bottom of the bottle to hold it in place as it spins on the wheels.

A simple glass cutter (you can get them at Home Depot for like $5) is then used to score the bottle at the point where we want it cut.

I don't know if the process really WAS easy or if he just made it look that way, but all he did was hold the cutter straight and spin the bottle on its rollers—and a perfect score line was made across the glass.

From there, we took the bottle to the kitchen where Mr. W had boiled some water and set up an ice bath. He poured the water directly over the score, then dunked it into the ice water. It took a couple rounds of this back-and-forth.

He tried pre-bathing the bottle before pouring the hot water on it, but that didn't seem to make the process any faster. You just kind of have to keep alternating between the hot and cold a few times.

Like magic, on about the 4th hot water pour, the bottle just sort of popped apart. No broken glass. No jagged edges. (The bottle above came out a tiny bit crooked, but the 3 he did before it were perfect). He plans to sand down the top of the vases with a dremel tool, so they're nice and smooth for the wedding. We think our guests will enjoy the little glimpse into what dazzles our vino-soaked palates.

Another Reason I Never Went to Law School

2010-09-16T10:38:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that I consider myself pretty intuitive and well-versed in human behavior and personality quirks, I have an uncanny knack for completely misjudging people.

Like about 50% of the time.

One of the designers I helped interview at work—who received my wholehearted endorsement—turned out to be the worst employee ever. Guys I've dated have gone from Wow-He's-Great to What-Was-I-Thinking in a matter of weeks. People who I've thought were delightfully friendly have turned out to be completely psychotic.

On the flipside, I've often written people off, only to discover later that they're awesome individuals. I couldn't stand my friend C when I met her. I thought she was a total know-it-all and I wanted nothing to do with her. Now she's one of my closest cohorts. And she's not the only person I decided I had nothing in common with, later realizing I was dead wrong.

Even when I first started corresponding with Mr. Wonderful, I was convinced he was some haughty Hollywood player who was only being nice to me because he wanted some action. How incredibly inaccurate my perception was...

It's dangerous, this flaw in my judgment. It causes me to turn over my trust to people who don't necessarily deserve it. And it pushes me to steer clear of people who could positively impact my life.

Maybe I shouldn't worry about this too much because it all usually works out in the end. Maybe my accurate judgment is just late-blooming. Like my bustline.

No Going Back Now

2010-09-14T21:12:00.000-07:00

In my college creative writing class, I wrote a short screenplay about a girl on her wedding day. Like Elaine in The Graduate, my bride ran out on her nuptials. My script was called, "Out the Window." You can figure out how she escaped... If memory serves correctly, my instructor enjoyed the story so much he read it aloud to the rest of the class.

At 21, I was enamored with the idea of getting married. But on some level, it also terrified me.

I knew I hadn't lived enough to take a committal step as large as matrimony. I knew that if I settled down at a young age, I would always wonder about all the things I had missed. I remember even being afraid that if I married my college boyfriend of 4.5 years, I might cheat or end up divorced.

When the Evil Ex first brought up the topic, asking me "what I would say if he proposed," I instinctively told him I would say yes after he finished fire department probation. I stalled. Again, I knew on some level that I wasn't ready. Or that he wasn't right.

I have never felt this way with Mr. Wonderful. Only a few weeks into dating him, I had a dream that he popped the question. In my dream, I thought—"This feels pretty fast, but it also feels SO right." It's so amazing not to be afraid. Finally.

Last night we sent out save-the-date emails to most of our guest list. We have a website. This thing is official. There's no going back. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Fiancehood Fine Print

2010-09-09T12:35:00.001-07:00

Apparently I didn't read the terms of my ring acceptance carefully enough. If I had, I might've noticed the line in there about how, upon getting engaged, Mr. Wonderful would become bossier. Like to the point that I've had to say, "Dude, you're not the boss of me" many times over.

A few weeks ago, I went to wash my face before bed and my washcloth was missing. "Did you take my washcloth?" I asked him.

"I smelled it and it was musty."

"You smelled my washcloth?"

He nodded.

I'm sure the washcloth was fine. I'd only used it a couple of times. It's not like there was toxic black mold sprouting up all over it. He could've at least asked before throwing it into the hamper...

Last weekend when we were driving to the beach to see Foodie and Preggerington, Mr. W misdirected me on the freeway then insisted that I pull over so he could drive. Of course, once he was behind the wheel he nearly missed the interchange we were supposed to take... Ha! Take that Captain Driver's Seat!

When I told him I was staying up last night to work on wedding invitations, he told me if he were there with me, he would drag me to bed. I pictured him in a fur loincloth carrying a big club and pulling me across the carpet by my ponytail.

If he were here right now, he'd probably tell you that I've been bossier toward him, too. Like when I told him I was going to do monthly inspections on the garage after we cleaned it out. (You have no idea what kind of brain damage a person can incur after sorting 9,435,687 different nails and screws for 2 hours). Or the way I picked out his shirt for our family portrait this past weekend.

The difference between us, though, is that he has great ways to retaliate. He gives me the "Yes, ma'am" a lot which drives me crazy. And the shirt incident caused him to call me by my mother's name. Not that there's anything wrong with that, Mom... My retaliation? "Dude, you're not the boss of me."

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful life of power struggles...

Strangers with Comments

2010-09-08T11:33:00.000-07:00

A friend who I once worked with in advertising has a fantastic blog that I love to read. She's always writing really inspiring, moving posts. And I cannot help but comment on them. Actually, I can't help but comment on most of my friends' and readers' blogs. I want to let you all know I'm listening. I hear you. I relate to you. You're not alone. And you should keep on trudging through if you're stuck in thick mud.

Apparently, some people don't subscribe to this way of thinking. One of the guys who reads my friend's blog, dedicated an entire post to me—and how my continual, perky attitude annoys the pants off of him every time he sees one of my comments. Unfortunately, he took said post down after I commented on it. Perhaps it was a test just to see if, as usual, I'd have something to say.

When I started this blog nearly 3 years ago, I didn't know how things worked in this space. I didn't know whether it was cool to chime in or better to keep your mouth shut. But then I sort of fell into a wonderful circle. I noticed the same people writing responses on each other's posts again and again. And the next thing I knew, they were commenting on my posts. This led to lots of really insightful, meaningful offline conversations—and several meetups with new friends.

The comments I receive from all of you usually light me up. Sure, I can count a handful of remarks that made me seethe. But for the most part, the things people have to say make me think. Make me smile. Make me want to keep writing. And because of that, I want to pay the kindness forward to other writers.

Do I dole out tough love on occasion? Totally. Do I harass people? Mostly only Brett. But that's out of love. I never intentionally try to hurt people or put them down. I try to find the bright side—and send goodness their way with words. Apparently to some, that makes me too chipper and irritating.

When I was in high school, I did try out for cheerleading. I did not make it. Instead, I became a writer/editor for my yearbook. I guess those to paths weren't as opposing as I once thought.

This Cheese Stands Alone

2010-09-07T14:30:00.001-07:00

In the hills of Hollywood, nothing says labor like a little Labor Day cheese-making. That's right, kids: Mr. Wonderful and I attempted to make cheese this weekend. It could have been the delicious buffalo mozzarella we shared with two of our favorite friends, Foodie and her sister Mrs. Preggerington, Saturday night. We joined these lovely ladies at their beach house and had a make-your-own-pizza night. Mr. W and Foodie exchanged some fighting words about which preparation methods were correct. And although Mr. W pulled the "I used to work in a pizzeria" card, I think Foodie may have turned out to be the better dough spreader.

But back to the cheese. So yes, likely in an effort to dazzle me, Mr. W purchased a cheese-making kit online. Its packaging sung an alluring story about how you could create everything from ricotta to cheddar to Parmesan, but we settled on mozzarella because it was one of the faster recipes. As you can see, Mr. W worked diligently, heating the milk to just the right temperature—first on the stove and then in a hot water bath.

I drank wine and watched carefully over his shoulder. There is only one domestic goddess in this relationship. And he really prefers to be called "Kitchen Boy." Or "Cookie McHotpants."

The whole process was WAY more complicated than either of us realized. And we didn't even have the citric acid or whatever sort of crazy curdling element you need whence making cheese—so we had to use lemon juice. And we sort of guessed on the amount to add... Nice curds, huh?

Because I was drinking wine (a delightful Caymus Cabernet, btw) the details of Mr. W's endeavors aren't totally crystal clear to me. I tried to document the process, but looking at the pictures now I'm not exactly sure what's happening. I think we put the curds back in the whey (above) and then like squished them together while also trying to stretch them out. Except they wouldn't really stretch...

So in the end we had mozzarella balls that you could pretty much bounce on the floor. They tasted okay...sort of like solidified whole milk. I don't know how real cheese-makers produce that cheesy flavor, but Mr. W and I certainly didn't do it. We may give this process another whirl to see if we can get it right with whatever that creepy acid ingredient is...or we may just keep hitting the refrigerator section of Trader Joe's.

The Grind

2010-09-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

Up to this point, I have had exactly 11 jobs. I've been a nanny, a freelance writer, a cashier at the Hallmark store, a doctor's office file clerk—even an aid at a Korean tutoring center. But the position that seems to stick with me the very most is coffee barista.

When I realized the Korean tutoring center wasn't my cup of tea, I interviewed at a local coffeehouse—hoping espresso was more my taste. I was 18. Naive. Just starting college. I had no idea that this job would shape me and impact me forever.

I know, I know. I'm a writer. The jobs that should've changed my life are the ones that helped me hone my craft. But those jobs didn't force me out of my shell the way the coffee job did.

I started out there trying to control flustered blushing attacks that sent me running to the kitchen (particularly when a hot guy would approach the counter). It was my first time having to manage people. First time employing PR skills to smooth over customer upsets. I'd never actually made a cup of coffee, let alone a double latte with soy milk and a shot of vanilla. And I'd never really had to schmooze.

I grew during my 4+ years at the shop. I came out of my shell and got so deep in the processes of the business, I almost felt like I could've run the place. When I was weeks away from graduating, one of my regular customers said, "I would buy this place if you'd stay here and be in charge of it." I was flattered, but I knew I wanted to fry some other fish...

Of all the jobs I've held, the coffeehouse gig is the only one I dream about on a regular basis. Just about every two months, I'm back behind that counter, straining to remember prices or drink recipes. Just this week, I dreamed I was trying to make a cappuccino. I clicked a serving of espresso grounds into the banger (I can't remember if that's what it's actually called) and was trying to level it off so I could insert it into the machine, but I just ended up making a big mess. I'm sure this is wholly indicative of some area of my life right now. Trying so hard, but can't quite get it right.

I wonder how long my coffee dreams will haunt me. If, when I'm an old lady, I'll still be thinking about my go-to greeting, "Hi, what can I get for you today?" Sometimes I wonder if I'll someday be beside an espresso machine again. Maybe in Napa or Florence. Only this time, I won't hide in the back when the handsome Italian men want to come in and woo me as I steam their milk...

Good Things to Come

2010-08-26T21:05:00.001-07:00

Wednesday night, Mr. Wonderful sent me a picture of our cluster of newborns. We love dreaming about the vineyard we'll live on one day, with goats and chickens roaming about and a small production of chardonnay or pinot noir growing in neat rows.

It's hard to stay focused on the present when there are so many things to look forward to.

As I drove down Franklin Avenue in Hollywood this week, I watched a chic hipster girl walking her dog in sunglasses and earbuds. "Am I going to be that girl when I move here?" I wondered. I can't wait to call myself a citizen of Tinseltown.

I cannot wait to cohabitate with Mr. W and I cannot wait to marry him.

But I know that this time right now should be cherished. I need to slow down and be in these moments of puzzle-piecing anticipation. How are we going to make everything fit together for our special day? I should be enjoying the process like love of the game.

I sort of forgot this for a little while. Then I was making an appointment to go look at bridesmaid dresses this weekend and the woman on the phone said, "Are you the bride?" I am the bride. I had almost forgotten.

Tonight Mr. W and I met with our officiant. I researched a variety of people online, and as soon as I got to her website, I just felt like she was it. There was an energy about her that came off the page, and her site was peppered with pro-gay marriage messages, which was exactly what I wanted. Sitting in the coffeeshop with her tonight, I got teary as she walked us through the vows she had prepared. Like the moment I tried on my dress and remembered: I'm getting married. This isn't a race to the perfectly planned party. It's a single season in my life that I'll only experience once. So I'm going to be much more careful about enjoying it.

204 days to go until The Big Day. I'll try to tackle each one slowly.

Where'd My Gouda Go?

2010-08-24T17:04:00.000-07:00

When I was in my twenties, a coworker bought my mom the book Who Moved My Cheese. I remember thinking it was...well...a cheesy book, but I read it anyway—just to see what all the hype was about.

It's a funny little parable that follows miniature people and a couple of mice as they carry out life in a giant maze. One day, the cheese they subsist on is moved. The mice quickly begin exploring uncharted parts of the maze to find new cheese, and the people wander around whining. Every day, they go back to the spot where the cheese used to be and lament the fact that it's not there anymore.

How many times have we all done this in relationships?

You have a friendship that was once supportive and fun and then one day turns into a cat-and-mouse game of flaky unresponsiveness. You call and email and expect she'll turn back into her old self, but the brie you once shared is gone. Yet you find yourself trying and trying to get it back...

Or you have a boyfriend who courted the spanx off you in the beginning and then turns into a cold, inconsiderate stranger who on some level you know you shouldn't be with—but you keep trying to get him to be his old self again. The attentive, nice guy who made your manchego melt. No matter how much you try, though, he won't change his ways.

It's funny how we'll go through the same steps a million times and expect that maybe *just this one time* things will be different. But even if you get your one time of difference, isn't it almost a given that at some point you'll end up in the same cycle you were in before?

We hang on to that 10% of goodness—when 90% is lacking—fully hoping by some miracle that we'll suddenly get 100% of our precious Parmesan back.

But the truth is that the cheese is gone. And no matter how much we shake our fists or cry about how things should be different, they are not. And the best we can do is move down a different corridor of the maze and see if we can find something new to sustain us.

Seamless in Seattle

2010-08-22T21:42:00.001-07:00

Last week, Mr. Wonderful and I set out to explore two hotspots in the Pacific Northwest. When we discovered that Mr. W had never been to Seattle and I'd never been to Vancouver, BC (or Canada at all for that matter) we knew we needed to plan a trip.

My goodness, what beautiful cities they both were.

During my trip to Seattle 7 or 8 years ago, I stayed with friends and didn't really stop to appreciate the full lay of the land. The thing that struck me about the city this time (and Vancouver too, actually) was just how well-thought and cohesive everything was. You can walk everywhere. There's art everywhere. And beautiful architecture. There's public transportation and coffeeshops and interesting boutiques on every block. It's convenient. And it's amazingly clean.

On the Seattle Underground Tour, we learned that the city wasn't always like this. Apparently the founders of Seattle initially built everything on top of sawdust from the local mill, causing it all to sink after while. They made a few more attempts—at one point elevating the streets above the shops and sidewalks, so people had to climb up and down ladders to switch levels—but failed until they finally made a vow to "do it all the right way." And do right they did.

In addition to the general chicness of the city, Mr. W and I got to have dinner with the eternally hilarious, charming and chic Miss Sizzle and her Mr. Darcy. We went to a great wine bar/restaurant called The Purple Cafe, filling our tummies with cheese and pork medallions and beef tenderloin and chocolate. That Sizzle has great taste! What a fun night.

When we drove to Vancouver Saturday morning, I was again blown away by just how consistent and well planned the cityscape was. LA isn't like that. It's patch-worky and mixed up; there are trash and hoodlums on the streets, with pockets of greatness tucked between freeways and strip malls. Don't get me wrong: I love LA. I love its mini-metropolises and its suburbs. I love downtown and Hollywood and Pasadena. It would just be really cool if everything felt like it was designed with a plan in mind. Like it all went together. Like it was meant to have people traveling its streets (not in bumper-to-bumper traffic).

Even the food in Vancouver was impressively orchestrated. We went to a sushi-esque restaurant and they delivered a full forest-like set piece to our table with our sashimi attached. That takes some brain power and nimble fingers. By the way, the fish was fantastic. I had my first few mussels there. Wow. Seriously delicious.

At various points, Mr. W and I both said to each other, "I could probably live here." He's lived in Vancouver before, so it wasn't a huge stretch. And I think the gorgeous weather probably influenced our opinions quite a bit.

But as much as I loved both of our stops, I felt a sense of relief when we returned back to the stifling streets of Burbank this afternoon. They may be lined with bits of litter and big commercial retail chains, but they lead the way home.

Coming to a Theater Near You

2010-08-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me recently that all the carefully planned elements of a wedding come together to create more of a stage production than an intimate exchange of promises by two people. Sure, you can arrange it so there's just the two of you, vowing to love for a lifetime. But most traditional weddings today are so much more about costumes, stage cues and set decor. Some are unabashedly about the spectacle of it all (I've been watching too many episodes of My Fair Wedding with David Tutera).

Even just thinking about the fact that someone "backstage" will have to start a wedding march before I can walk out seems weird to me when I stop and think about it. There's so much choreography that I just never noticed.

I guess any moron would have realized that events requiring rehearsals are productions of some sort—but again, I'd never really thought about this.

It's kind of strange. Who are we doing it all for? Do the people we love really care what we're wearing and whether our first dance is timed correctly between cocktails and dinner? Or do they care only that we've found a match and are taking a committed step forward together?

I honestly don't know the answer. And I'm too far deep into it now to really even start this line of questioning. But it seems odd when I stop and consider it.

Hot Depot

2010-08-17T17:35:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if it's just a little known secret...or if it's just me...but going to Home Depot with the man in your life is a total aphrodisiac.

I first experienced the HDE (Home Depot Effect) back in 2004. I had a mad crush on this guy and when he asked me if I wanted to run to Home Depot with him after our lunch date, a strange sense of excitement flooded my system. There was something incredibly sexy about watching him pick brackets or anchors or whatever he was getting out of those little cardboard boxes.

He was going to build something. And that was hot.

I suppose this is all akin to the classic Chip 'N' Dale's construction worker stripper. All burly and tough, with nothing but a tool belt between you and his hammer. He could totally come over to your house and lift heavy stuff or saw something in half or replace that broken stair on your back patio. He is capable. And that makes him hot. Surely he has spent many an hour at Home Depot.

Now that I've been dating a do-it-yourselfer for 2.75 years, you'd think that maybe the HDE would be wearing off a little. But it's not. There's just something about that place. When Mr. Wonderful tells me he needs to go buy stain, a paintbrush and caulk, I jump at the chance to go with him (and make about 10 million jokes about the last thing on his list, because how could I not?).

I watch his handsome shoulders twist as he reaches up to palm the face of a wood plank. I grab a little curl on his head as he bends down to look through tile edging. I have to resist the urge to make out with him in the paint swatch aisle. It's all very romantic.

I think Home Depot is missing out on a really important demographic in their advertising: Women who think it's hot to see guys buying stuff at a home improvement store. Maybe I could try to pitch them on a new ad campaign...

Sorry Ladies, This Charmer's All Mine

2010-08-11T16:58:00.000-07:00

Saturday night, Mr. Wonderful and I were getting ready for bed when I started to feel a little slap-happy. He was brushing his teeth when I made a funny face and smooshed my boobs together, mustering as much cleavage as I could by sliding my biceps along the sides of my chest.

"Looks like two hamburger patties," he said.

"What?"

"Hamburger..."

"You're telling me that my boobs look like flat little patties of ground meat?"

"Well..."

"Dude! No way to win over a woman!"

"I meant more like hamburger buns."

"Uhh..."

"And not just any old hamburger buns but like the big ones you buy at Costco."

"You're not really making it better."

I know, all the female readers are crushed that he's taken...

With This Ring, I Thee Stress

2010-08-09T13:12:00.000-07:00

Tired of reading wedding posts yet?

I'm beginning to think that planning a wedding is a lot like having children. There are all sorts of magical moments that will forever be tucked in your memory—but most of the time, your life is coated in a fine glaze of stress. Like a low-grade fever. And every now and then, it spikes.

Like any good fever, this one has been causing me to have all sorts of crazy dreams. Last night, I was seeing fonts and invitation designs. And Mr. Wonderful and I were trying to design a poster or something for the wedding. I've also been to ill-fated dress fittings, gotten un-removable lotion gunked up in my ring and even had all the guests show up on the wrong day while I've been lingering in slumberland.

You should see the dark circles under my eyes...

The worst dreams, though, are the pure stress manifestation dreams. Like the one I had last Thursday night. First I hit a gravel patch while driving and my car tipped over and crashed. Then, when I was trying to call for help, my cell phone kept breaking. I couldn't reach anyone. Finally, I walked to a diner alongside the highway and while I was there trying to fix my phone, my purse got stolen. Hello, worst-case-scenario dreamer!

My coworker taught me this anxiety-relieving technique where you tap your index fingers against your clavicle and think the word "calm." I think I clavicle tapped like 15 times this weekend. Fortunately, it seems to work in the moment.

Although my waking life has had some rollercoaster climbs and drops, I've managed to squeeze in some fun around the planning. This weekend I bought a bunch of supplies to make wedding jewelry. And I bought some cute little ballet flats that I think I'll embellish with Swarovski pearls and crystals to match the jewelry. I also bought our guestbook and customized it to match our invitations. All the crafty, DIY stuff is what I live for.

And the rest? Well, I'm hoping it turns out sort of like childbirth and that after some years, the memory of the pain will mellow, and all the who's and what's and day-to-day stresses will linger in my mind as hazy, sweet, sentimental experiences. Maybe by then I'll have stopped dreaming about them, too.

For the Love of Aloneness

2010-08-05T17:50:00.000-07:00

I love this blogger. Love this post. Love the video she found to go with it. Check it out:
http://aftertheartistsway.blogspot.com/2010/08/day-214-sacredness-of-alone-time.html

A Big Day for Equality

2010-08-04T21:54:00.000-07:00

I am so lucky.

Not just because I met the man of my dreams, but because I know beyond a doubt that I will be allowed to marry him. I have that right.

And knowing now the excitement and gratitude that come with having a wedding on the horizon, I feel even more strongly that everyone should have that right. Sexual orientation should not disqualify you.

When I heard the news today that a federal judge in San Francisco overturned Prop 8 for being unconstitutional, I was ecstatic. I immediately started IMing my gay friends—one of whom was crying at his desk at work. I hope very much that this repeal sticks. But either way, it's progress we need.

Progress that's deserved for anyone who is in love like I am.

I Fought the Dress and the Dress Won

2010-08-02T17:48:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon I went to another bridal salon. I'd made peace with the fact that I might need to stretch my budget a few hundred, and I was trying to be open-minded about styles because you just never know what might look good on you. That said, some of my cynicism still lingered. It's just a stupid piece of clothing that you wear one day of your life.

Our salesgirl was delightful, chatting me up as she clamped me into over-sized gowns while my mom, sister and niece waited outside on the couch. The first dress elicited gasps and doe eyes from my relatives. Even I was taken aback at how beautiful it was. And it fit me in a way I'm not sure any other dress has in my life (in terms of the lines, not the clamps).

Dress #2 was also gorgeous. Again, the family swooned when I walked out to show them.

I tried on 5 or 6 more, each stunning in their own way...but the first two were the clear winners. I had a choice to make. Suddenly I was invested in this whole dress business.

I put on the first dress again and this time our lovely salesgirl brought me a veil. She attached it to the crown of my head as I stood on one of the seamstress floor-risers. My mom and sister were behind me, fanning out the train. I looked at myself. I looked at my family. And then without any warning, I burst into tears.

NEVER would I have predicted this would happen to me. I am the jaded bride. Not the weepy one. But there I was, overflowing with this feeling of rightness and joy that THIS was the gown for me.

The tears were such a surprise—totally unexpected. I realize now that it could have been the reality of the entire situation setting in, in a single moment. I'm marrying Mr. Wonderful. I'm going to walk down an aisle toward him and make lifelong promises. And for whatever reason, I could see myself doing it in THAT dress.

I thought I would be happy just to check the darn dress shopping off my list. But now, like a big schmoopy chick, I'm happy that I bought a dress I absolutely love.

Could Care Less about the Dress

2010-07-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

You guys, I think I want to wear sweats to my wedding. Bedazzled sweats, you know, to be fancy.

Amidst all the pre-planning research I did, never did I peruse dresses. Actually, that's not true. I may have flipped through a magazine or two at Barnes & Noble and all I could think was, wow these all look the same.

For a lot of women, the dress is THE THING. It makes the wedding. It's the piece of the puzzle they want to snap into place most. I know this because I watch TLC's Say Yes to the Dress just about every week. Tears are shed. Budgets are blown. Diets are declared. It's like the wedding is their one and only chance to be PERFECT.

Well, I hate to break it to Mr. Wonderful but I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to be a princess. I don't want to try on 231 dresses before finding "the one" that makes me spontaneously burst into tears. Only to get packed up in a box and shoved in a closet for 30 years or eternity.

I tried on about 8 dresses last week and none of them really stirred me. They were all lovely. Several of them fit well. And a couple made my friend and family members gasp, "That looks stunning."

Mostly, they just made me shrug and raise my eyebrows.

I'm not sure if I just don't know what I'm looking for, or if I really don't care. But this whole dress-finding task feels like So Much Work. I just want to check it off my list. Get it over with.

I already found the perfect groom. Do I really have to find the ideal dress?