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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.