Bridal bonehead
I had to prove that I was legally divorced before I was allowed to obtain a marriage license.
If there was such a thing as a bridal license requiring proof of girlyness, the people at town hall would still be pointing and laughing, and I would be all out of luck.
Today I grabbed a friend and spend the day pretty much trying to finish up all of the wedding-related things that required tending to. Along the way I learned that I am lacking a basic gene, the one all women are supposed to have, the one that causes a female to care deeply about every aspect of her wedding day.
It’s not that I don’t care about the MARRIAGE. I care—deeply—about that. It’s the actual wedding itself where I’ve ceased to have strong opinions. read more…
This post typed with pruney fingertips
I’ve spent the entire evening cleaning my house. I have a horrible crick in my neck from clutching the phone with my shoulder so as to have my nightly call with Otto with changing bed sheets and scrubbing bathrooms. My fingers are all slightly burned from the toxic magic that is the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I have dusted in the far corners and the shoes have all been lined up.
We dropped the price on the house. I have two showings tomorrow. As I have recently decided that I shall lose my ever-lovin’ mind if the house isn’t under contract before the wedding, my hopes are neurotically high. If there are no bites after this weekend I plan to import someone whose house sold, like, the second she put it on the market and suck all of the good house-selling karma out of her by any means necessary. As Susan is unlikely to be down with that plan, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. read more…
Love comes from Planet L
My children are having a rather boring vacation week. I’ve been working all hours for the last couple of weeks, wedding planning is coming down to the wire (who told me the worry ended with shoe selection? THEY LIED), we’re still keeping the house clean ’round the clock in case anyone wants to stop by and buy it (would you like to buy it? it’s… house-y!) and it just isn’t a great time to schedule some Big Fun.
Add this to my already towering pile of mommy-guilt, I guess. So far the most exciting part of vacation week has been the Unlimited Popsicle clause. Basically, for $2.99 I’ve bought myself a pretty good chunk of uninterrupted work time. Because the only rule about popsicles is that you have to eat them OUTSIDE. Here, kids; have another one. read more…
I would not like fries with that
Operation Plan A Little Wedding That’s Not A Big Hairy Deal has officially failed, I think.
Today I made a phone call to Ireland, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice, and recited my name and order number and politely pointed out that I ordered Otto’s wedding ring three weeks ago and could they perhaps tell me when it might be arriving, or maybe just send me some valium in the meantime? But it was all good, because it turns out that Otto’s ring had just come up from the workshop (where it was presumably forged by dozens of underpaid leprechauns) this morning, and will be shipping out tomorrow. No worries there.
No, the ring won’t be a problem. The problem is that—as it stands at this moment—I think we’re all going to have to drive through Wendy’s for chicken nuggets after the ceremony. Frostys for everyone! read more…
Goats gone wild!
I cannot stop with the goats. Goats, goats, everywhere. My hair is like a flock of goats, and my children, they are like a herd of goats. I was surveying the state of my house this evening and didn’t feel even a little guilty about accusing them of being a herd of goats. Actually, that may be slightly insulting to goats.
I’m pretty sure that goats eat EVERYTHING, so if they were TRULY goats, instead of eight empty cups and two pop-tart wrappers and assorted popsicle sticks being strewn across my family room, they would just eat it all and leave the area tidy. That might be good. (But then they’d probably also poop on the floor, and thank goodness we’re past that stage.)
Because do you KNOW what this week is? That’s RIGHT! It’s SPRING BREAK WEEK! Because it was such hard work having almost no school LAST week on account of all the flooding! So we are enjoying much more family togetherness than I think I can handle. read more…
Too short and just right
For those of you keeping score at home, there are now less than three weeks remaining before The Big Day. (I am referring, of course, to my first manicure in a dozen years. Truly a cause for celebration.)
So, after our difficulty securing the desired plane tickets, Otto rearranged his life so that he could be here this weekend, and then we also went ahead and bought his plane tickets for the wedding weekend. Because it would really suck to get everyone together only to hear the pastor say, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today for a wedding that’s been postponed because the airlines have jacked up the prices again.” Not that you would be able to hear him, over my cursing sobbing. read more…
That southern humidity
Houston, we have a marriage license.
Tonight we’re poring over bible verses and restaurants and flower options, and although I heartily believe that love is patient and love is kind, I refuse to have 1st Corinthians read during our ceremony. Just because. I think I’ve heard it at every wedding I’ve ever been to, including my own.
But I don’t believe I’ve actually heard Song of Solomon read at a wedding, even though it’s listed as a popular selection.
It was while we were shoulder to shoulder, looking up bible verses on the computer, beholding Song of Solomon that I realized we are completely, utterly, and perfectly matched.
Me: My hair is like a flock of goats!
Otto: Really? My hair is like A Flock of Seagulls.
Too annoyed for titles
I live at Panera now. As I’m unable to complete my work at home with my COMCASTIC internet (non)service, I’ve decided to just throw in my lot with the baristas and sandwich-makers. It’s gotta beat spending one or two hours every day on the phone with the nice, polite people in Canada who don’t know anything “aboot” the fact that my local technician center is manned by mentally-impaired toddler yaks.
This morning at 4:30 (I got up early to work, you know, hoping my COMCASTIC internet was back on, SILLY ME) the nice Canadian at Comcast who HAS internet service listened to my tale and admitted that the service I have received is—and I quote—“positively shameful.”
But do I have service? No, I do not.
But I do have a basement full of water.
And a 9-year-old recovering from gum surgery.
And a really big cup of coffee to go with my current murderous rage.
Otto will be here in a few hours (finally) and I will ignore him all weekend so I can do all the work I’ve not been able to do this week. It’ll be good practice for being married, right? HA. HAHAHA.
Kill. Me.
Love requires creative interpretation
I gave Chickadee one of these
underwater closed.
Chickadee was kind enough to allow her brother to participate, and the only thing I love more than the giggles in the clip below the fold here is Monkey’s response when told to “say something intelligent.” Prepare to be stunned by my children’s brilliance and maturity. (Also, by my excellent parenting. If you listen closely, you can hear me calling from the next room. “Are you done eating? If you’re not done eating, stop screwing around!”) read more…
Halfway there, still my baby
Tonight I made two dozen cupcakes with PINK frosting, because it HAS to be PINK, and no, it could not be the convenient can of STRAWBERRY frosting, it needs to be BUTTERCREAM. Pink buttercream. With sprinkles. Flower-shaped sprinkles.
The cupcakes in question are for school tomorrow, assuming that there IS school tomorrow, which is not a foregone conclusion, you know, because we haven’t had school yet this week. (In fact, I’m having a bit of deja vu, although fortunately this time I am enjoying the periodic glugging of my sump pump rather than bailing out my basement.) But you assured me that there WOULD be school tomorrow, because you need to bring in your cupcakes. read more…