And You May Ask Yourself, Well How Did I Get Here? (Probably By Using GPS)

Apologies for my lack of posting. However. I am now less than 4 days away from my first dress fitting. I have eaten barely anything that qualifies as healthy in the last 7 days (unless perhaps pureed carrots with a stick of butter might be healthy? No? Stuffing? No? Pumpkin cheesecake? *sigh*) and I am sipping a glass of two-day old Zinfandel that Mr F actually stuck in the fridge last night and which now tastes like well, refrigerated red wine (which is crap). But that's not even the tip of the iceberg. That would be because I'm sitting at the kitchen table with four boxes of invitations which I am numbering, stuffing and stamping. Alone. (Not to mention that my wine glass isn't even within reach because I'm too nervous that I'll tip it over on the stupid invites, so I've placed it on on the counter - which is a good four feet from the kitchen table - and thus requires that I get up each time I want to take a sip).

Why so surly about sitting home stuffing envelopes (for the third night in a row) and drinking cold red wine? Well, besides the obvious, if you recall (which you probably don't, because this isn't the saga of your life, it's the saga of mine), I was not supposed to be the one to deal with the invites. That was supposed to be My Mother.

And so how did I end up with these little paper cut-inducing bastards sitting on my kitchen table and keeping me apart from my dear (cold) red wine?

Well, it all started with the hotel direction card inserts that I needed to put into the invitations (according to Mom obviously). I couldn't care less about direction card inserts. Honestly, everyone Google Maps everything or more likely, has GPS. So who cares? Well, apparently my Mom does. So I called the venue where I'm having the reception and they told me that they have direction cards already made up that I can use. So before heading on the road to go home for Thanksgiving (chock full of traffic), we swing by the venue and pick up the cards.

Once I get home to my parents' place in NJ, I take a peek at the invitations (which I love by the way) and my Dad turns to me and says: "Mom says you want to make sure that you number the back of the response cards."

Uhm, what?

"Dad, I think you must have heard wrong. Mom said that you guys will actually be taking care of the invitations. Which is why YOUR address is on the back of the cards. Right?"

My Dad looks confused (and scared - possibly because he could see the Devil in my eyes - which must be scary for a parent). "I don't know. You should talk to your Mother about this."

When my Mom came home later, I pounced. "I thought YOU GUYS were doing the invitations! Dad said I'm doing them! And that you said that I need to put numbers on the back. I can't! I have too much to do!"

Mom looked at me like I was someone she did not recognize (though more likely she was thinking about whether she could trade me in for a better, nicer version of a daughter), before responding: "What I meant was that we would do them together this weekend. And that 'we' needed to put numbers on the back."

Hmmm. I didn't know if I could trust this strained explanation. But like a hostage who can only get by on the hope that they will someday be free, I believed her.

The weekend passed. We ate turkey. Drank tequila. (No really - it was quite a Thanksgiving.)And I ate everything put in front of me and well as the contents of the fridge, the pantry, and the local pizza parlor.

Well times flies when you're sleeping in a twin bed and chugging the contents of your parents' liquor stash (it's not really a cabinet, more a grouping of bottles on the floor of the coat closet), and next thing we know, it's time for Mr F and I to go home. In an hour. Of course, the invitations never got done.

So I go downstairs to mention this to my Mom and we pull out the box with the invites. (Which look AWESOME by the way. Did I mention that? Yes, I did. But I love them! Sorry, but I need to dwell on the positive instead of what's coming next, which is....)

I pull out the direction cards that I picked up before we came home and look at them for the first time. Hmmm. Well this is....interesting. Apparently the "direction cards" don't. Actually. Provide. Directions. They just have a little map of the building with the name of the two streets adjacent to it. Perhaps helpful for someone intimately familiar with Baltimore, but not so much for pretty much anyone else. And since 90% of our guests are coming from places that are not Baltimore, this is not helpful. How can anyone in good conscience call this a "direction card?"

I turn to my Mom and show it to her, suggesting that we just forgo the direction card since everyone will figure it out by Googling the address (or they could call me, or my Mom, or Mr F, or they could call the hotel, which is where they are likely staying; or they could look at the Save the Date, which also had the info; or our website, which also...you guessed it...has the information!). So I feel good about skipping the directions.

Apparently, my Mom does not. She is aghast. "You must include directions."

Well, ok then. It's apparently been decided.

"Sooooo....." I began, "how do you want to deal with this? Do you want to just add on the website with a label to the bottom of this card? Or I guess we could just make an all-new card?"

My Mom is silent. (For once.)

More silence.

"Mom?"

"Honey, I'm not good with labels and stuff like that."

This is the point where I realized we could back and forth. I could ask her why she can't just do this herself and go to Kinko's to get printed directions on a new card; I could make the astute observation that it's ridiculous that her name is on the back as the "return address" (i.e., the address it originally came from) if she's not the one sending it out. I could snarkily comment that I secretly suspected she would never take care of this herself no matter what the direction cards looked like. I could remind her how I don't care about the direction cards, but she does, so really it's silly that I'm going to lug them across four states to do them myself when I'm also taking care of every other single thing to do with this wedding. I could say all of these things and indeed, I could say many more. But I can't fight anymore. Perhaps it was the post-Thanksgiving tryptophan kicking in, but I'm just tired. And I know that in the end I'm going to end up stuffing the damn invitations on my own anyway.

So instead I just sighed. And said, "Fine. I'll just do it."

She handed me over the giant cardboard box. I pretended my Mom was handing me a box full of chocolate cake, a bottle of 20-year tawny port, and the first three seasons of "Sex & The City" on DVD. I skip to the car. Until I remember my cardboard box is not filled with these gluttonous goodies. It's filled with heavy, expensive paper. That is not edible. I shove the box in the backseat.

And now I'm sitting at my kitchen table. On phase three of a multi-phase stuffing system. And very far away from finishing. And sadder yet, even further away from my very cold, very sub-par wine.

To The Beanpole Dames In The Magazines, You Ain't It, Miss Thang.

I got a surprising call while I was at work the other day. Although, as a general matter, I try to avoid answering my cell during work hours since odds are great that it's my Mother or Future-Mother-in-Law and thus, sure only to upset me, I had a moment of temporary insanity and just picked up the phone without thinking.



Much to my delight it was neither of My Two Moms, but my bridal shop, calling to inform me that my Dress (yes, with a Capital "D," entitled thereto for the extra Dollars it costs) had arrived. This was indeed a surprise because they had previously informed me not to expect the Dress until January because I ordered it so late. (Don't judge - some people just don't get "The Feeling That It's The Dress" and instead these people just try on dress after dress (after dress) because everyone keeps telling them they'll "just know" when it's the "right one" (until finally said people realize that they're going to be 32 by the time they get married and perhaps they just aren't the kind of people who ever "just know" when anything is just the "right" one).

Anyway.

I definitely suspected part of that timeline was faux in an effort (that I respect and applaud) to avoid brides calling up every day to ask if their Dress has arrived. However, despite these suspicions, I was pleasantly surprised to get the call. I quickly selected dates for the first two dress fittings and duly jotted down the instructions: each fitting would be about an hour and I needed to bring my shoes and the undergarments I would be wearing the day of the wedding.



One hour time allotted on my calendar = check!

Shoes = check!

Proper undergarments = ch...not so much.



I took a quick look at the calendar and realized I had about two weekends to find the proper "foundations" for my gown. I don't want to reveal too much about the gown's design itself (because Mr F tends to read this Blog), but I can safely say that I felt smug that this would be sufficient time to find some sort of bustier with sufficient underwire to keep the ladies up and adequately unsmooshed (to avoid my tectonic plates creating cleavage longer (and more treacherous) than the San Adreas fault line).



And while there was a small part of me that was starting to stress about whether the Dress would actually fit me, I pushed those nagging feelings deep down to my inner psyche, much like the disaster preparedness kit hidden in the depths of my broom closet.

Instead, I set off on my maiden voyage to the Mall to find a low-backed strapless bra that would hold my mountains in their individual geographic territories and separate time zones.

Unfortunately, after wading through the lingerie departments of three separate stores, I determined that I must be the only large-chested bride in the world, because every strapless bra I tried on seemed to have the sole goal of pushing my lovely lady lumps first together and then up, so as to give them a lovely "orbs floating on water" effect (and a shimmy measure of 9.2 on the Richter Scale). Nice for a Naughty Nurse Halloween costume. Less nice if I want my groom to look at my er, eyes.



So I continued to search for a bra, which somehow seemed to also involve a barrage of insulting insinuations by sales clerks regarding the size of my love handles. Last I checked, if someone asks for a bra, that doesn't directly translate to a request for body armor and unsolicited commentary about the ability of a garment to get rid of my back fat. I understand the holiday bonuses will be slim this year, but is it really necessary to tell me that I'm not...all in the name of a little extra commission cash in the pocket?



The closest I ultimately got to an appropriate undergarment is a $90 sausage casing with underwire. Now I know I should be happy about the full body armor that will "smooth" me (as every single sales clerk touted), but honestly, I think it's going to be difficult enough to go to the bathroom in the wedding dress, I really don't want the extra complication of having to pee through the hole in the bottom of my bodysuit. (Yes, really - Spanx has a goddamn HOLE in the bottom. It doesn't even snap. It's just material you are supposed to move to the side, like the cheap fabric curtain in the hospital, separating the beds.)



So at the end of the day, I drove home armed only with a second spandex skin and a negative body image.



What's funny is that thus far I have been somewhat successful at not being diet-obsessed. For the past ten months, I just focused on being consistent about going to the gym and eating healthy most of the time (dinners of Triscuits and brie aside, and with the caveat that wine is obviously a health food - I swear I read it in Shape Magazine - look it up!). But the point is, I've been mostly healthy and definitely not focused and/or stressed about my waistline.

Until now.


All of a sudden, the message that my dress had arrived seemed to be a wake up call of another kind. It was as if I had received a telegraph that said: YOU CANNOT GAIN ANY WEIGHT. (A cruel telegram indeed.)


Full translation: you are about to be measured for a dress that must fit you the most perfect of any garment you have ever owned because this is the high point of your attractiveness in every one's mind and it's really all downhill from here. If you can't manage to look good on This One Day, then gosh, you're a mess.



Well of course from the moment I realized that I need to actually fit into a garment that now exists in this world (rather than being a hypothetical garment that could be changed in size should need be), I cannot stop thinking about the fact that I should not be EATING EXTRA FOOD. And since I know I should NOT eat extra food, my stomach has grumbled incessantly for the past ninety-six hours. (So yes, perhaps I was an eensy bit sensitive to the sales ladies bringing me in boatloads of completely unsolicited Spanx).



And in fact, after four days of deep thought, I have now come to firmly believe that this is in fact some sort of conspiracy by the dress shop. Full well knowing that Thanksgiving is just around the corner, they are performing some sort of social experiment on me and my stomach (yes, we are two separate entities) to see just how much weight a bride can gain in the weeks between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years (because let's not forget that the joyous holiday trifecta of Egg Nog, Hot Buttered Rum, and Champagne all have calories too).


Sweet Plymouth Rock, people. I'm in for some serious trouble. Maybe I should buy a back-up wedding dress. I've seen Project Runway. They can do amazing things with potato sacks these days.

Talk To Me, Like (Mothers) Do

Conversation With My Mom. A Play in One Act.

*Ring* *Ring* (Ok, that's not necessarily accurate, since I actually have a ringtone on my cellphone, but I'm not going to write down the lyrics to "Sunshine of My Love" (which makes a GREAT ringtone by the way), so let's all just agree to suspend disbelief and agree to this: someone is calling me. And if you read the sentence above, I have a sneaking suspicion you might know who it is.).

Looking down at the phone, I see it's my Mom (yup, you guessed it). I'm on Amtrak, taking the train home to Baltimore from DC after having a couple of drinks after work. I try to weigh if the combination of two glasses of Chardonnay and being in a public place where screaming hysterically on the phone is woefully inappropriate provide sufficient insulation to deal with whatever my Mom has to say. The loving embrace of the wine makes the scales tipsy, and as I press the green button on my phone, I find myself feeling especially benevolent and patient.

"Hi Mom. How are you? How was France?"

"Hi Honey, I'm good. France was wonderful. [Blah blah blah...France...blah blah]. By the way, I called your Cousin in the Virgin Islands - did you hear they were hit by a hurricane?"

"No, I didn't see it on the news here."

"Yes, they're all right, thankfully. We found out about it the day after we got back from France."

"OK, good - I'm glad they're ok."

"Oh, by the way, I know you don't talk to Cousin that much, but just don't mention that we were in France."

"Uhm, ok, but why??"

"Oh, I don't know. I just don't think they need to know."

"But Mom, that is so random. I don't understand. Why?"

"Not everyone needs to know everything, E&E." I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie and I need to solve the riddle my Mother is saying to exit the rabbit hole. While I'm scratching my head in total bewilderment and wondering if The Matrix might hold a key to this puzzle, she goes on to say, "I got the invitation to your Wedding Shower."

Relieved I can stop thinking about Neo and Alice in Wonderland and how terrible I am at problem solving in general, I responding with an exuberant, "Me too! I think they're really pretty!"

"They're very cute. [She pauses.] By the way you should call Auntie Hostess [i.e., the Aunt hosting my shower. Although upon reflection that makes her sound like an Aunt who has a penchant for Ho-Ho's and Twinkies. Now that would be a Shower I could buy in to.]."

"Uhm...why should I call her?"

"Well, it appears that whichever of your friends sent out the invitation didn't have the right address for her and then didn't ask the right address and didn't send her one. I mean I guess they could have asked for the right address and sent one...but well, they just didn't."

[Incredulous. And back in the rabbit hole.] "Wait, I'm confused - how did that happen? I don't understand."

"Well, I don't know dear. But...[SIGH]...I told her that I would bring along my invitation to the Shower in Long Island and just show it to her so she could take a look at it, but then of course she couldn't keep it since I want to keep my invitation so I would have to bring it back to New Jersey."

[Looking around rabbit hole for mint julep to keep me company while I wander through labyrinth.] "So what are you trying to say?"

"Nothing, dear. You asked me why you should call your Aunt and I was just giving you all of the information."

"So are you trying to say you want her to get an invitation sent? - because you could have just asked me to ask my friends to send her an invitation."

[Mother apparently getting frustrated as well.] "I don't know why everything has to be so difficult. I'm just trying to help: you asked me how things were, so I was just telling you the story of what was going on."

"Yes, except that you really just wanted to tell me that my friends did the wrong thing. You could have just said - 'Auntie didn't get an invite. Send her one.' But instead you had to tell me that everything wasn't perfect. Why do you have to give me all of the unnecessary details which are sure to make me feel guilty? [Pausing] So is her address right or wrong on all of the shower invites?"

"I don't know."

"Well, the address she gave is on the invites to the Shower, the directions to the Shower and her wedding invitation - so if you want her to get a wedding invitation, then maybe you should call her and check all this."

"Well I think you should call her."

"She's your friend." [Auntie Hostess is actually a "fake" Aunt who is Mom's friend from college.]

"Well you need to call her and check that the address is right - it's your Shower."

"I don't understand! How did she tell you that she didn't get an invite because her address is wrong, but then she didn't give you her correct address or confirm that the address on the shower invitation is correct? I don't even know what I'm asking her!"

"I don't know, dear."

"I gotta run Mom. I'll talk to Auntie Hostess and get her an invite. We're coming into my station and I need to grab a cab...I'll be in touch tomorrow."

I shut the phone and stare at it, confused as to what happened and with a hankering for a mint-based cocktail. And then I feel guilty for essentially hanging up on my Mom. This is the essence of every conversation we have had for the last nine months. Is this just generational? To me, the point of the conversation was that Auntie didn't get an invite and I should make sure she gets one. But that was tucked away deep within the enigma that is my Mother's double talk. *Sigh* I'm pretty sure if you print out this conversation and hold it up to a mirror it will show you where the holy grail is buried.

It's A Beautiful Day, Don't Let It Fade Away

You know what I really dislike? I really despise when people refer to my wedding as "Your Special Day." I have been trying to put my finger on what it is about that phrase that irks me so completely and totally and after I great deal of self-reflection...I don't really know.


I think it's somehow related to my distaste for euphemisms, especially for euphemisms that smack of a good case of the know-it-alls, mixed with just a dash of overly inflated importance.


For some reason, every time I hear the phrase "Your Special Day," I'm somewhat reminded of...and I'm really not sure how to put this delicately, so I guess I just won't...I'm reminded of the day we needed signed permission slips to attend 5th Grade Health Class so we could learn about reproductive systems, puberty, and menstruation. Each time one of those words was mentioned, it was flanked with the words "Your" and "Special." Special, indeed.

And "Your Special Day" also conjures up the very first time I went to the bra store with my Mother and the salesclerk who said "awwww, are you here for your first bra!?! That's so sweet! It's a Special Day!"

I guess perhaps, it's the idea that someone who is somehow older and wiser has the right to label your most personal experiences of maturation as "special" or "important" because they have already been there.

Because if you notice, no bride goes around calling it My Special Day. ("Gosh, I can't believe I only have three months until My Special Day!" or "Hi, I'm calling to make a hair appointment for My Special Day!") Only other people deem it "Your Special Day."

I guess I find something sort of condescending about it. Do I think people are intentionally condescending? No. But that's just how I feel. Go ahead. Disagree. I'm sure many of you do. That's fine.

And heck, while I'm at it, I have to confess that I find something silly about it.

I'm actually not anti-wedding, or anti-wedding-industry or any of those things. Sure, I guess I wish for a simpler day where weddings weren't such a commodity and brides didn't feel compelled to put on a show of their everlasting love or make people feel like flying across the country had to be "worth it" ("worth it" can be defined as offering an open bar or a plated meal or at least 3 passed appetizers). But in the olden days, before weddings were circuses even for the most common of folk (I'm pretty sure the Rockefellers have been whooping it up at weddings for quite some time now), they also didn't have iPods or Spin class or DVR (which ok, I don't have either, but one day I hope I will), so I just consider it part of what the world is now, and something I can choose to accept or reject (or resist or be too wimpy too resist), like so many other things that exist today, created by enterprising individuals who when push comes to shove, I actually admire for their ingenuity and fiscal acumen. (OK, perhaps not their acumen, but I love that word - it conjures up some sort of wise superhero for me - AcuMan! - can solve problems in a single bound!)

Ahem. To regroup - while I don't hate the wedding industry - I feel compelled to note that every single vendor that I have dealt with thus far cannot seem to say the words "Your wedding day" or "the 15th of February" or even "the day you're getting married."

Which is why I also hate the phrase "The Big Day."

For some reason, each vendor must substitute those words: "The Big Day" or "Your Special Day" as if to incessantly remind me why I'm spending obscene amounts of money.

"Hmmm...why am I paying craploads of money for flowers which will likely die in a couple of days...? Oh WAIT! It's because it's a SPECIAL DAY...and in fact, not just ANY special day...but THE Big Day." Whew! The cost is definitely justified now! Glad we've got that settled.

I am actually working with one vendor who puts "Your Special Day" as the actual subject heading in every email she sends me. She's a really nice woman, but I'm about 5 minutes from telling her that I hate her just a little more every time she sends me an email.

I don't know. I think I'm just hungry. I shouldn't blog when I'm hungry. I think I just get extra cranky and I don't censor myself as much as I probably should.

Unfortunately, I am simultaneously mentally reviewing what's sitting in my fridge, and I'm now even crankier because I just concluded there's a whole lot of nothing. I am instead reverting to my favorite daydream, where I walk over to my barren fridge and open it up, but much to my surprise, somehow it has magically been replenished, complete with all of my most favorite items (strawberries, ice cream, and guacamole, oh my!...ok, and a nice sparkling wine from California...with a straw). Yum-tastic. Now that would be A Special Day.

It's My Party And I'll Cry (or Hopefully, Decline to Cry) If I Want To

I have a sneaking suspicion that this might be A Positive Post! The kind of post that normal carefree radiant brides post all the time on their normal happy blogs. About their dress! Their shoes! Their venue!

I, purveyor of so much wedding rage, will hereby attempt to be like A Normal Bride. Yes, I've tried this before, but I am feeling particularly confident that this time, I can do this!

Let's begin, shall we?

I got home from work today and checked the mail (secretly wishing that a new "Self" magazine might be inside, in the related hope that if it arrived, it would inspire me to get my (Lazy) Self to the gym). As I pulled the mail out of the box, something in the stack caught my eye. What was peeking out at me? No, not "Self" (damn you, Conde Nast!), but a lovely deep purple-colored envelope, addressed to yours truly.

I LOVE getting mail. I especially love getting mail in colored envelopes. Because bills do not come in colored envelopes. And requests from my alma mater boldly soliciting donations (from someone who simultaneously is continuing to pay for said education each month) do not come in pretty purple envelopes. Only invitations, cards, and thank you notes come in colored envelopes.

I ripped open the poor defenseless little envelope quicker than its whiter, more financially fulfilling sister which contained my stimulus check just days earlier.

Ta-da!

It was my Shower Invitation! And honestly, I love it! It's very cute and modern - exactly like something I would have picked out myself. And it even carries through my tree branch theme. (Which, if we get down to it, is not actually a "theme", but more a "symbol" of the fact that I am getting married in the dead of winter and well, nothing is flowering, so all we have left are sad naked branches. But I prefer to think of it more as the simple and organic elegance of the constant change of life and what will soon flourish, rather than...well, a dead tree.)

Anyway, dead tree as a symbol of my impending nuptials aside, I was very excited about the Wedding Shower Invites!

I immediately called my Sister-In-Law (that would be my Brother's Wife), who I knew was responsible for picking out the invites, to thank her profusely for not picking something with wedding bells, wedding dress and/or a house of worship paired with rhyming of any sort. And then I sat down at my computer to type this post. Which is POSITIVE. And NORMAL. And focusing on HOW MUCH I LIKE THE INVITES.

This post is not, I repeat, NOT going to be about the fact that I am a little STRESSED ABOUT MY SHOWER. BECAUSE I AM CLEARLY NOT STRESSED ABOUT MY SHOWER.

This post will NOT quickly degrade into a laundry list of the reasons that I'm extremely apprehensive about the shower and/or why it has been a lightning rod for controversy over the past few months in my household (and by household, I mean two bedroom apartment in Baltimore shared with Mr F).

Indeed looking at my lovely invitation certainly did NOT remind me that the shower itself is likely going to be me, my fabulous matrons of honor, one or two friends who live nearby in New York and its immediately surrounding areas and FIFTEEN of my Mother's friends and TWENTY-FIVE of my future-mother-in-law's friends (not a single one of whom I've met). THIS POST WILL NOT FOCUS ON THAT.

[Awkward silence.]

Or maybe the post won't "focus" on the apprehension "per se," but perhaps it might just dabble in it. Just an itty bitty mention of some less-than-positive feelings, in addition and certainly secondary to, the excitement of the invitation. Just a toe in the shower water, really.

[More silence.]

I think the cat is out of the bag.

I AM STRESSED ABOUT THE GODDAMN WEDDING SHOWER.

There, I said it.

First of all, I feel badly that the burden is on my bridesmaids to plan (and pay for!) this party which is really just an opportunity for my Mom and FMIL to show me off like some sort of show pony and to hang out with their friends.

To be clear, it's not that I don't like show ponies, or non-show ponies for that matter, but the idea of making small talk with hordes (throngs, really) of women who are tennis partners and co-workers of The Moms makes me feel somewhat queasy even in theory (so I have strong concerns about the reality of this event). Three hours of being asked how the wedding planning is going, when are we going to start "trying", and asking me to explain just once more why I'm a lawyer who doesn't practice law, is enough to make me scope out a vineyard, crawl inside a barrel of fermenting Cabernet, and come out, pink and puckered, three months later. (If you think this sounds suspiciously like my hibernation plan, then you would be right.)

Moreover, I'm somewhat embarrassed by the fact that I will have few to no friends at my shower. Although I know in theory I shouldn't be embarassed because my friends live literally across the country (and the shower is a good four hours away from where I even live) and as a result, not everyone can make the trip for both the Shower and then the Bachelorette a month later (and I very clearly conveyed that my preference was attendance at the Bachelorette), none of those very logical reasons comfort me. Instead I am practicing responses to the following questions "are any of your friends coming?" and "Was it just too far for your friends to come to your shower?". As such, I am less-than-giddy about the Shower.

But I suppose that only makes sense, right? This isn't supposed to be fun. Or if it was, why wouldn't they call it the Wedding Shower Party so as to indicate that this is indeed, a party, and thus, by its very definition, intended to be fun? There is the Bachelorette Party (intended to be fun), the Engagement Party (intended to be fun) and hell, even the Wedding Party (damn well better be fun or I'm finding new friends).

Wedding Shower is just so...sterile. Rather than frivolous enjoyment, it seems to be more of a hygiene-focused event. I mean come on, couldn't it least be Wedding Bath? (Conjuring up images of relaxing scented candles, whirlpool jets, soothing music and a good book.)

But no, it's just the Wedding Shower.

Which is why, when asked by my bridesmaids what I "wanted" at my shower, the only thing I requested (and I swear on all that is holy that this is true), was to be "showered" with cocktails. Because I can't deal with fifty menopausal women without a libation.

Umbrella optional.

Today Is The Greatest Day That I Have Ever Known...(Or At Least A Nice Day)

What is so fantastical about this day?? Well first...I've been "Tagged" by Kelley at My Island Wedding. And then...I got nominated for an "Uber Amazing Blog Award" by Jenny at And She's Just Rambling Again!!

Well first things first. Being tagged apparently means I need to share 7 random facts about me and explain "the rules" of being tagged (mercifully, not to be confused with other rules requiring that you stay aloof and not kiss on the first date).

The rules:

1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.

3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by including links to their blog.

4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog!

5. Eat at least one slice of pizza every day for the next week. (Ok, sorry, that's not in the rules, but shouldn't it be?)

Facts about me (that would be Engaged & Enraged @ I Hate Planning My Wedding):

1. I had to give away my cat because Mr F is allergic and I miss him (the cat, not Mr F) very much.

2. While standing on line at Grand Central Station for the LIRR (that is Long Island Railroad, for those of you not in the know), I once asked Mike Wallace (from "60 Minutes") and his wife to watch my luggage for me so I could go get a coffee and a muffin to nurse my massive hangover. (Hey, they were very nice and standing in front of me - wouldn't you have done the same?)

3. One of my biggest regrets is not studying or living abroad at some point in my life.

4. That being said, I still think on a regular basis about how cool it would have been to have had an EZ Bake Oven as a kid.

5. I secretly think I could compete in a competitive eating contest. Like, really.

6. One day I hope to have a college scholarship named for me.

7. I really like my name. Unfortunately, as this Blog is anonymous, you likely don't know that name. But take it on faith - I like it. First name, nickname derivation, and last name. Good job, Mom and Dad.

Now, I tag (and I apologize in advance if you've already been tagged - I tried to search your blogs to make sure you haven't been yet):

1. Maners, at http://idoyoudowedo.com/

2. Sezzy at http://sufferinglove.blogspot.com/

3. Monkeygirl at http://monkeywed.blogspot.com/

4. Friday at http://fridaysthoughts.blogspot.com/

5. Bailee at http://baileesbride.blogspot.com/

6. http://aweddingonthenines.blogspot.com/

7. Jessica at http://thesensiblebride.blogspot.com/

And to make all of your days - I am also nominating all of you for an "Uber Amazing Blog Award" too! Here is the information for that one:

The Uber (AKA Super) Amazing Blog Award is a blog award given to sites who:

• Inspire you...
• Make you smile and laugh...
• Or maybe gives amazing information...
• A great read...
• Has an amazing design...

And any other reason you can think of that makes them uber amazing!

The rules of the award are:

Put the logo on your blog or post
Nominate a minimum of 5 blogs
Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog

Share the love and link to this post and the person you received your award from.

Not a bad day!

You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

Mr F is not going to like this post. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Mr F's apology just a couple of hours ago was based on the fact that he knew that I would take this day to the blog. Oh you are a wise one, Mr F. But you're down for the count, baby.

Sunday was to be the day that Mr F and I completed one of the two tasks I asked him to help with for the entirety of our wedding. Those two things are: (1) purchase wedding rings and (2) rent a tux.

There used to be a third thing, i.e., pick out a honeymoon location, but Mr F has fallen woefully short on that task and I don't want to pay hundreds of extra dollars for a last minute decision on that one, so I removed it from the list, leaving just the two teensy tiny microscopically small things I physically need him to be there for. And truth be told, at this point, if it were a viable option, I would be happy to trade him in for a giant inflatable doll with his measurements that I could lug around town to get these tasks done.

However, the giant inflatable doll is not an option, so I have been talking about getting a tuxedo for a month now, mentally and physically preparing Mr F for this event.

Mr F hates going shopping. I think this only makes him like 98% of the rest of the male population. That being said, we are talking about one hour of one day for one time in his life. Thus far, I have never forced him to do any fashion-related outings on my behalf, which quite frankly puts ME ahead of 98% of women who I know for a fact, DRAG their significant others to dress them up in clothes they like. I do not do this. Mr F does not believe that I am a good or special person for this. But he should.

So we go to the most evil place on Earth. The Mall. And immediately, Mr F looks like a kid about to get a haircut. In fact, there was a little boy aged four actually being pulled toward Supercuts with the same look on his face. Pure horror.

As I stride toward Men's Warehouse, Mr F has strayed out of sight somehow. He is nowhere to be found. I peer into the stores nearby and see a flash of his red flannel shirt. Apparently, Mr F has gone into Brookstone. This is also not surprising. Mr F laments that we will spend $150 on a tuxedo for his wedding day, but thinks that it is understandable to spend $200 on an alarm clock that slowly gets louder to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder. (It's called turning up the volume dial and drinking a cup of coffee. It costs pennies a day. Look into it.)

So I drag Mr F into Men's Warehouse (I tell him - "You're Gonna Like The Way You Look - I Guarantee It!" - he does not find this compelling). Once we are in the store, I ask the clerk where the tuxedos are that you try on to order for a wedding or special event. The very nice gentleman politely informs me that we can't try anything on because they don't keep these items in stock. We just need to order based on swatches. Hmm. Well that is not what I expected. I want Mr F to look the best he's ever looked and somehow I don't think a frickin swatch is really gonna help at all.

Mr F is ecstatic. Now he doesn't have to try anything on.

He looks at the book, holds a swatch up next to his face and says "I like this one. Let's go home."

Well isn't that just hunky dorey. This is not going according to plan at all.

Swatch next to the face is not giving me the visual image I need. I want to see him in a tux. I have been researching peak lapels versus notch lapels, two button versus three button, and bow-tie versus long tie for months. Am I now supposed to just close my eyes and point to the book without seeing him try anything on?

Mr F says yes, that is what I'm supposed to do.

I think not.

I want to make sure Mr F looks good and I want to make sure he doesn't look...well, gaudy or worse yet, cheesy. I have a secret fear that Mr F will look like A Guy Wearing A Rented Tuxedo for his prom. I want James Bond, not James Spader (a la "Steff" in "Pretty in Pink"). There is a fine line between "good formalwear" and "bad formalwear." And I suspect I cannot make a decision on where that line sits from a swatch.

So we get some brochures which we are supposed to select tuxedos from. I am not comfortable with this. Mr F assures me it is because I am a control freak and I need to see everything and have my hands on every detail before it happens.

He is correct.

He also notes that he is not allowed to see what I am wearing to the wedding, so isn't it only fair that the converse be true? While in fact both a fair and astute point, Mr F is overlooking the important point that unlike him, I do not consider wearing olive green Puma workout pants that snap up the side with a red flannel shirt dating back from college (and probably pilfered from a lumberjack's closet) an outfit appropriate for dinner at a nice restaurant. Or even dinner at home. In the dark. Or for anything else other than kindling for a fireplace.

All that aside, yes I am a control freak, but wouldn't you be if you knew you could find yourself promising to love and cherish a solid gold dancer until you die? (My fear with having him wear a champagne colored tie and vest.)

All of which explains why I would like to see Mr F actually put on a gosh darn tux.

So we exit the store and see that there is another formalwear store around the corner. At which point Mr F pouts. And stamps his feet. And crosses his arms. And lies down on the floor and pounds his fists and legs on the ground while hot tears escape from his eyes. OK, that was the three year old boy who was tired of shopping with mommy, but I swear, they looked just about the same to me.

So I drag Mr F into the second store and he frowns at me. He puts a tux on and looks like a high school senior who was stood up by his prom date (fortunately, this is not because of the champagne vest). He's miserable. And making me miserable. I wonder if the pockets of any of these coats contain a flask like the one that my date brought to our prom. I can hear the AC/DC now.

The sales clerk also looks miserable. She looks sympathetically at me and says, "You know, the guys really hate this. They just don't like trying on clothes."

Oh boo hoo. Must be hard to really really hate doing something and to have to suck it up and do it anyway. Imagine hating it and having enough stupid details that you could fill every weekend for a year completing that crap. Sounds like fodder for a blog.

But I know when I'm defeated. So we leave. Mr F thinks I'm crazy and detail obsessed. I think Mr F is annoying and selfish.

We're both right and we're both wrong (and we know this but both prefer sulking to talking, for now anyway), but the truth of the matter is, I still need to see Mr F try on a tux, so he better start mentally preparing himself to go back to the mall.

Until then, I will spend my days creatively trying to figure out how to make tux shopping FUN! So far my list looks like this:

1 - Get Mr F drunk. Blindfold him and tell him we are going to Las Vegas to elope but he needs proper formalwear. Bring him to store with tuxedo options and put them on. Run very fast before Mr F can realize we are not going to Vegas.

I guess I'll keep thinking.