She's a Dirty Girl, A Dirty Girl

I don't know exactly when me and Steven gave up. But at some point, we did. We don't clean our apartment. Not ever. Not at all. We are dirty people. Dirty, dirty people.

Tonight, a bug ran across the cushion of the guest chair in our living room. Now, I use the term "guest chair" loosely, assuming that if a guest ever did come over to our apartment, they would have to first move my notebooks, Steven's Redskins hat, and a shoe box from the said "guest chair" before they could sit down. The bug did not seem to mind the clutter, so I suppose the guest chair is for him. The bug is our guest. I realize that things have gotten bad when a bug runs aimlessly across your living room with no set agenda or real goals in life. (The food is in the kitchen, not on the living room guest chair...stupid bug!)

I could blame Steven. And he would just blame me. Hell, I've even blamed Brooklyn before for not keeping the kitchen floor 100% free of food crumbs. (I mean really, she is a beagle.) But honestly, we are all to blame. I'm a slob. Steven's a slob. And I've seen Brooklyn smell her own farts. We're all to blame.

I've got phobias. I won't touch wet washrags or sponges at all -- two key cleaning components. I know it sounds bizarre, but I'm more comfortable coming into contact with dirt and grime than soiled wash cloths, Comet, or bleach. Physically, I'm not a dirty person. I shower daily and keep my mouth freakishly clean, sometimes brushing 4 or 5 times a day. My teeth aren't just the cleanest things on my body, but quite possibly, the entire world as well. I just don't like to clean the house. And this could be the core of my greatest phobia...work. Cleaning is work and I only like to work at work. I know a lot of women enjoy cleaning; find it a release for stress. I find The Real Housewives of New Jersey a release for stress. Most women clean because they don't like a dirty house. I don't mind a dirty house. In fact, I've always enjoyed having male roommates because they don't give a crap how dirty the house gets. If we clean the bathroom once every other month, that's considered a triumph worthy of a case of beer and a Papa Johns pizza. I'm sure living in a clean house has it's benefits, but I can't think of one that outweighs me wallowing in my own pool of laziness.

Honestly, I am a dirty person. I think this would surprise most people. (Not my mom, of course, who used to make "absurd" accusations against me in my youth. My mom, who apparently has a Physics Degree in Dusting, once theorized that the living room was constantly dusty because the air conditioning vent was sucking all the dust out of my bedroom and shooting it into the living room. See, absurd.) But yes, I am a dirty and lazy person. For example, if I'm making a sandwich and a bit of jelly drips on the kitchen counter, how would you think I would clean that up? If you answered, "She would wipe it up with her finger and then let her dog lick it off her hand," then you are correct. That's how I clean up everything. I wipe it up with my hand and then I let Brooklyn lick it off. Presto, it's cleano! I've honestly considered picking up my small dog and placing her on the kitchen counter, just to see what she could accomplish. I'm almost impressed with my ingenuity in slob laziness. I am literally a human trash compactor. I'm an absolute whiz at smashing the garbage down in the bathroom trashcan so tight, that it's unnecessary to take out the trash for a weeks at a time. Landfills, you're welcome.

Steven is a whole nother case in slob-i-ness. I won't go into too much of his private business because he is asleep and can't defend himself. But I will blame his uncleanliness on two basic things -- trash purgatory and nut sack powder. For whatever reason, Steven can't throw things away. He just can't. He can open our mail, he can read our mail, but he can't throw the mail away. Old shoes? Keeps them. Broken pens, torn jeans, dead batteries, every paycheck stub since he was 16? He keeps all that stuff. Instead of ending up IN the trashcan, things sort of accumulate AROUND the trashcan. Hence the term, trash purgatory. If Steven puts something down on the coffee table, it won't just stay there for a few days, but for the rest of eternity. Me and Steven have no need to ever bury a time capsule in the backyard, our apartment is a time capsule of everything that Steven has ever come in to contact with.

The second problem is nut sack powder. Steven has a lot of sensitive skin issues. So after he showers, he douses himself with an assortment of medicated powders. There are powders for his feet, his legs, and my favorite...his nuts. And there is no polite way to apply nut sack powder, he's working with sensitive equipment at an odd angle, so he just blasts those things like he's putting out a chemical fire. The effect is that a constant haze of powder glazes our entire bathroom. You know in early spring when pollen covers every inch of your car? That's what it's like, except it's in our bathroom and it's not just in the spring...it's always nut sack powder season in our house! I get special pleasure knowing that before the powder settled on our bathroom floors, sink, and toilet, that at one point in time it all came in contact with Steven's balls. I know, that as a women, this should upset me. But I just think it's funny as hell!

More Celebrities NOT Coming to the Wedding: Presidential Edition

The Obamas will not be able to attend. Still waiting to hear from Oprah.

Eat Your Heart Out Lassie

I think it's only bad luck for the groom to see the bride's dress before the wedding. I don't think there are any rules concerning the Official Bridal Dog's coordinating bridal accessories*. And so I present to you...Brooklyn, in all her accessorized glory!

(That's not a look of misery on her face, she only emulates the sexy scowl of her canine modeling icon, Droopy the Dog.)

*These great items are not available in stores. Because my mom made them!

Jimmy Kimmel: Regretfully Declines

I sent out wedding invitations to President Obama, Oprah and Jimmy Kimmel. No word yet from Obama or Oprah, but check out what we got in the mail this past week.

Only one word to describe this...awesome!

Wedding FAQ

You've probably just got your wedding invite, and you might have some questions. So let's see if we can answer a few things.

I lost my invite already. When's your wedding?

Saturday, May 14th, 2011 at 3pm

Is the wedding on the beach?

Yes, the wedding ceremony is happening directly on the beach in Sandbridge in Virginia Beach. The reception is going to be immediately after in a beach house called the Four Seasons. Here is the link if you want to check it out. If there is bad weather (hopefully not, but in case there is) we picked a house that is large enough to accommodate the wedding indoors. So the wedding is on...rain or shine.

What should I wear?

I'd say beachy casual or preppy casual. Sun dresses, capri pants, khaki pants with polo shirts, etc. Those are all good examples. Think of what you'd wear to a Mother's Day brunch or to a high school graduation if it wasn't your kid graduating. You want to try a little, but not too much. If you are worried about being too dressed up, just ask yourself this -- would this outfit work with sandals or flip flops? If the answer is no, then you might be overdressed. If you are worried about being underdressed, then ask yourself this -- would I wear this on laundry day? If the answer is yes, then change.

What kind of shoes should I wear?

Something that would work well on the sand and on a wooden deck. High heels? Not a good idea.

What kind of underwear should I wear?

I recommend undergarments that are super hero inspired.

What will the weather be like on your wedding day?

I have no idea. Let's all hope for sunny, 74 degrees, with minimal cloud cover. But...this is Virginia Beach and the beach can be chilly at times. A quick check of Weather.com and bringing along a light cardigan and/or a hoodie is never a bad idea.

Are kids welcome?

Yes. This will be a very kid friendly wedding.

Can I bring my girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband/partner?

Yes.

I have a grumpy old man that lives next to me, who never gives out candy at Halloween, can I bring him as my guest?

No. Don't bring that guy. He's a jerk.

Can we park at the beach house?

No. There is no parking at the beach house, and there is also no on-street parking either. Please park at the public parking lot on the corner of Sandbridge Road and Sandpiper Road. Just take the right on Sandpiper Road and the public lot is right next to the market. We have arranged for an SUV to shuttle guests from the parking lot to the beach house. The SUV will be a white Suburban provided by Orange Peel Transportation, so that's what you're looking for. The SUV will begin to shuttle guests from 2pm until 4pm, and then again from 6pm until 10pm. If you need to return to your car during that two hour gap in service, then just let one of our family members know and we can arrange something.

Are you registered anywhere?

No. Steven and I have been living together (in sin) for 3 years now, so we honestly do not need anything. We have everything you could possibly cram into a crappy little apartment (i.e. plates, knives, mixers, blenders, potato peelers, wine glasses, etc). We honestly don't need anything. Which brings me (not so subtly) to what we really need...Money! Truthfully, we really just want money. I know that sounds crude, but we have a solid reason for craving the cash. We're looking to get a house. The market is great right now, and we want to save up for a down payment on a house. Owning a home is mine and Steven's dream. We've been saving for the wedding and honeymoon for the past two years, so immediately after the wedding we are going to begin saving for a house. We love our apartment (its modest and affordable), but honestly...it's a real dump. We've got rats and raccoons in the attic, a leaky ceiling, a potential mold problem, and a back yard that is too small, even for a lazy dog. It's time to move on. Any sort of financial gift which would help us save for our dream of owning a home would be appreciated beyond words.

I'm not helping you buy a house. So what else can I give as a gift?

For our honeymoon, we're going to Sandals Montego Bay in Jamaica. You can check it out, here. It's an all-inclusive resort, so all food and drinks are included, but there are some extra activities that are available for upgrade. Cool things like horseback riding on the beach, ziplining, sailing, spa services. You can check out all the extra activities here and all the spa services here. If you'd like, you can contribute to our honeymoon experience by contacting our travel agent Kandi Edelstein at CI Travel at 888-627-8000 or e-mailing her at kedelstein@citravel.com. It's pretty cool because you can purchase us specific services/activities as a super awesome gift or just throw a couple bucks our way to help pay for an upgrade. Regardless, Kandi is super friendly and a really great travel agent (she's been to Jamaica like 40 times!), so don't be afraid to call her (not just for our honeymoon), but for your own travel needs.

I'm not paying for your honeymoon either, you jerks. So, give me another gift idea.

Fine. Fine. Fine. If you really are compelled to buy us an actual physical gift (other than the gift of a beautiful home, or the gift of a treasured experience), then may I suggest...a gift card to a gas station. I'm not joking. Gas is crazy expensive. Steven works 6 to 7 days a week, and he has a lengthy commute, so we spend a small fortune on gasoline every month. A gas card would be a gift sent from petroleum heaven. And if you gave us a gas card, you'd have the added pleasure of telling everybody you gave us gas for our wedding. A story sure to get a good chuckle at your next dinner party.

Will there be alcohol at your wedding?

Yup, there will be beer, margaritas, and your boozy basics (i.e. tequila, vodka, rum, whiskey).

But I like to get down with a very specific brand of alcohol and/or mixer.

If there is something that you just HAVE to have when you drink, then don't be shy about bringing it with you. There will be plenty of alcohol provided at the reception. But if you can't have a fun time without your acai and blueberry-infused vodka martini, then by all means...bring it. Nobody will look down on you and nobody will give you the stink eye. This is a super casual wedding with a party-type vibe, so don't be shy.

When I go to weddings, I tend to drink too much and make bad decisions.

We want people to have fun and enjoy themselves at our wedding, but we don't want ANYBODY driving drunk. We will have phone numbers at the wedding for taxi cab services. Also, anybody that doesn't feel safe to drive after the wedding is more than welcome to crash at one of the beach houses. We're not promising everybody a room or a bed, but there is ample floor space and a few comfy looking couches. The important thing is that everybody has a good time without putting themselves, or anybody else, in danger.

I'm looking at the wedding invite, at the response card. There is a line with just the letter "M" next to it, what the heck does that mean?

That's not a dumb question. A lot of people have this question. That's where you write in your name with your courtesy title, i.e. Mrs. Kathie Lee Gifford, so we know who this response card is from. I don't know why it's done this way, just is.

Where it says, "Number of Persons Attending," do I count myself?

Yes.

I noticed that there are pools at the beach house. Can we go swimming?

Yup. The outdoor pool will probably be too cold in May, but there is a heated indoor pool, so feel free to bring your bathing suit if you like. Especially if you have kids, bring their swim trunks. They'll love it. (But don't forget some towels.)

Who gets to stay at the beach houses? Especially the nice one?

Ooopf. We get this question more than we'd like, and it leads to uncomfortable answers. The short answer is: the houses are for out-of-town guests. And out-of-town does not mean Norfolk, Virginia. The houses (especially the nice one) are for our wedding guests that are traveling a great way to spend the weekend celebrating with us and are traveling from absurdly named places such as Valaparaiso or Kalamazoo or Texas. The long answer is: We have rented two houses and depending on how many out-of-towners there are, there might be extra rooms. But we don't know for sure and probably won't until right before the wedding. So if you are local, plan on not getting a room at a beach house, and then you'll just be pleasantly surprised if a room becomes available. Regardless of room assignments, everybody is welcome to hang out at the beach houses all weekend long. And just because you don't get to stay at a beach house doesn't mean you aren't welcome to crash at one the night of the wedding, you just won't necessarily have a room.

Who picks the rooms? And when?

Me and Steven. And probably not until everybody RSVPs.

I'm one of these famous out-of-towners that you speak of, and I'm trying to plan my trip. When will the beach houses be available?

We have the houses from Friday, May 13th at 3pm until Monday, May 16th at 10am

Should I bring my own towels? Sheets?

Don't worry about sheets, but only a limited number of towels are in the houses, so it doesn't hurt to have 1 or 2 extra.

Where can I look at pictures of these houses?

Just click the links, Four Seasons and Young

If you have any questions that weren't answered then feel free to post them here. (I've changed some settings, so it's easier to post comments.) Somebody else may have the same questions as you. Or you can e-mail me at NYCLacy@aol.com or Steven at stevenjayryerson@yahoo.com

Wardrobe Malfunction

Steven's brother Greg is marrying us. (I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.) Whenever I tell people this, it always gets a dramatic reaction. I get a lot of, "REALLY?" and "Naw, now way" and "Wait....are you serious?" I'm not sure why this is so surprising to people.

The breakdown is simple: Me and Steven aren't religious and don't attend church, which would deem us using a priest/minister as false and bogus. Wedding officiants can be quite costly. State law only allows marriage officiants to charge you $50 to perform the ceremony, BUT there are no guidelines on how much they can charge you for "travel and mileage expenses." So typically, it could cost $200 to $300 for a total stranger to marry you. So why not use somebody we know? Greg seems like the perfect guy. He's typically on time. Reliable. He doesn't get nervous in front of people. And he has a ridiculously loud voice....easy to hear and understand. And since we aren't having a traditional bridal party, Greg's role as minister is way cooler and more important than him serving as Best Man anyway. So Rev Greg it is.

But what should Greg wear? This very question has caused a lot of debate between me and Steven. At one point in time, I thought that Steven could pick out his own clothes for the wedding. But that point in time as passed. One week, Steven says he's wearing a full traditional tuxedo. And then the next week, he'll say he's wearing a khaki linen suit. At one point in time, he said he wanted to dress like Johnny Cash. I asked my cousin, Justin (the Brooklyn wrangler), what he wanted to wear to the wedding? He said his bathing suit. I realized then that I had to take away the boys' wardrobe responsibilities unless I wanted a wardrobe malfunction. If I let the guys decide what they're going to wear, then Steven would be dressed like Boss Hogg, Justin and Aiden like the Hazzard County Boys, and Greg like Roscoe P. Coltrane.

So plausibly, Steven is wearing a semi-formal tux with Justin and Aiden matching. But what the hell should Greg wear? Greg is going to be standing right next to me and Steven, so I don't want him dressed like Steven. I don't want it to look like there are two grooms. I know that polygamy is all the rage right now on basic cable, but not so much in Virginia Beach. I'm leaning towards Greg wearing an all black suit tux with a colored stole of some sort.

Don't know what I stole is? I didn't either until I Googled it. (How did brides plan weddings before the Internet?) It's a piece of material that clergy drape over their shoulders. Sorta like what honor students wear when they graduate. (In fact, it's exactly the same thing.) I found a site on the Internet that sold them called Church Supply Warehouse. You would think that a place with "Warehouse" in it's name would be cheap wouldn't you? Well, you'd be wrong. Those things are crazy expensive. They range from anywhere from $75 to thousands and thousands of dollars. And it seems that the more money you are willing to pay, the uglier of a stole you are rewarded with. I found some seriously butt ugly stoles. There is one called the "Children of the World" stole that is just littered with cartoon kids faces ala the It's a Small World ride at Disney World. It's $149. To have a push-button chip installed that actually plays "It's a Small World" is an additional $39.99. (I made that last part up, by the way.)

Check out this fine garment to the left here. How much would you pay for such an attractive lime green smock? Well, make room in your closet because this hot little number is coming to your house for just $4,995! Bargain!

Not only are some of the prices ridiculous, but there are two categories of stoles -- deacon stoles and priest stoles. I tried to do some research and figure out the difference, but all I got was a bunch of websites with a lot of words, not a lot of pictures, and a ton of dense religious history and philosophy. So I abandoned my research and decided that the difference between deacon stoles and priest stoles is about $30.

But I gotta admit, I'm really starting to enjoy clergy stoles. Sometimes I think to myself -- if I was a dental hygienist would I wear silly scrubs with cartoon teeth making goofy faces on them? Or would I wear monochromatic scrubs, so that people would take my profession more seriously? Maybe I'd wear overly tight scrubs to show off my boobs? I think about these things sometimes. So naturally I started to think -- if I was a priest, what sort of stole would I wear? I decided I would definitely wear this one. It's called the "Sacred Heart of Jesus" stole, but I think it should be called the "Superman Jesus" stole because he's ripping his shirt open just like Clark Kent in a phone booth. Right now my mom is reading this and thinking, "Laaaaaaaacy, watch it. Don't talk about Jesus. You're gonna offend somebody."

Okay, fine. No offending anybody. So how am I gonna end this blog then? Oh, I know. I'll freak the crap out of Greg. Cause this is the stole I'm gonna have him wear!

With Warts & All

I've got a wart on my left hand. How I got it? I don't know. Too many interactions with frogs I suppose. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, but the wart is on the same hand as my ring finger. And since I'm getting married in 4 months, that makes it a really big deal...to some people.

For whatever reason, there are two people that are troubled by my wart more than most. My mom. And Matt, this guy I work with. I have a theory as to why my wart bothers them more than most people (including even myself). Have you ever heard of the phrase, "There's nothing worse than a reformed whore?" Well, that's Matt and my mom -- reformed wart whores. At one point in time, they both had warts. Matt's was on his hand and my mom's was on her knee. They both fought a brave battle against their warts and won. So now, they are spreading their anti-wart message, and my ring-hand wart is a primary target.

Matt has purchased me a ton of anti-wart creams and freezing sprays. Sometimes at work, he'll have these little wart interventions with me. They always start the same, with him saying, "Now, don't take this personally...." and always end with him presenting me with a cornucopia of various ointments and sprays. The problem is what comes in the middle of the intervention, which is typically the tale of how he triumphantly destroyed his own wart. I will spare you the practical information as to how he got rid of his wart, and focus instead on the gorey details which include part of his hand turning black, and a large hunk of raw flesh being ripped off his hand with duct tape. You're welcome.

My mom, being related to me, feels the need to be a lot less polite and subtle about my wart situation. Typically, she says things such as "that thing is disgusting" or "you better get that thing off of there before you get married or you're gonna regret it for the rest of your life." Then, like Matt, she gives me the anti-wart creams and freezing sprays.

I will admit, I do not like this wart on my hand. It's incredibly unsightly and embarrassing. When people ask to see my engagement ring, I instinctively turn my thumb down (the location of my wart) and make the number 4 sign, so they can't see it. I do not like this wart on my hand. Not at all. If I had a magic wish, I would wish it away. But there are a lot of things in life that I would wish for. I wish Brooklyn wouldn't pick fights with her water bowl. I wish Steven wouldn't fart so much. I wish I could understand everything my boss, Vinnie, says to me. I wish that Ben Roethlisberger would make better decisions during the off season. I wish that the price of Red Bull would go down. And I wish that they would bring coconut syrup back to Starbucks. All of those things I would wish for over my wart disappearing.

And I have tried to remove my wart to no avail. Under the advice of Matt and my mom, I followed a wart removal plan that lasted about 3 months. It was horribly painful and tedious. During those 3 months, I had to soak my wart in water, file down the skin with a nail file, put salycic acid on the wart, and wrap it in duct tape and/or flesh colored skin tape. And don't listen to my mom -- it was painful. Whenever somebody tells you that something "doesn't hurt" that means it does hurt. Because if it didn't really hurt, you wouldn't feel the need to say anything. You don't ever say, "I put on a soft plush robe yesterday. But it didn't hurt." Or "I ate a piece of warm apple pie yesterday. But it didn't hurt." Well, no duh it didn't hurt. But getting a tattoo? Dental surgery? Getting stitches? Or having a wart removed? Yeah, that stuff hurts. And don't believe people when they say it doesn't.

So after 3 months of my wart removal plan, guess what I have now? Two warts! Yup, my lone wart, now has a wart friend and they are neighbors. Twins actually. They're Geminis.

So I made an appointment with a dermatologist. There's only 4 months till the wedding and it's crunch time. Right when I pulled into the parking lot of the dermatologist office, I had a bad feeling. There were confused and wandering old people all over the place. Like one of those retirement center vans had just dropped them off and let them fend for themselves. It looked like the final scene of Cocoon minus Steve Guttenberg and the alien spaceship. I consider confused and wandering old people to be a bad sign for any medical practice. To me it just reeks of insurance fraud. I mean, this is a dermatologist office, they aren't exactly coming here to clear up their skin before prom. So what else is there -- skin cancer? If it's skin cancer, then why the hell aren't their children or grandchildren bringing them to their appointments?!? Ugh, creating imaginary life stories and projecting it onto strangers sure does get me riled up.

I considered ditching the appointment all together, but I've never done that before and didn't want to chance the "we need 48 hours of cancellation notice or you will be charged" policy. My doctor seemed nice enough. She was a very attractive female doctor that looked to be in her late-30s. If she was on a fictional ABC medical drama, I wouldn't imagine her to be the female lead, but a strong secondary character with a romantic storyline and a mysterious backstory. If my Papaw was still alive, he'd describe her as a "pretty lady doctor." But like 99.9% of doctors in real life, she was incredibly distracted and impersonal from the very second she entered the exam room. Which makes me wonder, why do doctors even have exam rooms anymore? Not a lot of examining goes on, either physically or verbally.

Our interaction went about like this:

Pretty Lady Doctor: You got a wart on your left hand? (She says this while standing across the room with her clipboard. She doesn't actually come over and look at my wart at all or even ask to see it)
Me: Yup, on my thumb
Pretty Lady Doctor: Well, there are several treatment options, which basically means that there isn't one good option that works in a completely satisfactory way.
Me: I'm getting married in May. Do you think it will be gone by then because I don't want it to look worse than it does now when I get married?
Pretty Lady Doctor: How long have you had it?
Me: A year. (A little white Lacy lie, I've actually had it about 3 years.)
Pretty Lady Doctor: Well, it's not gonna be gone by May if you've had it a year. Probably about a year if it goes away at all. (I swear that while she says this she sighs and rolls her eyes a bit.)
Me: Do you think I should do it then? I'm getting married in May.
Pretty Lady Doctor: (Ignores my question) I will freeze it in-office, and then when you go home you will have to do this daily at-home treatment. (She hands me a piece of paper with the recommended home treatment, which is exactly the same wart removal plan that Matt and my mom had me do, right down to the duct tape.) Then once a month, you will come back up here to see me so we can continue to do the in-office treatment.
Me: Do you think it will be gone by May or look worse?
Pretty Lady Doctor: When are you getting married?
Me: May
Pretty Lady Doctor: No, it will not be gone by May and there is a good possibility that it will look worse than it does now. (As she says this, she has grabbed what looks like a whip cream container full of freezing spray, heads towards me and grabs my hand)

Zack Morris-Style Time Out!

I just want to point out that at this moment, when she crossed the room with the freezing spray, was the first time she ever actually looked at my wart(s). Secondly, she did not come in the room with the freezing spray. It was already on a counter in the room, and she didn't change the nozzle on it or anything. Perhaps a nurse set this up before hand, or perhaps dermatologists just keep a can of freezing spray on the counter and randomly freeze things off people (i.e. warts, moles, skin tags) all day long with the same tainted nozzle. Gross. Thirdly, why is she telling me it's not going to work by my wedding and will probably look worse, and still assuming that I'm going to go through with this?

I actually yanked my hand away from her.

Me: No, I'm not gonna do it. I'll just pay my co-pay and leave now. Thanks. (I start to get up)
Pretty Lady Doctor: Wait. Let me measure the wart first.(Now you want to do an exam? Now that I'm leaving?)

She took out this wart ruler from a drawer; it looked like one of those protractors from school. Not the practical dorky kind that you'd do actual math with. But the kind you would get at the school book fair, where they were clear blue and had cut-out shapes on them like stars and rainbows and stuff. Well, this one had like cut-out shapes of warts and skin lesions and other gross things. She matched up my twin warts to a cut-out and sent me on my way, but not without collecting my $40 co-pay.

I exited into the parking lot with a sinking feeling of defeat. I still had my warts and I was now $40 poorer. Regardless, I'm still getting married in 4 short months. And Steven is going to have to marry this girl...with warts and all.

Lost in Twanslation

I was Christmas shopping in Walmart when I noticed a missed call alert on my cell phone and a voicemail message. I listened to the message and all I heard was a bunch of jibber jabber in an incredibly thick Asian accent. I couldn't understand a thing. So I listened again. Nothing. I listened a third time. Using all my supersonic accent encryption skills (a well-learned talent acquired from 5 years of working with Italians & Mexicans), I was able to decipher the words "store" pronounced on the message as "stwow," and "pick-up" pronounced "wick-wup."

Ah ha, eureka! I had ordered some Christmas presents on Walmart.com and was having them delivered straight to the store for pick-up (no shipping & handling costs that way). My order must be ready for pick-up. I had previous experience ordering my glitter-rific Save the Dates from Walmart.com, and I knew that there was an Asian lady named Rose who worked in the Photo Lab. She must have been the one that called me. So I headed for the Photo Lab. A lot of things went through my mind as I headed towards the back of the store: 1) I couldn't believe my good timing. I was already in Walmart when my shipment arrived, so no special trip needed. 2) How did I so geniusly decipher that impossible to understand voicemail message? I must be the Sherlock Holmes of voicemail messages. 3) Walmart really shouldn't allow Rose from the Photo Lab to do their customer service calls. She seems like a nice lady, but that accent really prevents her from being a capable outbound caller.

I made my way to the Photo Lab and it was a total madhouse. There were packages everywhere and the employees looked overworked and distressed. I didn't see Rose. She must be in the back making more inaudible phone calls. I stood in line and waited to claim my package. When it was my turn at the counter, they looked for my package, but couldn't find it. This did not alarm me at first because I knew from previous experience that while the Walmart Photo Lab did quality work, they were unorganized and unprepared. I remember when I picked up my Save the Dates, it was the slow off-season and it still took them about 15 minutes to locate my package. I spelled my name for them again, and they began to sort through the packages once more. They couldn't find it. They asked me if someone had called and told me it was ready? I told them that someone had called, but didn't go into anymore detail. They began another search for my missing package. That's when Rose walked out.

She must have sensed that another holiday package had gone AWOL because without speaking to any other co-workers first, she looked right at me and said, "How long ago did you order the package -- yesterday or a few days ago?"

Holy crap balls, she doesn't have an accent at all! All the Rs are Rs and not Ls. All the vowels are in the right place. No awkward pauses or mis-conjugated verbs. This was not my mystery Asian! Not at all!

Rose: Could you spell your name again? Is it L-A-C-E-Y? Or L-A-C-Y?

Oh my gosh, what do you do when you are caught in a moment of absolute racism? Do you fess up?

Me: Actually, it's L-A-C-Y H-A-L-L. If you can't find me under Hall, then try looking me up in your "Racist Customers Who Like to Stereotype and Generalize Minorities" file, I'm sure I'll be in there.

What was I supposed to tell these Walmart employees so desperately looking for my package? That I only have business dealings with two Asians -- Rose at the Photo Lab and the girl who does my eyebrows? Do I just fess up to my racism and get the hell out of there with shame carved onto my face like Col. Hans Landa in Inglourious Basterds? No, I got all Vegan Hippie Chick on them and said, "when the package wants to be found, it will be found. Just call me then."

Barf.

I walked a few aisles down and listened to my message again, trying to place this Mystery Asian. I understood even less now then I did before. I gave up and just called the number.

Mystery Asian: Heywhoa.
Me: Hi, I was returning your call. This number was on my Caller ID.
Mystery Asian: Yow dwess iz (sic) tu fu, come no yow und wick-wup.
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Still Patient Mystery Asian: Yow come no yow und git yow dwess.
Me: Say what now?
Slightly Less Patient Mystery Asian: Yow dwess.
Me: One more time?
Totally Frustrated Mystery Asian: YOW WEEDING DWESS! YOW DWESS! Yow weeding dwess iz weady. Yow und yow mom come see. Yow und yow mom come see, and yow twy on so tin we fwix and mak pwefect fit fo yowz.
Me: Oh...my wedding dress!

It was Betty from the wedding dress boutique! Yes Betty, my beloved Betty! How could I forget Betty. She had helped me and my mom so much when we searched for my perfect wedding dress. And her thick filipino accent and accompanying lisp had made our wedding dress experience so much more fun and joyful. Of course, it was Betty all along. How had I been so daft not to recognize Betty's famously unrecognizable speech? It seemed so obvious now.

Me: My wedding dress is ready? Oh geez, that's so exciting. I can't believe it. My wedding dress, it's seriously ready?
Betty: Yeah, that's what I said. It's weady.



(Fortune cookie pic taken, without permission, from yorkblog.com)

Strangling My Free Time

I haven't blogged in a while. My mom blames Steven for coming home from Washington and taking up all my time. But Steven isn't to blame; it's Dexter.

I've just started watching Dexter, so I've fully committed all my free time to going back through the four previous seasons, so I'll be up-to-date with the current season. This is a phenomenon known as Box Setting -- sitting on the couch in your pajamas watching multiple seasons of a popular TV show in a ridiculously short span of time. There is normally an absurd deadline involved (i.e. "I have to make it through the first 6 seasons before the season premiere on Monday.") There is typically a lot of false promises to family members and friends (i.e. "I'm just going to watch one more episode, and then I'll turn it off, and I'll get up and do something else.") But you never get up and do something else. The only time you get up is for a bathroom break or to change from Disc 3 to Disc 4. Family and friends be damned, you have to make it through this season...how else will you know what happened!

I feel no real need to justify my actions. I'm convinced that everybody has had at least one experience with Box Setting. I've had three -- The Sopranos, Smallville and now Dexter. Also, I once spent an entire weekend watching all the Harry Potter movies. But I'm not taking responsibility for that one. I blame mother nature and ABC Family for pairing a particularly gloomy and rainy weekend with a Harry Potter movie marathon. What else was I supposed to do? Clean the house? Ha!

I'm not exactly sure why I've decided to watch Dexter now. Why I didn't watch it from the beginning, I'll never know. Everybody told me I'd love Dexter. And of course, I'd love Dexter. I love murder, and I love cop shows. So there you go, I love Dexter. But isn't that always the the way with Box Setting? You hear of a popular show and instead of just watching it, you avoid it. You avoid it for years and years. And then one day, you happen to cross paths with an episode. Usually, somebody makes you watch an episode (television rape). You tell yourself that you're not really going to pay attention cause you don't want to get into it. You don't want "another program" to have to watch. Plus, what's the point of getting into a show after it's already been on for years? But then, you start watching the show and you don't just like the show, you love this show!. You need this show. And you must watch every single episode from the very beginning. And it would be nice if you watched them all in one weekend, while wearing your pajamas.

It's like an addiction. Televised crack.

The Good, The Bad, and The Not So Pretty

I have a little chore that I need to complete for the wedding reception, but in order to proceed I need mugshot-type pics of both me and Steven. The problem is that we never seem to be attractive on the same day. I washed and flat-ironed my hair last night, so I had high hopes to get the pics done this afternoon, but alas, I started my period. That makes me photogenically incapable for the next 4 to 6 days. Which also means that Steven will reach maximum attractiveness this week, then take a sudden homely dive just as my face clears up and my hair stops frizzing. We really should coordinate our looks. At least for the wedding.

I'm going to go and eat ice cream.

Current Status of Mr. Squirrel

As of this morning at approximately 7:15 a.m., Mr. Squirrel was still alive, although he sounded weak and disoriented. Which is exactly how I felt at 7 this morning too.

Operation Bamboo: Complete!

The joke's on you Bamboo Man cause I got my bamboo!
And this bamboo did not just appear under my pillow one night, delivered by the Bamboo Fairy. No sir. This was all the doing of my Aunt Susan (my dad's sister) in Pennsylvania. Aunt Susan made all my bamboo dreams a reality, by getting us this beautiful stack of bamboo here. Brooklyn loves it so much that she decided to pose for a picture with it (and because I smeared it with peanut butter). And this bamboo did not come easy for Aunt Susan. There was some detective work involved, a little bit of sneakiness, and she even had it transported across state lines from Pennsylvania to the Virginia border. The kind of stuff Burt Reynolds, ala Smokey and the Bandit, would be impressed by. And I'm impressed to. Thanks Aunt Susan. Fifty thousand bonus points for you, redeemable on our wedding day weekend.

Things Are Getting Squirrel-ly

I've got a new alarm clock. It's in the form of a squirrel that visits our attic every morning at 7:15 a.m.

If you've never been to our apartment, then let me give you a brief layout. We live in a row of conjoined rental townhouses. We don't actually have a singular attic, but a joint space that spans the entire row of townhouses. According to Steven, it's a dismal & horrid place. He said there are so many holes in the roof that it's not even dark in the attic because so much sunlight is allowed in. Of course, when he describes this, I picture a serene Baptist church punctured by beams of sunlight coming through massive stain glass windows. I don't think it's quite that lovely. On the contrary. When Steven merely lifts his upper torso into the forbidden zone, he's masked in a hat, goggles, gloves, and clothes that he does not care for. He looks like one of those guys at the end of E.T.

So through these roof holes we obtain some new friends from time to time. A few months ago, we had a rat. I know it's a rat because I actually saw him one day. I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen to make my coffee. I was still rubbing the sleepy out of my eyes when we saw each other. We actually saw each other. He was sitting on my kitchen counter. He looked at me. I looked at him. And then we both panicked. I screamed, and he hauled ass across the counter. Of course, the sight of him in motion took my scream to a higher octave and that was enough to wake Brooklyn (and believe me, that's saying something. Normally, she doesn't get up until the coffee's ready). I don't like rats. Or mice. I never wanted a hamster. But I must say, this was a very handsome rat. He did not look like a hoodlum rat. Oh no, this rat knew people. He was white with black splotches, and had a gorgeous coat of disgusting, puke-out-my guts rat fur. I would not be surprised if this rat had an agent, and would potentially be in some absurd family comedy starring Eddie Murphy or Brendan Fraser. But for the time being, he was on my counter....hauling ass. He hauled is little furry butt right into the top of my oven. I've since been baffled by his choice in escape routes. It would not seem wise to use any sort of major kitchen appliance as a getaway vehicle. But I've never been able to escape anything, so what do I know?

Of course, Steven was out-of-town and unable to handle this little rodent problem. And Brooklyn was completely unwilling. So that left me to deal with it. At first, I tried to be civil with the rat. I thought, WWWDD? (What Would Walt Disney Do?) If there was only some way I could exploit this thing for millions of dollars. Maybe this was not a disgusting rat eating breadcrumbs off my kitchen counter, but a mouse with a dream. Maybe he was planning on cooking me breakfast or tidying my house. Soon, I realized this was highly unlikely. I had no eggs or pancake mix, and he would not be able to push the vacuum cleaner with those tiny little paws. I decided that he had to be murdered.

I planned on being humane by purchasing "no kill" traps and sonic sound things, but that crap didn't work. I didn't have the heart (or stomach) for sticky traps. I could not get old-fashioned snap traps to work without hurting myself in the process. And...I'm about to confess something...one day....I stole a cat. I borrowed the cat really. And she was already in my yard, so technically she was trespassing. But it was pointless. Turns out, I catnapped the laziest damn animal next to Brooklyn on a rainy day. She was a napper, not a mouse hunter.

So I moved on to poison. It worked for the girls in 9 to 5, the evil queen in Snow White, and it worked for me too. Rat problem solved. But now we've got a new problem -- Mr. Squirrel. How do I know it's a squirrel? Context clues. He sounds very acrobatic and busy. He's much more motivated than a rat. Plus, he's very punctual. He keeps a set schedule every single day. At 7:15 a.m., he starts to scratch and gnaw in the attic and he actually moves in a set path throughout the ceiling. By 9 a.m., he's done. This is his schedule, every single day! Now, everybody knows that rats don't have enough pocket space to carry a watch, much less a map and compass. But squirrels do -- why do you think they have those bushy tails? It's not for balance, it's cargo space.

Yeah, I know. It could be something else. But I'm not Discovery Earth, I don't have a film crew capturing the goings-on of my attic. There could be another rat up there, or a wayward penguin. Maybe a drunk and confused Rip Torn, looking for his house. Hell, it could be that cat that I kidnapped, suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. I really don't know what's up there, and I don't care. This stupid freaking thing has been waking me up every morning for 4 days now and it must die. With any luck, after a few days and a few handfuls of poison, it'll be nothing more than a dead lump of furry regrets.

Splendor in the Grass

My dad is sick, so I mowed my parents lawn out of the sheer goodness of my heart (read- my parents guilted me into it. Ugh, why don't I have a brother and/or why don't my parents own a goat?!?) I'm really crappy at mowing lawns. I can't get the lawn mower started at all. Someone else has to start it for me, which means I have to do the front and back lawns all at once cause I can't let the mower shut off. The real problem is the shaking. I've got kinda puny arms, so lawnmowers and weed trimmers shake the crap out of my arms. I overcompensate by holding on with a death grip. So needless to say, I've got blisters on my hands.

The mowing actually went pretty well until the very end when the lawn mower started making strange sounds. Maybe it was running out of gas, maybe it was tired? I'm not really sure. I'll admit, I have rarely ever mowed a lawn, so I'm not up-to-date on my lawnmower sound diagnostics. I only had a small section of the yard left. And you know the section of the yard I'm talking about. It's the small patch of grass on the side of the house where it connects with the neighbors crappy little patch of grass. You both secretly hope the other one over-mows so you don't have to, but that rarely happens. So I half-assed finished the job and put the mower back in the shed.

Then I saw Brooklyn. Apparently, she thought it was a good idea to roll in dog poop, followed by grass clippings. Basically, she tar and feathered herself.

So now I had to give Brooklyn a bath. It's actually pretty easy to give Brooklyn a bath at my parents house. When they had their master bath remodeled, I don't think they planned on creating a dog spa utopia, but they did. They have a very large walk-in shower with swinging glass doors and stone floors. So once a dog gets trapped in there, they can't get out. The shower head is removable, so no matter what corner they try to hide in, you can squirt them down easily. My favorite thing about giving Brooklyn a bath in that shower is, without fail, she will attempt to open the door with her paw at least once during the bath. She walks up to the glass door and rests her paw against it. It never moves. The problem is that I don't think Brooklyn knows how to push. I think she assumes doors work by merely placing your palm against them -- like in Star Trek. She doesn't get the whole pushing thing, or she's just too lazy to push...I'm not sure which it is.

In the middle of Brooklyn's bath, I heard a loud KABOOM!!! My initial reaction was that it was the lawnmower exploding in the shed. It was not. It was the Blue Angels practicing for the air show this weekend, and they got a little close to the house. Hopefully, they didn't get too close. I would hate for them to notice the crap job I did on the lawn.

The Magical World of Home

We're back from Florida! We had the best vacation ever. Technically, it was Steven's first vacation, so it was especially exciting for him. But it really was a great, super fantastic time. I have nothing bad to say about anything. Those Disney people, they run a really top notch organization there. They've got it all figured out. Pretty much all their rides are family friendly*, and when you exit the ride you walk directly into a gift shop. Seriously, every ride emptied into a gift shop. And no worries about having to carry anything around their park cause they send it right to your hotel room...free of charge. Genius!

*Family Friendly...ha! Check out this short clip of me on some runaway train ride at Magic Kingdom. I'm a wiener. I'm not good on rides.



We went to 5 theme parks in 5 days (Magical Kingdom, Epcot, Animal Kingdom, Universal's Islands of Adventure, and Universal Studios). So needless to say, I'm pretty freaking tired. I need a vacation from my vacation. We had a blast, but it's nice to be home. The only problem is, some little punk fairy wrecked our house when we were gone. I could have sworn we left a clean, meticulously organized and spotless house. But when we came home...clothes everywhere, mail everywhere, unwashed glasses in the sink, and no toilet paper in the bathroom. How could I leave on vacation and not stock the toilet paper first? Did I think, upon return, we would no longer need to use the bathroom? Did I think Disney World would equip us with some sort of non-defecating superpower -- like a lame, lesser known superhero? My only real option was to use old wet naps from Buffalo Wild Wing that I found in the junk drawer. And that's not good for anybody involved -- not for me, not for the toilet, and definitely not for Buffalo Wild Wing's branding department. So needless to say, I had to pretty much hold it until I went to work on Monday. I don't know what Steven did. And I don't want to know.

So what I'm getting at is this...I'm too tired to post right now.
I'll post more later. But in the meantime, here is treasured picture from our vacation. It's a borderline racist pic from a It's a Small World-esque boat ride in Epcot. Notice that the little Mexican kids have Donald Duck strung up like a pinata and are having a grand ol' time beating him to get to those sugary treats they love so much. Maybe a cinnamon churro even? Good times!

The Anatomy of a Half Marathon

The Rock n' Roll Half Marathon was this morning.

Here's my timeline:

5:30 am- Alarm goes off. I've only gotten 4 and a half hours of sleep. Steven has only slept 2 hours, staying up till 3 am with a tummy ache and watching old Richard Pryor movies on his laptop. Brooklyn having had 10 hours of solid sleep feels well rested, but questions our motives for getting up so early. She retreats under the covers.

6:30 am- Steven has dropped me off at the race start. I do my stretches, eat half a bagel, GU Chomps (energy gummy bears), and contemplate standing in line for the port-a-potties. I do not need to go to the bathroom, but last year I found a 20 dollar bill in a port-a-potty. It was a surreal moment finding a perfect 20 bill on the ground of a disgusting port-a-potty. Like finding pirate treasure while pissing. I left it on the ground because I didn't know where to put it (I would have had to stuff it down my sports bra). Gross. This year, I came prepared with a running belt. Still...I don't wait in line for the port-a-potties.

7:00 am- Race begins for the fast people (i.e. the Kenyans). Everybody else waits patiently for their start. I begin to daydream about the riches I could have found in the port-a-potty.

Mile 2.5- My right knee is bothering the hell out of me. This is particularly alarming because my right knee is my "good knee." I pull to the side and try to stretch it out. It doesn't work; it still hurts. I think if I keep running, it will eventually "pop" but it doesn't. I start feeling like a schmuck for finally reaching the age where I have a "good knee" and a "bad knee."

Mile 4- My iPod shuffle has played 4 songs in a row from Britney's Spears album Circus. I begin to question my iPod's judgement.

Mile 5- I get behind a jogger with a "Running in Memory of BLANK" on the back of their shirt. Under the name is a picture of an American soldier. While I truly appreciate people running for fallen friends and family, I don't want to get emotional. I divert my eyes.

Mile 5.5- Enrique Iglesias's "I Like It" comes on my iPod. I start thinking about The Jersey Shore.

Mile 6- I get behind a girl with a virtual rose garden tattooed across her entire back. Red roses. Yellow roses. Black roses. On the small of her back (tramp stamp area), it says "Rose." Really? I thought your name might have been Lily. There are a lot of bad tattoos on full display during the race. Tattoos on thighs and hips and necks. I appreciate bad tattoos while running. In school, I learned that Buddhist monks cherished imperfections in pottery because it gave them something to stare at while they were meditating. The worst idea for a tattoo that I have ever heard was this girl wanted to get the story of her and her boyfriend tattooed down her back...in mermaids. That's right, I said mermaids. Damn, I wish I was running behind that girl right now.

Mile 6.5- I'm given a GU Energy Gel. It's vanilla. I do not eat vanilla or chocolate GU. For the reasons, you might be thinking (she whispers- when they get warm, it's like eating poo-poo and man juice). Gross. I give my vanilla GU back to the volunteer. He is not pleased and tries to hand it back. I ball up my hand little kid-style so he can't force it back into my hand. My little kid trickery works. I go to the next volunteer and grab some more GU. It's blueberry. I hate blueberry. Curses.

Mile 7- For no apparent reason, I begin thinking about Pat Benatar, the headliner for the American Music Festival in Virginia Beach this weekend. Years ago, I saw her perform for free at the 24th Street Stage at the oceanfront. She destroyed it. Her husband plays guitar in her band and they've been married for 28 years. His nickname is Spyder. During his guitar solos, she stared at him with the sort of adoration that only a young girl could hold for Justin Beiber.

Mile 8- I see a guy dressed in all white and wearing angel wings. He is running in memoriam of his friend, Erik. I divert my eyes.

Mile 8.5- I get behind a father and daughter team. On the back of her shirt it reads, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!" On the back of Dad's shirt it reads, "WHAT? THIS IS MY PRESENT?"

Mile 9- I start thinking about chocolate chip pancakes. This is not unusual. Steven and I are having brunch at Citrus immediately after the race. When I ran the Shamrock Marathon in March, I was motivated by Captain George's seafood buffet. I actually developed a cadence around mile 16 where I just repeated "Shrimp, shrimp, shrimp, shrimp" with every step. It's what I imagine gets Brooklyn through her day.

Mile 9.75- The race course runs past Croatan, an affluent oceanfront neighborhood. Like always, some of the people of Croatan have set out yard sprinklers for runners to cool off under. They are also passing out orange slices and cantaloupe. I begin to reassess all the bad thoughts I've had about rich people.

Mile 10.5- I am no longer thinking about rich people. I am thinking about making it over the Rudee Inlet bridge. My right knee is questioning my judgement.

Mile 11- I fart. I know that it's not physically plausible, but I always feel that when I fart, it gives me a little turbo boost. And I run real fast for like 30 seconds. Sorta like hitting the nitro boost button in a hot car.

Mile 12- The longest mile. I begin to think about Burt Reynolds and that prison/football movie.

Mile 12.2- People always pass out during this last mile. It's a potpourri of dropping runners and fallen bodies. You really have to have your wits about you not trip or get pulled down by a delirious runner. Kind of like playing Frogger, but with fallen runners instead of cars. This one lady drops right in front of me. A medic rushes to her side and repeatedly asks, "Do you know where you are?" For some reason, I want her to answer, "Cleveland." She does not. She, in fact, does not know where she is.

Mile 12.5- My morale and stamina is at dangerously low levels. I become increasingly annoyed with spectators on the sidelines yelling things like, "You can do it! Finish strong!" I suppose it's meant to sound motivational and inspirational, but it comes across as condescending to a tired runner, when yelled by spectators in flip flops and eating snow cones.

Mile 12.75- Flo Rida's song "Low" comes on. I begin thinking about big asses and Reebok's with the straps. I notice that several women are wearing jogging pants with built-in ass support. While I have sometimes wished for a slightly larger, more curvaceous rump, I am very happy that I do not have to wear a sports bra for my ass.

Mile 13.1- I finish! To my surprise and dismay, I did not win. I finish 2nd to 6,226 people. It's been a long day; I'll take 2nd.

Florida or Bust!!!!!

We're going to Disney World!!!!!! Well, to Disney World & to Universal Studios Florida. It was a very spontaneous move on our part. Steven is coming back this Friday and he has off on Monday for Labor Day, as well as, the rest of the week per request of his company. I just kept thinking, "Gee, I wish we would have known this before hand. We could have planned a trip." And then late Friday night, it hit me...why don't we plan a trip? What's stopping us? I got online and looked at some prices and found out that a Disney trip was plausible.

I seriously could not sleep at all Friday night; I was so excited. I didn't go to sleep until 4am and I woke up at 9am. I tried to call the travel agency (CI Travel, the same one who booked our honeymoon), but they weren't open until 10am. At 10am on the dot, I called them and booked the trip. And yes, I did get travel insurance. I normally don't. I like to gamble with the weather. But I figured that during hurricane season, insurance was a good idea. The "responsible" thing to do.

So we're leaving Monday, September 6th at 8:30am and arriving in Orlando at around 10:30am. And then coming back on Saturday, September 11th at like 5pm. We're staying at the Disney All-Star Music Resort, which is a value hotel that I picked purely for the price and the picture-taking opportunities. Ironic since neither one of us owns a camera. We've got tickets for three days at Disney World and two days at Universal Studios. What am I most excited about? The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Ever since the first film came out I've been waiting for some sort of Harry Potter/Quidditch type ride to be built. I didn't understand why no amusement park had gotten a Harry Potter ride yet. And then Universal comes out with an entire Harry Potter Land, complete with Butter Beer and The Three Broomsticks and everything. I've been plotting to go there ever since I heard about it.

Me and Steven are soooooooo excited! I don't know about him, but ever since I booked the trip, I haven't been able to sleep at all. I can't sleep. I'm too excited. I'm like one of those kids in the commercials.

The Adventures of Bamboo Man

I'm on the hunt for bamboo. I need 8 poles of bamboo, a minimum of 3 inches in diameter and (at least) 10 feet long. Bamboo -- it's so free and plentiful in Hawaii, and yet so expensive and evasive in Virginia. But we got a lot of ham! So suck on that Hawaii. Oh wait, they've got a ton of pigs too. That whole luau, cook the pig in the ground thing. (Sigh) Whatever, Hawaii, whatever.

So I'm looking for bamboo and I've found a lot of stuff online, but it's still a little pricey. So I did a google search for "local garden nurseries bamboo." I got maybe 7 potential places and I wrote down all their phone numbers, but honestly...I don't want to call them. So after two months, I threw the list away. I actually destroyed it in a paper shredder. That upset my mom a bit, who didn't understand why I would throw the list away. But she didn't want to call them either. And now that I've destroyed the list, I've eliminated any obligation I previously had to make any phone calls. So there. Doesn't make much sense, but it does.

Over the weekend, me and my parents made random drop-ins on local nurseries to see if they had any bamboo. We found this one crazy guy at this one nursery. He looked like, at one time, he might have been a surfer dude and/or an alcoholic. He had crazy gray hair that went with his crazy gray beard. He walked way too fast and had way too much information. Picture Epic Beard Man with a weekend job selling petunias.

But to answer our question? No, they didn't have any bamboo. BUT they did have a patch of bamboo that was growing in the woods behind the nursery. What happened next, I'm confused about. He showed us where the bamboo was growing. Told us when a good time of the year would be to cut it down (aka when tick season was over). Told us what kind of saw to cut it down with. Told us the type of truck and rack to use to load the bamboo in. He told us when he would be working and when other people wouldn't be working. And he told us not to bother asking anybody else at the store about the bamboo because they wouldn't know about it...like he would.

So, is Bamboo Man:

A) Someone who just won't shut-up and is an over-sharer,

B) Trying to tell us the how, when, and where of stealing bamboo from his employer,

C) A hustler who wants us to come back and pay him on the side to steal bamboo from his employer,

D) In need of Just For Men: Blend-Away Gray for Moustaches, Beards and Sideburns

Hmmmmm, while you think about that I'm going to go and have a "country dinner" and my Aunt Jan's house.

Orange Panties or a Girdle?

I was just at a department store at MacArthur Mall trying on white cocktail dresses for my wedding day weekend. They were all at ridiculously low prices because (I'm assuming) Labor Day is coming up and you're not supposed to wear white after Labor Day. I guess they gotta drop their white dress inventory stat! I tried on this one dress and it was so tight, and there was so much ruching, that I looked like a blonde version of Snooki. Like seriously, the dress was so tight that I almost threw my back out trying to get it over my head. When I finally got it over my body, my hair was so messed up, I had like a comb-over/poof thing going. I looked like a sausage. Literally a Snooki sausage. I didn't buy it. But that's not the important thing.

The important thing is that in the dressing room next to me, I could hear this one lady talking to her friend and she was really unsure about the dress she had tried on. Apparently, it was for a wedding too, but she was going to be a guest. She kept asking, "Is it too tight right here?" And her friend would never answer her. She would ask if the dress made her look fat, and the friend would respond, "Do you have a bra that will work for this?" And they had this entire discussion about whether or not she should wear orange panties or a girdle? They went back and forth on that forever, "orange panties or a girdle?" They couldn't decide which would be best. What the hell sort of situation was there with the dress that it could either be solved with orange panties OR a girdle, but not both? And they never resolved the orange panties/girdle dilemma. They walked out of the dressing room to do some further investigating and I tried so hard to peek at them through the slotted doors, but alas...I couldn't! I'll never know.

The $7 Tub

Me and my parents got into a very long "discussion" while at Lowe's on Sunday. My dad has a blue all-purpose tub, which looks like the one above. For the wedding reception, we're planning on filling this tub with ice and an assortment of refreshing non-alcoholic beverages including, but not limited to, soda pop, bottled water, juice boxes, and Yoo-Hoo. This tub would be for the reception, and would be located on the deck of the beachouse. My dad already owns this tub. It's a part of the family. It's free and already booked for the wedding.

Me, ever the considerate hostess, was wanting to purchase a second all-purpose tub to place directly on the beach so that BEFORE the wedding, guests could grab a bottled water, while they were waiting for the ceremony to begin. This is to prevent guests from getting too parched and/or dehydrated (READ: Thirsty). They have all-purpose tubs available at Lowe's. They are $7.

This is where things got dicey. Neither one of my parents wanted me to buy this tub. The following account is a paraphrase of the "discussion" that took place in the garden center of Lowe's.

Mom's Proposal: Why don't you just put your dad's tub on the edge of the deck so that it's closer to the ceremony site? People will walk by and they'll grab a drink if they want one.
My Counter-Argument: No, I don't think most people will just grab a drink if it's on the deck. They'll be polite and think it's for the reception.
Mom's Counter Idea to My Counter-Argument: Then have the tub on the beach during the ceremony and then move it on the deck for the reception.
My Counter to the Counter: No, it will be too heavy.
Dad's Expert Opinion: Yeah, it'll be too heavy.
Mom's Second Proposal: Why don't we put the tub of bottled water and ice on the beach for the ceremony, then after the ceremony dump out the ice on the beach, so it won't be so heavy to move it.
My Second Counter-Argument to the Second Proposal: Then you'll have to take out all the water that didn't get drank, dump the ice on the sand, move the tub, then re-fill it with new ice and more drinks. That's a lot of work.
Mom's Third Proposal: Let's use one of your dad's little coolers then. They're small enough to carry on the sand.
My Counter-Argument to the Third Proposal: That's ghetto.
Dad's Proposal: This might sound wild. (UH OH!) But what if I bring my wheelbarrow, cover the basin with plastic, fill it with ice and water, and then just wheel it on to the beach.
My Counter: You're gonna load that heavy wheelbarrow into your truck, and then drive it all the way to Sandbridge and then wheel it in the sand!?!
Dad's Counter to My Counter: It's got a big giant tire, it won't get stuck.
My Proposal: Why don't I just get the tub...it's $7.
Dad Closing Arguments: Fine, get the tub then.

So, I got the tub. It was $7.

This might seem like a small moment in a series of numerous small moments in planning this wedding. And, I'm pretty sure that my parents still disagree with me about buying the $7 tub. But, to all the men in my family and in Steven's family -- there is going to be a point between our wedding ceremony and reception, where you are going to be moving around a lot of shit (i.e. chairs, tables, kegs, archways) and you'll feel very tired, and be in a moderate amount of pain. In that moment, I want you to look down at this $7 purple tub, that will be filled with an assortment of refreshing non-alcoholic beverages. I want you to look down at this tub, sitting comfortably on the beach and think, "Thank God, I don't have to move that freaking heavy ass tub too!"

And then I will have won.