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.