Post Event Syndrome

For five months, I have lived and breathed all things WEDDING.

Now it's over.

Our families have left. Beds have been changed. Gifts have been opened. Even our skin has thrown in the towel and begun to peel from our Mexican honeymoon. The children have returned and once again, their bedrooms look like wastelands. I opened one of our credit card bills the other day and had to put my head between my knees.

Apparently, this is the big exhale; the time of thank you notes and harsh buckets of cold reality.

And it bites.

There should be readily available pharmaceuticals out there to help manage Post Event Syndrome. It's like a child's Christmas Day on steroids: big build up, massive planning, the tingle of anticipation and then...

*blink*

...it's Monday morning in the office.

I would like a pill to take me back to the moment when I glanced over at my three cousins and realized that they were in matching t-shirts that said, "cousin of the bride". Like most everything the week of the wedding, this sweet gesture overwhelmed me.

We held the rehearsal dinner at one of our local restaurants and I remember looking around that room and realizing how impossibly fortunate we were to have every person that really matters to us together in one place. I wanted to consciously savour each second and burn that evening into my memory to replay over and over.

Sentimental?

Hell, yes. Like a sappy Hallmark card. But Dallas and I both had trouble shaking the dreamlike quality of the fortnight leading up to the wedding. He'd lean over and say, "Look at that", pointing to our mothers and how surreal it was to watch them connect. Or we'd glance into the backyard to witness the men in our combined families mingling over beer and BBQ. Weddings, like most life changing events, have a way of clarifying things.

For example, my biological sister chose not to attend or even acknowledge my nuptials in any way except with a short note written on her RSVP. One of my closest friends, who lives in California, backed out of her wedding party duties less than a month before Dallas and I were set to walk down the aisle. Both events stung a bit but if I were honest with myself, I wasn't terribly surprised. I suppose that subconsciously, (where all the uglies go to fester) I have known that the landscape of those bonds had shifted. Relationships are sometimes like an old, comfortable t-shirt. We often hold onto them long after they're full of holes.

On the other hand, I had relatives from all over Canada who made the trip, at considerable expense, to support me. It is profoundly humbling to understand that I rank on their totem pole of priorities. And believe me, their attendance was no small sacrifice because there is nothing much to do in my town except watch the grass grow and count abandoned chicken coops. Eight people from New Zealand came which speaks volumes about my husband. People used language like, "We wouldn't have missed it for the world". And then there were our friends. Plainly put, we would NOT have survived without them. Period.

So, in the absence of some sort of narcotic to numb the sharp pricklies of a life returned to status quo, I look forward to spending hours reviewing the nearly 1500 pictures that were taken in the last month. These are just a few. They make me smile.

My Sisters

The Boys

Cozumel

Another Scintillating Weekend

Not much in the weekend round up except that:

A) I'm thisclose to breaking into the next "decade" of numbers on the scale. I'm nearly 25 pounds down. Yeah me.

B) Olivia managed part three of "The Naughty Chronicles". On Sunday night, she came home from her dad's house with a teeny tiny attitude. Poor thing. At her age, how could she possibly grasp the concept of mummy holding on to sanity by a thin, flimsy piece of dental floss? So at the dinner table as she wiggled and got up and sat down and dropped her fork and dropped her napkin and wiggled some more, I shot her the parental death ray and shook my head almost imperceptibly. To my complete amazement, she stopped. Like a deer standing downwind, I think she must have picked up the scent of danger.

But Olivia is my daughter and thus, she learns each and every one of her lessons the hard way. She was incapable of finishing the meal in peace. Instead, she slid off of her barstool, sidled over to me, cupped her hands and stage whispered, "Mama? Would you be mad at me if I wrote on the wall?" I let this new revelation wash over me and surprisingly, I wasn't all that upset.

"Where did you write on the wall?" I asked, while continuing to eat.

Teenage daughter and Dylan simultaneously said, "the bathroom".

I looked at Olivia and said nothing. She blinked and her eyes quickly filled with tears. Still, I didn't say anything because truthfully, I was at a loss as to how to handle the situation. And then just like that, I didn't care. I was completed defeated.

By a six year old.

I told her to go into the laundry room, grab a magic eraser and scrub the doodles off the wall. I explained that this latest incident had to be the last for the rest of the summer and that she had used up all of her naughty cards. I have tolerated hair cutting, eyebrow cutting and adventures in a birdcage but THIS had to be it. She nodded solemly. "Yes, mama."

She then marched over to Dylan, stuck her tongue out and hissed, "Now YOU can't tell on me. Mummy knows". Smart cookie, that one.

C) Wedding stuff. Blah, blah, blah. I know. The mere mention of it causes one's eyes to involuntarily roll to the back of one's head, right? Well, living it isn't any better. Dallas and I are so excited to have all of the people that we love gathered together in one place but the details of planning this thing are completely outside of my area of expertise.

I cannot get my head around all of the stuff that you have to have for a wedding. Cake server, knife, wedding guest book with matching pen, garter, toasting glasses, ring bearer's pillow, flower girl basket, card box, and on and on and on. The profit margins are indecent. For instance, we recently met with the facility that is hosting our reception. Keg of beer: $215 plus 22% (mandatory gratuity) plus tax. Works out to be about $287 total or roughly $1.74 per glass for shitty, headache-inducing draught beer. The wine? Not so great French stuff for about $5.32 a glass. Since neither of us can claim a Rothschild in the family tree, I spoke with one of the catering directors and proposed that we be allowed to supply our own wine and beer with a proper "uncorking" fee. The suggestion was not well-received. Well, of course it wasn't! If I was getting over 400% profit, I'd be loathe to change the program too.

Bastards.

And how about RSVP cards? Why do people find it so difficult to write a number in the little spot provided and throw the thing in the mailbox? Our cards were addressed. And stamped! Some people have called or emailed but the absolute BEST excuse is one I got from Tim, my friend the motorcycle instructor. This past weekend, Dallas and I were at the Harley dealership. While Dallas went to the parts counter, I wandered out back to the range and ran into Tim. He told me that he was happy to see me because

THE DOG ATE THEIR RSVP CARD.

Not original, but excellent.

So, that was my weekend. I'm just a twitchy, bitchy mess but whenever I feel the need to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply, I look at this picture.



This will be my view in less than four weeks.

Week in Brief

This is day 21 on the HCG diet. I've lost all interest in food.

Yeah, whatevah.

If that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't be in the sorry shape that I am. Knock, knock, knocking on twenty pounds lost. I am totally cheesed with myself for giving in last weekend. Even though it was a little cheat and I only went up half a pound, I didn't lose Saturday, Sunday or Monday. I could have been at twenty today if I'd shown a whisper of restraint. GAH! Ah well, I've been back in the saddle all week and results are good. I'll update you Monday. In the event that I don't hit the goal, I may be cranky and will be forced to blog about something I despise, like the current administration or taxes or young, hefty people riding around in those electric shopping carts at Wal-Mart because they are too lazy to walk.

I was a wedding planning goddess this week. Of course, you know that last weekend was kind of a breakthrough for me and now that I've drunk from the bridezilla goblet, I have become militant in my need to cross items off of the "list". This week I:
-Ordered the wedding favours.
-Ordered a little something something for the brave women who have agreed to stand up there with me
-Reserved the limo BUS. Yes, BUS.
-Got pricing on the flowers.
-Decided on the table centerpieces (did not have to put head between legs and breathe deeply)
-Organized the logistics of the wedding day with a specific timeline.
-Organized rehearsal dinner.
If I was allowed, I'd reward myself with a dark chocolate truffle and a glass of merlot.
*Sigh*

My daughters, all three of them, have been sent from someplace fiery to torment me. Eldest, the one who made me a grandmother, phoned very late one night, repeatedly, until I answered. I don't usually pick up the phone after 9pm because I wear bifocals now and beauty rest is no longer a joke. I answered this time because I'm a grandmother and for goodness sakes, it could concern the baby.

Nope.

It was daughter crying incoherently because her tooth hurt. Apparently a strawberry seed was lodged in the wrong place.

Threats of the emergency room.

Ice pick in the head stuff.

HIGH DRAMA.

And then it passed. I suggested that she might want to get a sitter every now and then and get a full eight hours. Or perhaps a psychiatrist with a liberal prescription pad. Jesus.

Teenage daughter got herself a new boyfriend. He is the same age, clean cut, polite and generally delightful. He's also the lead singer in a death metal band. I'm told this type of music is an acquired taste, like jazz or rap. Hmmm...Since they seem to be spending nearly every waking moment together, the birth control issue is bound to rear it's controversial head again because abstinence is a fairy tale. I dread the conversation but I'm going to take another run at it anyway. So everything is all good. She's babysitting Olivia for the summer. We think that perhaps the boyfriend might be a distraction, though. He comes over most days that he doesn't work and "helps" teenage daughter with Olivia. I'm not sure it's working out so well. Yesterday, I came home to this:

Oh listen, I know she looks peaceful enough. You need to look a little closer.


See it now? She's missing a bloody EYEBROW! Apparently, while teenage daughter was otherwise engaged, Olivia took a pair of scissors to her eyebrow. And this, thirty five days before she is scheduled to pose in about a million wedding pictures. I'll be damned before I DRAW one on. Then she'd likely do the whole Norma Desmond, "All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close up" thing.
I am praying for a quick regrowth.

And this is why good chocolate and alcohol are part of my vernacular. It's called COPING.

37 Days

In 37 days, I'm getting married.

Holy crap.

I was mildly panicked a few weeks ago but I have a well developed ability to stick my fingers in my ears. La la la, I can't HEAR you. Some call it procrastination. Some call it denial. For me, it is a matter of survival.

In another life, I must have suffered from multiple personality disorder and it has dripped a little bit of crazy onto this one. There is a part of me that is Felix Unger meticulous. I write EVERYTHING down. I keep lists. I get uptight when things are messy and I have no use for incompetent people or lousy systems. I have an unnatural, kinetic need to stay busy (baking or ruining my work clothing with errant bleach spots).

Sometimes.

Then there is the other side:

The Rastafarian. ( Irie, baby.)

Yes, this facet of my personality shrugs, nestles feet into the sand and sparks up a metaphoric dutchie. It takes urgent documents and shoves them into one of several "junk" drawers which results in frantic needle in a haystack searches later on. It has to re-launder clothing that has sat in the washing machine until moldy. Under extreme stress, this side CHECKS OUT.

Way, way out.

Lately, work has been rife with issues. In my personal life, the big day is barreling towards me like a freight train and I'm taking in so few calories that grass looks palatable. I fully expected to wake up one of these mornings with the desire to scour the cupboards looking for the leftover prescription pain meds that I've been saving for a bikini wax. Instead, I am quite surprised to find myself mostly calm and fully engaged. I have been remarkably efficient the last couple of weeks which is completely contrary to my under pressure personality. This past weekend, we met with the event people at our reception venue and I participated in finalizing the details. Me! I actually had an opinion on the colour of the napkins.

This is progress which can only be attributed to the diet. I'm thinking that the sluggish, disorganized, somnambulist part of me can be directly linked to the excess weight I was carrying. I mean, how effective can one be in a carbohydrate coma?

Today, I am within striking range of twenty pounds lost. I should hit that goal by the weekend. And that will be after 24 days of dieting. I really shouldn't complain about the variety of food on this plan. After all, to lose weight this quickly, it could be worse. Much, much worse.

(picture courtesy of MSNBC)

Weekend Wrap Up

There is not much news on our front.

Another weekend went by without Dallas and I tending to the front flower bed. I'm sure that sometime soon, the Home Owner's Association police are going to drive by and give us a warning for excessive weed growth and butt ugly ground cover.

But the job is so big, neither one of us want to tackle it. I can't imagine anything less appealing than laying a bunch of black plastic sheeting down and spending hours meticulously cutting holes in said plastic for the existing plants we'd like to keep. But we have to do something because all of my neighbours have gone to great trouble to beautify their landscaping and we look like the family that could any moment jack a car up on cement blocks.

And shade trees. Did I mention those? Our yard is void of them. It's not like I haven't tried to conform to the subdivision standards. When I moved into the house, the lazy son of a bitch builder had planted a sugar maple in the front yard. It was thriving. Then my gram died and my coworkers gave me a dogwood tree to plant in her memory. Naturally, as a flowering plant, it belonged in the front yard. So, I dug up the maple, replanted it in the back yard and replaced it with the dogwood. BIG MISTAKE. The dogwood died and when I removed it, it made a sick sucking sound and smelled like a sewer. I replaced it with a Bradford Pear, which is apparently idiot proof. Not so. Died a slow, painful death like Hillary Clinton's presidential bid.

Meanwhile in the back yard, the transplanted sugar maple was happy, that is until it met Sandy, my first and last experiment with large dog ownership.

Sandy was a yellow lab mixed with some sort of high energy hound. She was sweet natured, playful and dumb as a box of rocks. She dug and chewed and gnawed and pulled until there was nothing left of that maple. For a long time, it resembled the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

And then one day, it just wasn't there anymore. Shortly thereafter, Sandy went to live with a nice family in the country who didn't mind that she shat herself senseless in the house.

I'm thinking that something in a cactus variety might work. Don't they flourish when you forget to water them and leave them alone? Of course, mother nature doesn't always cooperate and it would probably die too. Drown. Or get blown away in one of our weekly freaking tornadoes.

------------------------------------------------------------------

It's already dripping hot here and even though I said that I wouldn't go through another southern summer without a pool, I am eating my words. I had every intention of spending the 25K to dig a giant hole in my easement-challenged back yard. Of course, that plan hadn't figured a wedding into the budget so I recently tossed the idea around that maybe one of those above ground numbers might do. I mentioned this to Dallas and he wrinkled up his nose like he had smelled something bad. Okay, I will concede that they are a bit ugly and that the set up would require work. Yes, it would kill the grass it sat upon leaving a crop circle-like impression in the yard but it would be wet and cool and underwater, it's hard to hear the children and I can hold my breath A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME. Dallas wasn't swayed so relief will have to be a lawn chair under a sprinkler.

Again.

Speaking about the wedding (aren't I always doing that lately?):

Dallas and I are shamefully delinquent in accomplishing the tasks set forth by our wedding planner. We were given a list of things, by week, that we were supposed to have accomplished and since receiving the missive three weeks ago, we've done nothing.

Bubkas. Squat. Nada. Zip. ZERO.

Each day, Dallas would say, "Hon, have you seen the list?"

I'd answer, "It's on the coffee table."

He'd reply, "I don't see it."

Me: "Oh really?"

And then we'd be off on another topic or headed out the door or generally MOVING ON with life. This weekend, I cleaned for the first time in the better part of a year (recently let our housekeeper go) and guess what I found?

Right! And it was on the coffee table.

And we both looked at it and came to the conclusion that we were screwed. It is now less than six weeks from D-Day. I'm sure everything will come together but if it doesn't, our plan "B" is to have enough grog on hand so that nobody gives a hoot.

Eight Weeks and Two Days

I understand why people elope.

Planning a wedding is really a giant pain in the arse. There is nothing fun about it and any Martha Stewart wannabe who tells you differently has been inhaling too much craft glue.

Besides watching our wallet spontaneously combust, there are small, insidious issues that have jumped into our path recently and they just don't respect the fact that Dallas and I list towards procrastination, as a rule. Today marks eight weeks and two days until we say our vows. EIGHT WHOLE WEEKS!

Dallas and I were lying in bed the other night and he said, "Beth?" in a questioning voice. Immediately, the alarm bells began to shriek in my head because when he uses my given name instead of an endearment, I know there is likely to be trouble. In this particular instance, he asked if I thought it might be okay for his groomsmen to wear black pants and a white dress shirt instead of a tux. Leisa and Shane had elected to do this for their wedding in February and it made sense because they were married at the beach. The whole look of their wedding party was modern chic. I've got a horse drawn carriage delivering me to the chapel steps. Cinderella stuff. F-A-I-R-Y T-A-L-E material. But hey, I'm easy. If tuxes won't work, I'd be perfectly happy with tights and powdered wigs.

Dallas wasn't demanding that we do it this way. He was merely floating an idea. We had recently learned that he must send each of his groomsmen out to the tailor's rightthisverysecond to be measured for a tux because in JUST EIGHT WEEKS PEOPLE, we'll be walking down the aisle and apparently, time is needed to grow the cotton or shear the sheep! Dallas doesn't want to inconvenience anyone so of course, the path of least resistance was to have them pluck something from their own closet. I haven't given him any feedback on the idea yet. Lately, I can't make a decision between mustard or mayo let alone anything of any import.

Which brings me to the second issue. The honeymoon. Where do we go?

We first tossed the idea of chartering our own boat and sailing the Aegean Sea. We'd spend six blissful days island hopping. Too much work, though. And there was talk of pirates, matey. So then we thought we might like to fly to either Mikonos or Santorini and just laze on the beach with an Ouzo in hand. But that idea still didn't sit well with us. Of course being motorcycle enthusiasts, we thought we could rent a couple of Harleys and ride along the Mediterranean. We mapped a route that started in Italy, worked our way through France and finished in Spain. I loved the idea of seeing a bit of three countries this way until we had a look at the Euro versus the American dollar. Yeah, spank us! We quickly abandoned that idea.

So then, we decided to stay closer to home. We had people suggest domestic honeymoons.

No.

Mexico? Nice beaches and perfect weather but we had both been there.

Costa Rica? Hmm...we landed on that one for some time because the place is visually stunning but I just couldn't get past the $500+ a night price tag in Central America.

Now, we're contemplating the Caribbean. Actually, I am perusing the Caribbean. Dallas disengaged from the process a long time ago. He's a buyer, not a shopper and my indecision is causing him to gray at the temples. But have you seen the sheer number of islands in the Caribbean? And I feel the need to research every last one of them because I want the most bang for our buck. Tripadvisor.com has become the bane of my existence because it feeds my obsessive compulsive tendencies. At some point, I am likely to flip a coin. And apparently, it had better be soon because did you know: we're getting married in EIGHT WEEKS!!

All Things Bridal

I casually picked up one of those bridal etiquette books in an effort to familiarize myself with the expectations that normal people would have for a wedding. I say normal because I do not fall into this category.

For years, I have looked for any excuse to avoid attending weddings. I think my abhorrence stemmed from one that I attended in the middle of a stifling hot summer after my second year of university.

It was an over the top Greek affair with twenty four attendants, three junior bridesmaids and three flower girls. The church was full of gardenias that while beautiful, emitted a cloying, nauseating scent which was rivaled only by the smell of Aqua Net in the hair of the bridesmaids. It was miserably humid and stuffy. The ceremony lasted over an hour mainly because the bride fainted twenty five minutes into it and we were all made to wait while they revived her. Now maybe it's just me but does it make any sense to squeeze oneself into a corset, pull on a fifty pound garment made of synthetic, non-breathable material, starve oneself and then show up in the dead of summer to a church notorious for it's faulty air conditioning system? By the end of the ceremony, I could feel the vein in my forehead throbbing in time with the priest's incantations. I would have sold my soul for a drop of water and a pair of flip flops. As nearly three hundred of us exited the church, I made a note to self:

No ceremony. Better to jump over broomstick and call it a day.

We were then expected to make our way to the reception which was located at a civic hall. From the parking lot, you could smell the blasted gardenias and I touched my forehead in an effort to sooth the vein that had begun visibly pulsating again. Once we crossed the threshold, waiters in traditional black and white could be seen circulating amongst the crowd with hors d'oeuvres piled high on silver trays. They were impressive but it was the bar that caught my eye. Measuring twenty feet in length, it was nothing spectacular except for the fact that there was free, good quality, booze to be thrown back as fast as humanly possible. I was hoping to drink enough so as to vomit on myself and mask any further floral assault on my olfactory. But it wasn't meant to be. Instead, I found myself queuing up to shake the hands of at least fifty people in the receiving line.

To give you a little context, this was right in the middle of the HIV/AIDS emergence. We knew it was transmitted through bodily fluids and as I worked the procession, I couldn't help but wonder where those hands had been. Could there be booger residue on that man's hands? Does that one suffer from inappropriate male adjustment disease? Does that lady change diapers? Shiver.

I came to the quiet realization that I was shaking hands with everyone they had shook hands with and we were all one big germ pile. The book says that the receiving line is good etiquette designed to welcome and thank one's guests. At the time, I saw it as a thirty minute barrier to getting my whistle wet. Thus, the second note to self was born:

No receiving line. Ply guests with free booze as thank you, instead.

After we were sufficiently fed and watered, the DJ began doing his thing in earnest. Up to that point, he had been subdued, gently introducing the wedding party, inciting people to clink their glasses in an effort to get the happy couple to kiss, yada, yada, yada but once dessert was cleared away, out came the "Funky Chicken". I HATE that song. It reminds me of Bobby Vinton. Anyway, the rest of the evening was spent experiencing EVERY wedding cliche possible from "YMCA" to "Thriller". And then there was the garter removal and the flower toss.

The garter removal started out normal enough with the bride seated and the groom at her feet. Unfortunately, the groom may have had one too many Ouzos because apparently, the garter was elusive in all of the tulle. He was reserved at first, nudging the dress up over her knees but after five minutes of searching for the needle in that particular haystack, he clawed at her like he was looking for a remote control in the couch. Once he located the garter, he bent his head to her lap and removed the thing with his teeth. The whole scene looked like a bad porn movie.

The flower toss was marginally better, only because it afforded me the ability to gamble. There was absolutely no way in hell that I was going to line up on a slick hardwood floor in stilettos and FIGHT for a bouquet of flowers! So, I participated in a little side bet as to who would take it. The bride's sister was pretty serious about the competition. She had changed into runners for the occasion so my money went on her. Unfortunately, she was elbowed in the nose by one of the cousins, who played varsity field hockey. Enough said.

Final notes to self:

NO FUNKY CHICKEN.

Garter belt to be equipped with neon, flashing lights.

Record the flower toss and submit to America's Funniest Home Videos.

Of course, all of these notes to self were wasted until now, which brings me back to the book and what I'm expected to do with my own wedding. I think I'd like to approach it in much the same way that I did when I gave birth to Olivia. When we arrived at the hospital, I had a sweet, young nurse enter my room and try to convey how she expected the evening to go. I gently interrupted her mid sentence and told her that the whole experience really only boiled down to two things:

1. I was too damn old to feel any pain

AND

2. Please feed me when it's over

I think that about sums up my feelings in regard to the wedding. I don't have much use for all of the formalities. My ideas are simple: great band, good food and plenty to drink. I mean, who really wants a candle or a book of matches with our name and wedding date on them, anyway?

Wedding Gown Woes

This weekend, I was on a mission to purchase a wedding gown. My friends have been harassing me for weeks to get busy and get the whole dress thing sorted but after one attempt at a cute boutique here in town, I was completely intimidated.

So, I procrastinated. Big surprise there.

Then late last week, I was casually speaking with a business associate on the west coast. She asked me about my dress.

"Well," I answered, "I haven't actually acquired one as of yet." Silence.

"Didn't you say you were planning to marry in July?" Her voice got progressively louder and higher and I felt myself starting to sweat.

"Yes. But that is three months away." And I had grandiose plans to starve myself into a size two by then so it just didn't make good business sense to buy a dress only to have to take it back, right. What size would I order? How could I possibly know?

"Is this your way of backing out of the whole wedding thing?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "Are you trying to get Dallas to elope?"

"Wha...? NO!" I tried explaining the finer points of diet logic to her and suddenly, she went Hitler on me, spouting off about order times, alterations, bustles, sewn in bras and did I think that I was just going to waltz in and buy one right off the rack?!!

Um...yes? And oh dear god, help me because apparently, my head was on fire.

So this weekend, I relented and called Erin for support. Erin is one of my bridesmaids. She is deliciously funny, smart and she just happens to have been a costume designer in a former life so she is accustomed to dealing with hysterical diva types. Not that I am one of those. I'm just saying...

Anyway, we arrived at our local cattle call for brides and immediately, I felt the need to put my head between my legs. I looked to the right and there was row after row of wedding dresses. Straight ahead were platforms with dressing rooms and mirrors. PLATFORMS! Brides to be were everywhere and they all had on the same thing: big ass petticoats and corsets. Where were they coming from? Stepford?!!

I needed a drink.

We were directed to sit down with a catalog and mark those dresses that interested us. Then, we were told that they would put us with a consultant who would pull the gowns from the racks and walk us through the rest of the process. Process? Was it really that bloody difficult?

After taking a black sharpie to the catalog, we were introduced to our consultant. We'll just call her Delta. Picking the dresses was easy. Working with Delta was like eating a bowl full of cockroaches: hard and revolting. She might have been all of twenty years old but that didn't stop her from calling me, "dear" and "honey" and not in that affected southern way but in a condescending tone that caused my left eyelid to twitch. She immediately commented on my visible anxiety and waved both of her hands in an "S" pattern in front of my face while chanting, "Feng shui. Feng shui" because apparently, I am easily confused with a room whose furniture needs to be rearranged.

I needed a drink.

She went on and on about how everything was going to be fine until Erin, seeing me reach for a stiletto, stepped in and said, "Okay! We've established that Beth is overwhelmed. Let's move on. Do you have her dressing room ready?" Poor Delta. She blinked, obviously stunned that we weren't finding her brand of charm palatable and directed us to the back. My room was labeled #13. Not that I am superstitious or anything. I'm just saying....

I was instructed to strip down, put on the "slip" and get the girls into the corset. The "slip" turned out to be a petticoat of the Little House on the Prairie variety. It was the size of a sheep dog and still, too small. We couldn't get the corset done up either so Delta being a sensitive, subtle girl, bellowed to the entire store about going up a cup size and getting a larger slip. I closed the door to the dressing room and looked at Erin.

"I think I may punch her," I said. "Do you have a flask in your purse? Hand sanitizer?"

At that point, I would have been content to suck on a moist towelette but unfortunately, Erin was fresh out. Then, Delta came back with a new bra and a slip the size of barn. I put both on, looked at myself in the mirror and thought that the Michelin man and I would probably make a good couple. Erin tried to help me into the first dress but Delta hissed at her, insisting that we wait. Then Erin disappeared and just like that, the store manager became our consultant. Unfortunately, even she couldn't overcome the disconnect between the models in the catalog and me.

THEY are stick thin.
I am a letter "P".
THEY looked fabulous in a wide range of dress styles.
I did not. Over the course of the morning, I looked like a white pineapple, a stripper and the future wife of the Glad man.

After trying on fourteen gowns, I lost my personality. So we left to get drunk lunch.

We met up with our menfolk, had a few cocktails and enjoyed a leisurely meal. Afterward, Erin and I went back for more wedding dress fun and I'll be darned but I actually enjoyed myself the second time around. Erin is extremely organized and had narrowed my choices to about ten gowns. She ripped the pictures of these ones out of the catalog and sorted them by style. Our luck was blooming and we were paired with a GREAT consultant who thankfully, was old enough to remember Johnny Carson. We'll call her St.Teresa. She and Erin understood each other and we quickly worked through several frocks. One or two made my heart beat faster but nothing bowled me over. Then Teresa suggested a new style that they had just gotten in because she didn't think that I should make a final decision without trying it on.

As soon as she pulled it out of the bag, I knew that it was different from the other bazillion togs that I had tried. It hugged me where it was supposed to and was forgiving in the trouble spots. Besides, my buzz was wearing off and we were getting dangerously close to having to eat again. Not that alcohol was influencing the course of the afternoon. I'm just saying...

I stepped up on the platform, looked into the mirror and knew immediately, THIS WAS THE ONE.

I might have shed a few tears.




So, to sum up the day's events:

Valium prescription: $20.00
Liquid lunch: $60.00
Wedding dress: $650.00
Crossing something off wedding "to do" list: Priceless

As a small footnote, I wanted you to know that I tried to buy the dress in a smaller size because there is no way that I am walking down the aisle looking the way that I do right now. Saint Theresa wouldn't let me do it. She said that dieting to get INTO one's wedding dress is right up there on the stupid scale with lighting a cigarette while pumping gas. She patiently explained that at this very moment, I have a dress that I am able to wear on my wedding day. It can be altered down in size, if necessary. Smaller dresses though, cannot be altered up. I thought that buying a smaller dress would be great motivation for sticking to one's exercising plan. Not that I disagree with her. I'm just saying...

And now, I pronounce you ENGAGED

Saturday night, Dallas and I attended our engagement party which was hosted by the CEO, the president and their wives. I'd never been to an engagement party before so I had no idea what to expect. It probably wouldn't have mattered. Dallas and I were blown away. We walked in and the piano player launched into the opening notes of "Here Comes The Bride". And that hit me square in the solar plexus. I turned to Dallas and whispered, "Hey. We're getting married!"

I have discovered that you can go through several months living your life like a spectator. This is not to say that I wasn't in touch with reality because I can still taste the salt of the New Zealand air and smell the orange groves of Florida but I have not allowed my mind to ponder the actual wedding day. Dallas and I have certainly discussed the details at length but I guess I was approaching the whole thing in a clinical, businesslike way. When I heard, "Da, da, dada. Da, da, dada", I could immediately imagine myself walking down the aisle and THAT took my breath away.

I've been with my company for five years and my colleagues have become my surrogate family. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I needed to, I could call any one of them for help. Dallas is in the same boat. New Zealand is so far away but he too, is fortunate enough to be surrounded by friends who are now his brothers. These are the people who were at our party. It was very humbling.

After we had mingled for a bit, Dallas and I were called to the center of the room for the toasts. My boss started things off and I felt my eyes sting. Following that, my CEO took his turn. My eyes started to leak. Then, one of the girls at work had her say and I struggled for composure. Finally, Dallas's best man gave a short, beautiful speech and I dabbed away tears. Then it was my turn to say something. I tried to articulate to everyone there how much the party meant to us and how grateful we were and I struggled with the words. I am emotional by nature so fighting back tears is second nature for me but to bathe in the love and heartfelt good wishes from everyone just rocked my world. Thankfully, Dallas stepped in and spoke eloquently for both of us.

I find myself overwhelmed a lot lately. Yes, there is a modicum of stress involved in planning a wedding and sometimes, the mechanics of my career can cause me to chew Tums like candy but when I look at the big picture, I can't possibly complain. My life, our life, is pretty damn great.

The truth is, it always has been but it's only lately that I've recognized that.

Wanted: Wedding Planner

I apologize Internet because lately, I haven't been posting as often. Besides the fact that a new season of American Idol has started, this wedding planning thing is kicking my ass.

I understand now why people choose to elope.

We finally secured a chapel which was excellent because I was worried that we might have to resort to something like our backyard for the ceremony. Sure, we've got gobs of room back there but that is because the place is a bloody wasteland. I've killed three trees and a dog dug up a fourth or fifth so there is nothing but grass and a crappy old BBQ. I really ought to add a flea infested couch and a car on cinder blocks to complete the whole white trash theme going on back there. In any case, I'm grateful that we found a place that would marry us even though we are terminal sinners destined for a fiery afterlife. Amen.

Over the past week, we have either scoured the internet for reception sites or been out to visit them. Last night, we ended up at a ridiculously small cozy place in the big city off one of the main drags. The coordinator kept referring to "this space" and "that space" and how they could be rented separately which caused me to snort because you might have been able to cordon off the two areas with a piece of dental floss. I asked about the "patio", which was also available for separate rental and was informed that we had walked through it on our way to the front door. Um, yeah. So those nine flagstones, which were not big enough for a game of hopscotch, were also considered a separate space. And thus, the nickel and dime show began.

-Move the furniture? It will cost you to move it back. Can we move it back?Umm.. NO! -Soda? $2.00 each, from the bar gun, no free refills. $$$
-The tables and linens are included? Only the small ones that would be suitable for your daughter's tea party. Grown up tables, extra.$$$
-Must have one bartender for 50 people. $$$
-Bartender must have busser. One for every 25 people. $$$
-Gratuities NOT INCLUDED in absurdly high hourly staff rate! $$$
At one point, I glanced at Dallas and he had this fixed, glazed over expression that he uses only when making a concerted effort to remain polite. After we left, he summed it up nicely, "I wasn't impressed." Yeah, me neither.

So, we moved on to a downtown ballroom that while quaint, was just not cute enough to have us ignore the overpowering smell of cooked cabbage. Next, we went to a historic structure on our local college campus. We loved everything about it except that they wouldn't allow a band or a DJ...at a wedding reception. Pardon? People require alcohol and entertainment if they are going to suffer through toasts, bouquet tossing and garter removal so we scratched that baby from the list.

Tonight, we made an appointment at a private country club with an arresting, very southern, red brick Colonial design. It just oozes the gentile, snuff box, lemonade-drinking lifestyle and the second that we walked through the doors, we knew we'd finally found our venue. Everything went well until the event coordinator began talking about centerpieces, table placement and chair covers with girlie girl ribbons. She wanted decisions made about colours and designs. I felt my stomach tighten and Dallas bailed me out by saying we'd look over the info and make those types of decisions once we had the chance to look over the reading materials. We did put down a big deposit and officially had our names entered in pen in the date book.

Okay, so we've booked the chapel, the reception hall and the band. Those are the biggies, right? I still haven't found a dress and don't even get me started on the horror show that is bridesmaid wear. Fugly. Funky colours. Lamentable design. I've jokingly threatened my nearly sister-in-law with a giant pink bow on her bridesmaid arse and come to find out now, I might not be joking.

So, with bridal planner in hand, I'll spend the next couple of weeks trying to get some of the other stuff done. Did I mention that we leave for New Zealand on Saturday?

Is it too late to elope?

Here Comes the Bride, Damnit!

Okay, so now that I've officially been a fiancée for over twenty four hours, I find myself moving from a state of googly-eyed bliss to one of full blown wack-a-do anxiety.

Have you seen the "To Do" list for a wedding?

Why would I be panicked? After all, it's not like this is my first marriage, right? It's true that I have married before but I've never formally sashayed my dimpled bottom down the aisle. Not once have carving stations, wedding programs (are you kidding me?), invitations, groom's cake, flowers, bridal party politics, seating arrangements and honeymoon crossed my radar except in a "you'd-have-to-shoot-me-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery" kind of way. Looking back, it was probably a little of the sour grapes thing.

My first marriage involved the two of us running off to this cheesy chapel for a ten minute service. Neither of our families were there. I wore this absolutely hideous orange coloured sweater that was long enough to brush the tops of my knees along with a pair of skin tight stirrup pants. I looked like a giant Creamsicle. It was only with age that I realized that nothing good happens in any sentence that contains the word, "stirrup".

On the other hand, my betrothed was decked out in a shiny silver suit with a delicate lavender tie that would have made Barney proud. He immediately took issue with the decor (window coverings) and tsk tsked audibly throughout the ceremony. I distinctly remember looking over at him and hearing a quack in my head.

After leaving the chapel, we stopped at our friendly Ralph's grocery store to get a cake, beer for me and wine for the lady him. It was a banner day, all right. The only thing missing was the photograph that we didn't take thereby depriving me of satisfaction I could have gotten from setting it on fire.

Marriage number two was equally breathtaking. Six months after the birth of our son, we were driving home from the hardware store on a Thursday afternoon. He looked over at me and said he thought we ought to get married so as to "make an honest woman" out of me. I think we had been living in Texas for just over a year and to hear that particular southern colloquialism come out of his Yankee mouth caused the diet coke I was consuming to shoot out of my nose. He took that as a yes so off we went to the justice of the peace. After showing our identification and swearing that neither one of us had HIV, I became a Mrs. for the second time. I think I wore shorts and an old Nike tee. We had Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner that night. Memorable.

It took me several months to tell my mother and any other family member that I had remarried. When I finally got up the courage, Mum didn't say much but kept taking deep, cleansing breaths.

So now, I am determined to have a proper wedding...with a dress and flowers and a reception. I want the fairy tale. I suppose that all this time, something inside of me knew that I needed to save my wedding day for the man I'd grow old with. I'm so glad he finally showed up.