The Sigh of Relief

I've just landed in Taipei and the full realization of how my life has changed hit me while I was waiting to go through security.

My FIANCE is at home caring for my children.

Now, let's all ponder that for a minute. Their father, which one might think would be the logical choice for guardian while I'm out of the country, is quite content to let another man look after his children. It's just all kinds of absurd but I'm grateful. I know the children will be well loved and I am pretty sure that they will see a toothbrush and a bathtub in my absence.

On the other hand, I'm not doing so well. I miss him. I was sort of convinced that being separated from Dallas wouldn't bother me as much as it did at Christmastime. After all, we have lived together and gotten fairly comfortable in our routine as a couple. I'm not saying the bloom of a new relationship has faded or anything but we have settled into that familiar, secure zone. In light of this, I believed that we would pass this week with more practical sensibilities and less of the mushy gushy stuff.

Dead wrong. As I landed this morning, I defied the flight attendants and turned my phone on. Immediately, several text messages from Dallas came through and all of them mirrored my own feelings. He didn't sleep well (ditto) and woke up in the morning with the feeling like something just wasn't right.

Me too. So, I wallowed in that for a bit and then got to the other side. This is it. I mean, it's the real deal. We've been saying it for months now and I'm sure I believed it but I'm still nicely surprised to find myself in a relationship with a man that I actually WANT to marry. Go figure. I guess for the last several months, I've been unconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it has, on multiple occasions for both of us. And we're still here...sending love notes to each other on a daily basis.

If I ever put Dallas on a pedestal, he purposely dove off it. The thing is, he should be there and not in that "he can do no wrong" way. He belongs there because he puts up with me and he disagrees with me in the kindest way and he looks at me like nobody else on the planet exists for him.

I put him up there because I want to be reminded every day that I must make the effort to be especially considerate and kind to this man who loves me unconditionally.

Tough Love

Where there is love, there is pain
-Spanish Proverb


Amidst all of the anticipation and joy surrounding our wedding, Dallas and I have been dealing with the closure of his past life. Even though he had been separated for three years and divorced for nearly two, Dallas and his ex- wife hadn’t figured out their relationship as non married people. She was still financially dependent and he still felt responsible for her emotional and economic well being. It has been a difficult process rife with anger, hurt feelings and a pervasive sense of injustice. Of course, that has really only been my perception of the whole thing and perhaps, the reality is something different.

For months now, we've been the sole financial support for two households in an effort to do the right thing by the mother of his children but in hindsight, it has been like handing a crack pipe to a junkie. The more we help, the less inclined she is to help herself.

I almost could have turned a blind eye and still made the argument for continued economic outpatient care because it is clear that this woman is struggling with life’s basics but then we inadvertently got an inside glimpse of the dialogue that was occurring between her and their children. And apparently her opinion, (which she generously shares with the kids) is that Dallas is a poor, spiritually inferior, father who is selfish, unfair and an emotional bully. Of course, none of these things are true but the mere fact that she felt a need to disparage him to their children was its own sad epiphany. The realization dawned that as long as we continued ambling down the path of least resistance, we could expect more of the same, which wasn’t helping anyone.

Each day, there seems to be yet another new crisis and it’s been horribly difficult not to step in and fix everything. Dallas and I do not like conflict. Who does, right? The fact is, we have such an aversion to confrontation that we will often throw money at a situation rather than address the issues head on. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working a while ago and we just refused to face it. So now, we have taken the necessary steps to force a change, which has resulted in us being incredibly emotionally unsettled.

Tough love is no fun.

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...

Repressed Road Rage

Wow! There must be something in the water because lately, the roads are full of crappy drivers and I'm like a bloody beacon for the auto-challenged crowd.

Take Mr. Belligerent, for instance. He's the nasty bugger who refuses to let ANYONE merge in bumper to bumper traffic. Instead, he inches his half ton truck (with a lift kit, of course) forward to the next vehicle (because ain't nobody gonna squeeze in on his watch)and in doing so, he manages to BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY OR SIDE STREET from oncoming traffic, as well . So there I sit, while cars pile up behind me, waiting for Mr. Belligerent to move so I can make my left turn. I despise this guy.

And his gun rack.

And his Playboy mud flaps.

And his spit cup.

Then, there is Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype who is texting with one hand, sipping coffee with the other and steering with her knees. There is a virtual circus happening in the back of her car as toddlers swing from the headrests. She is always the one at the front of the traffic line and she rarely responds to the advanced green arrow because she is too busy retrieving her mascara or wet wipes or animal crackers that litter the passenger side floor boards. I NEVER honk. I just don't do it because it is so freaking aggressive and obnoxious. But people behind me do and Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype invariably pulls her eyes up to the rear view mirror, makes contact with my own and FLIPS ME THE BIRD!! Now, I'm not violent by nature but seeing her middle finger raised and pointed in my general direction makes me want to tee her pony-tailed, Chanel sunglass-wearing head up and drive it off the hood of her car.

To give you a little background, I live in a small but quickly growing cowpatch. Urban planning has become an oxymoron. There is someone in charge of the whole thing but let's just say that his elevator isn't going to the top floor. When the major artery to the ONLY mall in our area is reduced to a single lane during rush hour, I imagine him sitting in an office, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration as he puts the finishing touches on yet another sign that says, "Smile! Your tax dollars are at work!"

Fuck. Off.

Finally, we have the guilty Catholic driver. If it's one thing that we Catholics know, it's guilt. This one drives at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of traffic apologizing profusely as he comes to a screeching halt with his nose in the crosswalk. He has turned tailgating into an art form. He accelerates and passes you only to pull in front and promptly reduce his speed to something just over a crawl. But, like confession on Saturday mornings, this guy has found a way to redeem himself. He may cross four lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp with nary a glance in his mirrors but he's the one that gives you the nod and lets you in during the worst of the rush hour craze. Hail Mary full of grace, keep that poor bastard safe.

So, I'm guessing that people in my town, who under normal circumstances would be decent drivers, have lost all ability to be reasonable. Traffic is bad. It's not wretched like that of San Diego or the Dallas Metroplex but it's ugly. It brings out the crazy.

In me.

Just yesterday, I had to physically restrain myself from jamming the gas pedal to the floor and plowing into the vehicle in front of me.

And I'm not even premenstrual.

Sicko

Ugh! I am sick. In the head. Really.

Okay, not of the mental, there are bugs in my cereal sort (although I'm sure there would be a line up of people to argue the finer points of THAT discussion) but more in the every single cavity in my head is filled with sand kind of way.

This past weekend, the kids were with their father and Dallas and I looked forward to spending a few precious minutes alone. Except that I was about as much fun as a root canal. We did attend our engagement party on Saturday and as documented, I shed a few tears which only made my head case situation worse. By the time we went home that night, I felt like eighty percent of my body weight was located from my nose up. I was worried about looking left or right for fear that the motion would send me careening into the nearest blunt object.

Sunday morning, I was miserable. I had been using homeopathic remedies for over a week with no improvement and finally, I had to throw in the towel. Dallas tried repeatedly to get me to the doctor the week before but I was convinced that if I sucked enough of those bloody, foul zinc lozenges, I could beat it. Wrong. So off we went to the nearest clinic.

An unexpected bonus was that the doctor looked like Denzel Washington. Now given my past experience with mistaken identity, I probably don't have any credibility but Dallas drew my attention to the likeness, though. It was a little distracting.

The examination was pretty routine. Blood pressure, look in the ear, listen to the heart, open up, say "ah". Normal. Then the doctor did the worst thing possible. He asked me the question:

"How long has this been going on?" (meaning my ill health although I expected Dallas to pipe up and tell him eight months and that we'd met on eHarmony)

"Since a week ago last Thursday." I answered meekly. Denzel looked at me with surprise and then iced Dallas's cake.

"Well, where have ya' been?" (meaning, of course, that I should have had my infected self to the clinic DAYS before). Dallas is not one to say "I told you so" but he was clearly delighted with the doctor's displeasure. If he was a cat, he would have been flossing his teeth with my tail feathers.

So, the doctor called in an antibiotic and in a few days, I'll have a burning yeast infection desire to go back to the gym. Oh joy. Obviously this is preferable to begging my fiance to stick the vacuum cleaner up my nose or drill a hole in the side of my head to relieve the pressure.