For Alice, who asked

There have been many things a happenin' over here, keeping me from this site. Namely:

A wedding! (Admire my very wrinkly dress caused by riding around in a limo trying to get pictures in the terrible, unrelenting rain, thank you weather gods! Also? I was ridiculously happy, rain or no.)

And then there was this:

A honeymoon! In Hawaii! I know you love our tourist stickers. Nothing says cool like traveling with us.

And finally there is this:

New home (!) which we would like to keep in addition to our current home which with some luck will become a rental. Now there is getting this current home "tenant ready." *Slams head into wall*

So yeah, phew.

But more than that. Guys? I've missed you. Random and yet true.

***

So not to change the subject on you, and not like I don't ramble a whole ton as it is, but listen, I know I am not slim, have never been slim (outside of that year or so early in my relationship with Tony where I was seriously the lowest adult weight I have ever been and I tell you, it was not all that low, but I was smoking.) Anyway, so yesterday I go visit my lady parts doctor to check up on my birth control pill. Namely, this doctor who I've only seen once before likes to see his birth control patients once every six months "because of the hormones." Whatever, but okay I thought, especially since I switched pills the last time I visited.

May I just mention for a moment how classy I am? Because really, there is no classier answer to the question, "So how is this pill working for you?" Than, "no break through bleeding and no babies, I think we have a winner." That's almost as good as when my primary care physician asked if I might be pregnant a few months ago, and I told her, "Between the birth control pills and the fact that I have my period right now, it would totally be the little fetus that could. And you can't get rid of a fetus like that." I have a problem. Seriously, I feel awkward and then I respond inappropriately, usually trying for humor, but mostly ending up vaguely creepy.

Mr. Gyno-man goes through his questions. He notes that I've gained a few pounds. I tell him, under the belief that the good doctor wondered if the switch in pills has caused me to maybe gain a few, "Well I think the wedding and honeymoon had more to do with the fluctuation than the pill." And then he goes on to tell me about how people gain weight on cruises, and I like less and less where this is going, and then he asks, "Well what do you plan to do about it?" as though the extra five pounds (or more? I don't even know) were some insidious disease threatening to eat my brain. And well, I answered, "uh, nothing, probably." And while I wished I had said it with some chutzpa, I'm afraid I was too put off, maybe a little surprised at the line of questioning, and said it with shame. And that? That sucks. Because the proper response would have been, "Listen Dr. Shlomo, I don't hate that I gained any weight BUT the fact that you dragged me in to ask me three questions and not perform an exam while charging me for a copay and my insurance company for an exam? That seems a little like insurance fraud to me buddy."

What I'm trying to get at is...do you have a good gyno reference in South Jersey. Maybe one who won't judge a sister for a little stress/joy eating? Thanks.

Jeebus, when will they leave and other assorted questions

So, I'm sitting here on this fine Saturday evening, when I should be watching television or something, after many a drink at a new fine German establishment. Seriously, they were winning hearts and minds until they went ahead and told me (after we paid, but still finishing our drinks) that "hey, not to be rude or anything, but uh, we've got a lot of people waiting for these tables." Ah, dear new German establishment, you are a bar. Not a Ruby Tuesdays. Ease up. We tip well, we eat and drink well, you do not wants to lose our patronage.

But I digress. You see, I went to said fine establishment hours ago. In fact, we arrived there at 4. Oh wait. Lemme go back. See first we went to an out of state mall: Yum, no tax on clothes... then we received a phone call from one of the boyfriend's oldest friends. In our neighborhood, but wanting to hang out (ie. wanting to watch our cable.) But you know, we weren't there, we were not in the state, and we were having lunch. So we get back into The Iladelphia and we call and he is waiting on our stoop. We literally dragged him to Marshalls with us to make a return because you see, he would not go home. Then, while he would prefer to sit on our couch and order Mexican, we brought him to the bar, because I can only sit on my rear so much.

And now making a long story significantly shorter: we drank. We left four hours later. We watched a movie in my house, I excused myself in order to go to bed and yet, HE STILL DOES NOT LEAVE. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? WHAT? Because short of being like, seriously? are you going to leave now? I'm out of ideas. Should I uncomfortably announce a diarrhea outbreak the next time? I really don't know how to give the hint that a welcome is no longer extended, while not being explicitly rude. Also? for Pete's sake, boyfriend, maybe not suggest we go back to the house where friend always, as in every time plants his ass on our couch in order to reap the benefits of my very costly cable. Argh.

(I write this acknowledging the very many strong German brews that I have drank. And the fact that I don't currently have contacts in, so spelling is at an all time low. Good luck to you gentle readers, good luck.) Also? holy sweet Jesus, six days til the wedding. SIX DAYS. Well, technically married in 5 but that there's another story.)

Oh hai!

So it's been damned near a month and I was good and tired of that picture looking back at me, but well, also too lazy to do much about it.

Ah, such is life these days. I would love to tell you some delicious gossipy dirt, which probably interests no one but me and my family, but alas, it's about the family so: No.

I will say though that I am at WORK on Saturday while Tony is in Vegas land of girls who wear bikinis to clubs and it is so not fair. Not that I didn't have fun at my own bachelorette party last weekend (Woo Fireman Convention!) but oh work. Tony did not go to work last weekend, in fact I'm pretty sure that other than going out on Friday his rearend never left our couch.

Speaking of couches, and maybe it's just me, but I have come to hate, hate, hate having people sleep at our house. I think it is the lack of guest bedroom, or a floor big enough to put an air mattress, or it could be the fact that it generally looks like a small bomb exploded, but I dislike it.

I especially dislike it when the boyfriend texts me from Vegas, all "I think I get home at 11? tonight." And I say, oh are Thing 1 and Thing 2 staying over? (what with the fact that they live in New York and took the train into Philly for the flight on Thursday and therefore have no car back.) And then Tony answers "Probably". And well, these are friends of his that I like, so my initial reaction should not be "boooooooooooooooooooooo" even if I did text that exact word to the Tonester...it's just that the house, it's a mess! I was up at 7:30 on a Saturday to get my car inspected! and then paid the car insurance! and now I'm at work! and the house! mess! I do not want to clean for his friends, and even though I know I do not have to, it would be nice if my house were just a wee bit bigger so I could at least drag all the mess into a convenient yet out of eye sight location so I am not quite as embarrassed. Oh the tragedy of it all.

Also, thanks for the heads up dude. Blech. I guess what this really means is I should do my work so I can get home and at least make it look like I am not trying to attract all the mice in Philly to partay at my house, but c'mon.

(OH and guys, we are 20 days out to the wedding, and your dear friend is beginning to freak the frick out. Aieeee! You should know that my mother cried, like real tears of suffering over our invitations. Because let us just say they were non-traditional, in that in addition to the direction sheet and RSVP, our actual invitation was a 5X7 portrait of us that you flipped over to the invitation side. But yeah, tears. Accompanied with the question "Why don't you love me like a daughter loves a mother?" AND even better, "Well I thought they were a joke, and I was waiting for the punchline!" Thanks Mom! What I wanted to say was, "Oh MOM did you think of that one all morning, but there were tears, manipulative tears, and also the crazy as witnessed by the love question. Oof.)

And in a related rant, yesterday was the last day to RSVP to the wedding per our very clearly marked invitations and do you know how many couples/families didn't? about 30 out of 85. Actually more, but some people I spoke with and they confirmed they were coming (even without the RSVP) ahead of time. People, you will be invited to weddings in your future, the RSVPs are generally stamped, SEND THEM OUT. It is annoying and awkward for the groom and bride to call you or follow up with an email to see if you are coming. Just RSVP back: NO. Thank you. Carry on.

Whatever, I still liked them. We even included NINJA. What is not to like?

And her headstone would read: She had no veins

So yesterday I had surgery on my eye lids. Technically a blepharoplasty for ptosis. IE: I hads a droopy eyelid and now I look like I get beat by my boyfriend. To wit: (also! warning! danger for those who fear blood.)





So, actually not so bad, although today it is significantly puffier. I emailed my sister the same picture and she texted me the lyrics to "You are so beautiful."

I wanted you to know though, that in the event of an emergency situation and you happen to be with me, please let the EMS know that my veins do not cooperate and they should go for my hand. Three very jabby nurses had their time with me and well, let's just thank my lucky stars that I don't bruise so easily because my right arm and left hand still hurt, yo.

Okay back to work. Seriously kids, if ever you should meet someone who is contemplating law school you're just supposed to say: DON'T DO IT. Which incidentally, whenever I say "don't do it" the song from Heathers pops into my head: Teenage Suicide...Don't do it! Teenage Suicide...she blew it!

And with that, I think I know what I'm watching this afternoon while working from home!

Titles

A friend and I, in conversation over her latest boy drama stated to me matter of factly, that she always signs her name "Dr. Jen X," while indicating that she signed a form for a bicycle she was buying that way. I had to interrupt the story and say, "but really?" In fairness, she is, technically a Pharm. D. So she is a doctor of pharmacy, but then again, I just find it so ludicrous that she actually signs forms for things like bicycles with the title. I don't sign my credit card slips "Ms. Christine XYZ" nor do I do Christine XYZ, J.D. or Esq. And moreover, I have always found people who correct someone with their title, when not in a professional setting, a little rude.

In fact, when I encounter an attorney with the email address "AssHoleEsq@aol.com," well I think of them as exactly that. It's kind of like my take of that guy in the giant Hummer taking up the prime parking spaces in front of my house: Little Penis.

For what it's worth, it ended up sparking a conversation between Dr. Jen and the owner of the bike shop and led to a couple of dates before the drama mentioned above. But I'm curious, what do you think?

Funny Today.

So I once had this here blog thing. And I used to update frequently (ahem) more than once every month and a half. Yeah...

So I would tell you that I'm busy, but that can't entirely be all of it, can it. I can tell you that I bought a dress for the wedding and that all wedding stuff is basically accounted for minus the DJ (important!) and Tony's suit (less so) and finalizing the invitations (somewhat important. I guess.)

And yeah, while I would like to make this a wedding blog, because I have recently become obsessed natch (totally a result of obsessing over trying to find a wedding dress I actually liked). (Also, I blame my wimpy wine intake tonight at dinner with the girls for me being sober enough to actually type, but feeling the need for excessive parentheses. Sorry.)

I really came on here mostly to regale you with the story how my mother has lost her mind since my grandmother passed and my (her--Parenthesis! again!) family has been extraordinarily douchy since, but feh. I just got off the phone with her and the long and short of it is, people suck. No I don't feel the need to have a familial relationship with people who are essentially walking feces. End of story.

In the above story's place I will tell you a tale about me. It starts when I was very young. As an aside I have a frequently terrible, but occasionally awesome memory. For example, I remember meeting some people that I went from first grade through twelfth with, and can tell you that one Kelly Schmurphy wore a daisy dress on the very first day of first grade and I believe an Ann Schmavis had her hair in curly puffy pigtails and I thought both the puffs and the dress were unbelieveably cool.

Any how. Before this, before first grade where I cried every day for the first few months*, I went to Catholic school for kindergargten where I can actively remember one girl from my class telling another about how it sucked that I had to go to speech therapy (administered in a trailer in the parking lot -- the Catholic baby Jesus keeps things classy). But even before this, before the speech therapy in parking lots, in trailers that were probably later fashioned into mobile meth labs, I was in preschool.

I went to a local preschool program that was run by the high school I would later attend. There an actual certified teacher was present, but so were a number of high school students who took the course in early child-ed as an easy A, and each of these generally unenthusiastic students would take under their wing a preschooler. Except for me. Not that I wasn't taken as someone's best little preschooler, the difference was that my "teacher" was enthusiastic.

Indeed, so was I once upon a time. And so on one fateful day, early in preschool, one very enthusiastic, slightly goofy teenager asked a class of preschoolers what the weather was like today? And I, ever so enthusiasticly, and also sporting an awesomely bad lisp, tried to tell this person that the weather was sunny! It was SUUUNNY. But no. "The weather is Funny." After which laughter followed, and that very goofy teenager and I were matched up. And so I quickly learned (although I may not always follow on this advice) that I should think before I speak and consider the ramifications of my speech, lest I get stuck with maybe the goofiest human being for a year of my life (back then 20% of my life to that point!) as my "mentor" thus having to spend extended periods of my day with him.**


* Since I had gone to private school earlier I already knew how to read by the time I entered first grade. For months I would cry every day. The teacher told my mother this, concerned for me and thought maybe I didn't like her. They asked me, or maybe my mother just asked me. I answered that I liked my teacher very much, but I was sad because they had put me in the class of people who weren't smart and couldn't read.
**As an aside, the fact that I remember this probably sweet goofy guy in this way and the fact that I felt like I got slighted getting stuck with him as my mentor probably tells you that I am a snob. But I'm not. I'm just a weirdo, who even at a young age thought that geez, this preschool business? I call bullshit.

I don't like Mondays

I've found that lately I waver between liking my job enough and really trying to succeed at it, to abject despair and telling one of my supervisors, "Hey if I get fired, I would completely take a couple of weeks off, plan the wedding, maybe finally find a dress and clean my house." To which she responded, "Clean your house?" And well, maybe her house doesn't look like mine, or perhaps she has managed to walk into her similarly slovenly home and not lose what little optimism she has. But for me, the messy house is the icing on my depressive cake. Mmm...icing.

In more joyous/boring news for some, highlights of dress shopping have included finding that I am slightly too large to fit into any of the samples at bridal boutiques, so most of my dreams of finding a nice deal on a sample gown are being crushed by the minute. And not to hate on your wedding dress, because to be certain, you looked lovely in it, but really bridal designers, why all the poof? sequins/beading? and strapless? It really shouldn't be near impossible to find a simple non-beaded column or slight A-line dress in a nice fabric with a strap that isn't a halter. C'mon (always said in my head a la GOB). For pete's sake, some of us have beefy arms and larger chests that would be better served in something with a nice cap sleeve.

Although, I will say that I had a friend take pictures of me wedding dress shopping and naturally a fair amount of them were shown sideways...and well, I'm lazy, I would rather turn my head than simply flip the picture and I thought: hot damn Christine. You look GREAT. Before realizing that no, in reality the many pounds I gained these past 10 months are visible and that viewing the pictures sideways had warped me longer. For a few minutes (*cough* days) I was really pretty pleased with myself. I am an ass, one who consoles her dissatisfied self with delicious food. Don't hate.