Pimp Club

If you read GAR’s last post about carefully choosing music for our wedding day then you know that these selections are something we’ve given a lot of thought to. However, I would like to – if I may – call him out on his claims that the actual lyrics to these songs were also highly scrutinized. In fact, I don’t think he listened to the actual lyrics at all … not that he knows the correct lyrics to songs anyway. You see, one of GAR’s favorite hobbies is to serenade me. Very sweet, but also very humorous given that fact that he – much like Weird Al – changes the lyrics to the songs he sings, giving them a humorous (albeit made up on the spot) spin. But, ask him to sing that same song with the correct lyrics and he’ll only get about every 4th word correct.

Case in point – Are you familiar with the Gorillaz and their song “Feel Good, Inc.”? The song repeats the words “feel good” repeatedly (hence the appropriate title). But, when GAR sings it “correctly” he instead sings the lyrics as “Pimp Club.” And this is just one of many, many examples. Don’t even get me started on the “relax yourself with piece of clam” lyric debacle …

I find it endearing. And, besides, I much prefer his parody versions anyway (the themes of which almost always revolve around the dogs). But, when selecting songs to include on the CD we plan to give out as a favor for the wedding it did lead to some frustrating conversations.

GAR: I want to include that song “Sex Type Thing” by STP on the album.
Me: Are you serious? No.
GAR: Why? Because the name of it is too sexual?
Me: No, because of the lyrics.
(GAR BEGINS PLAYING SONG) I said I wanna get close to you. I said wanna get next to you …
GAR: See? Nice.
Me: Keep listening.
(SONG CONTINUES) You wouldn’t want me to have to hurt you too. HURT YOU TOO …
Me: It turned a little dark there, didn’t it?
GAR: Yeah, but I really like the music.

So, see, I’m calling B.S. on his whole “make sure you pay attention to the lyrics” theory. When it comes to what we like, lyrics don’t matter. And, actually, I am totally fine with that. Besides, picking songs for our wedding favors even convinced us to change our first dance song to one which we had originally discarded because the lyrics are not very obviously romantic. So, lyrically off putting or not, we picked it. And we’re both very happy with that choice.

And now our only debate is what the cover art for our CD should look like. GAR (who clearly has far too much free time on his hands) took the liberty of mocking up some samples for me. The first one is from our "early years."

I'm certainly intrigued, how couldn't you be?

This one is a little bit country... 

And this one is very Rock n' Roll. 

Because riding a ... ummm ... smiling bear? makes for a fierce album cover.

GAR is channeling Don Draper. Does that make me the paranoid jackalope?

This one is for my mom. All good rock stars honor their mamas. Unfortunately, GAR misunderstood - my mom does not like Banana Cream Pie.

This is where our "band" started getting a little more edgy in our art. 

Then, of course, GAR turned into a diva and decided to go solo. Apparently he's part of a very lonely posse.

Naturally I needed a solo effort of my own. I went classy with this one.

Thankfully we settled our creative differences and got back together in the end.

Upon seeing all these (wonderful?) choices it might (MIGHT) be hard to decided what creative direction we should go in with this CD. However, it did make me question why it was I opted against getting engagement photos stating that "We already have hundreds of photos of us together! I don't want cheesy posed shots, I want real shots." After seeing these I now know that, if these are our "real" shots, perhaps I should have thought more about someone professional trying his/her hand at this instead.

One thing is for certain - this process is not yet over. And, yes, while our CD does contain some songs with not-so-child-friendly lyrics (approved by the "lyrically picky" GAR), I'm still making an effort to listen to the words a little closer ... for everyone's sake.

It’s not a Beautiful Day … Seriously it really isn’t

Let me explain. (Oh, it’s GAR here … hello, aloha and salutations.) Now, our wedding day will always be a beautiful day to us, and I think it’s because our words, experiences and descriptors will accompany every recounted memory. For this big day we (and many other brides and grooms) also get assistance with our words – thorough the use of song. Yes, music really does make the world go ‘round and all that crap. But, seriously, music is a big deal to us. With Rock n’ Roll as our wedding theme and concerts as our favorite activity, my beautiful Hard Hat Bride and I have spent a significant amount of time thinking about this. We want our playlist to be lively, fun and meaningful to our life together. For some of the more important songs for our big day, we were very selective.

“You're out of luck
And the reason that you had to care
The traffic is stuck
And you're not moving anywhere"

Lovely, right? Well, many betrothed actually think so and my bride-to-be and I have heard these lyrics at many weddings in life, on TV and the silver screen as newlyweds walk back down the aisle together and into reception halls. These lyrics show up in the first verse of the overly used wedding song “Beautiful Day” by U2. And it’s not just the lyrics, a quick Goggle search on this song’s meaning will bring up many different origins – and not many connected to a beautiful wedding day. But who could blame anyone? It’s a wonderful title, has a great crescendo of energy during the chorus and it is indeed a beautiful day for any bride and groom. I mean listen to the chorus:

“It's a beautiful day
Sky falls, you feel like
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away”

Well, it does have the word beautiful in it. Anyone else feel rushed to hold onto something before it “get’s away?” Now I’m not saying that it is the equivalent to playing “Taps” on your big day, but life has certain songs on its soundtrack for a reason. If you’ve ever intentionally listened to a particular song while running, getting over a break-up, etc. you know what I’m talking about. Here’s an experiment for you: listen to your iPod or portable boom box the next time you are walking through the airport, mall or favorite theme park. Play a random song and see if it tells a story when you are people watching or when you are in self-reflection as you people watch. It’s a pretty cool trick.

I should say that my bride-to-be and I are not the end-all be-all of selecting fine music, but we do know what we like. We are mindful about certain song meanings when reviewing it for our special day. The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” sounds lovely, well if you’re into stalking. Celine Dion’s “My heart will go on” and that guy from Derek and the Dominos’ “Tears in Heaven” – Gorgeous … Reminders of death that is (trust me, Celine won’t get a note at our wedding regardless – we care too much about our friends and family to do that to them). That Dollywood mogul’s “I will always love you” and that song that Cake covered “I will survive” are beautiful and fun … if you love break-ups. And what about “White Wedding” (which is about Idol’s distaste of his sister’s fiancé) and “Afternoon Delight?” Well … actually … we kind of like those songs, so they might just get played. And who would turn their nose at a little post morning fun? It’s not like we’re celebrating afternoon homicide. On another note, I don’t even have a sister. My bride does, but her husband is badass. So maybe I’m misguided about all this. Let’s give that U2 song another chance:

“You're on the road
But you've got no destination
You're in the mud
In the maze of her imagination”

OK, so I’m striking out here. But at least Bono isn’t singing about tuna fleets clearing the sea out, fires, oil fields and floods – that doesn’t feel very wedding-ish to me. I mean who would put that in … huh? … wait … he did what? Nevermind. I guess the point I would like to share (U2 aside) is that there are many things that will help you remember your wedding. It’s a wonderful time and if music isn’t important to you, then it’s not. But at least give it some thought as it is your day’s soundtrack. My Hard Hat Bride and I love “stage diving” into our planning - especially this part. Hopefully we will stay away from the warning I just provided, but with so many songs and so many complicated artists, we can only hope for the best.

After all, remember “It’s a beautiful day, Don't let it get away, It's a beautiful day.”

A Literal Meltdown

Remember how I complained about snow in my last post? Forget about that, I’m now fully immersed in the Florida summer and quickly turning into a melted puddle Wicked Witch of the West (or was it East?) style. To put it simply – I’m melting!! Melting!!

Now don’t get me wrong, I am actually quite fond of being warm. I will suffer through months of schvitzing in 100% humidity and consider it a vastly superior choice to spending any time at all in sub-70-degree temperatures. That’s how much I dislike being even slightly chilly. However, with Orlando’s hottest months still on the horizon I can’t help but feel a little silly saying that this week I’m more overheated than I really should be at this point in April. There are numerous factors that have led to me feeling this way (not the least of which is that I spent a good portion of the day today out in the blazing sun and came home looking redder than most any crustacean I’ve ever seen), but even as I rub soothing aloe on my crispy fried skin I know that there is one major area of my life that needs to take the blame for my sunstroke – my bathroom.

You might recall the many problems I outlined with my master bathroom, ranging from the useless bathing situation to the in-floor rock garden to the toilet/shower combo and, heck, just last week I even defeated an entire army of flying ants. But beyond all these complications, there is really one problem with my bathroom that overshadows all these (small in comparison) conundrums, and that would be the windows. I know what you’re thinking – don’t you want natural sunlight in your bathroom? And the answer is “yes.” However, in our master bath there is sunlight to spare. Several giant windows consume one section of the bathroom, flooding in light from floor to ceiling and, well, it can get bright. Like so bright that you can’t look directly at the mirror without fear of your retinas burning right out of your skull. And, even worse, all that sunlight makes it hot. No, not merely hot. It’s sitting inside a greenhouse on the surface of the sun hot. Add to that my normal beauty routine – blow dryers and scorching hair straighteners – and soon my face is dripping off into the sink like a wilted clock in a Dali painting.

During the winter I almost forget how bad it gets. The tile floor is cool on my feet and the sun coming in, while still toasty, is a welcome reminder of why I love living in Florida during the arctic months. But after I spring forward on my clocks it seems that the sun in now in just the perfect position to torment me through the windows as I prepare for work. Getting my makeup to stick onto my melting flesh becomes difficult and I need to take numerous breaks while doing my hair (and by “breaks” I mean that I run to the kitchen and shove my head in the freezer … right into the ice bucket whenever possible). Oh sure, I’m guessing the fact that I then put on heavy layers of work appropriate clothing (and by “work appropriate” I really mean “igloo-appropriate” because, if there’s one place I’m not the slightest bit warm, it’s my frigid office), climb into a car with no air conditioning and continue the sweating spree all the way to and from work, doesn’t help the matter. Plus, since we’re in the middle of refinishing the pool I can’t even cool down when I get home again. Oh, and then I like to throw in a nice steamy session in the gym just for added effect.

But no more. Today was officially my last day using the master bathroom (maybe I’ll keep my toothbrush there, but I’m hesitant to even commit to that at this point). I was already showering elsewhere, I guess I’ll just use that bathroom for all my beauty needs now as well. However, if you’re thinking this is an easy decision, think again. I’ve nicknamed our other bathroom “the cave,” and I assure you that the name fits. It’s dark, musty, poorly lit, ensconced in 80s linoleum and contains a few layers of grime I can’t seem to remove without just demolishing the whole place (which I plan to do but, as you might have noticed, I’ve got a few other priorities competing for my attention right now). Plus, if you’re not careful, the soap scum will pile up so thick that GAR has been known to write love messages to me in it (instead of cleaning it, of course, and then I feel bad scrubbing away his disgusting, and yet oddly romantic, sentiments). Nonetheless, applying mascara in a cave has got to be better than watching it drip down my cheeks in an oven … just try not to laugh if the poor lighting in my “new” bathroom means I show up to work having crimped my hair instead of straightened it, or if the eye shadow is piled on so thick I look like Mimi from the “Drew Carey Show.” I am merely a victim of our planet’s orbital path.

Here is my beautiful "cave" where I'll make myself look gorgeous every morning. I feel cooler already.

Private Eyes, They’re Watching You

This past weekend I travelled back to my homeland – Michigan. I was there for a wedding. Or, as a bride-to-be such as myself would call it, “research.”

Oh sure, I could sit here and pretend that I wasn’t paying extra attention to every detail of the event but – come on – of course I was. It’s not a competition (though if I’m to judge by the horribly vapid wedding shows presented on basic cable, to some women it really is a “how can my wedding be better than this one?” posturing), for me it’s just a matter of “what details am I forgetting about?” I mean, I think GAR and I have the basics covered, but I have a feeling there’s a lot of little moving parts that we could forget about if we don’t pay attention. And so, during this wedding, I evaluated and made mental notes and tried to prepare myself for all the things that still need to get done for my own shindig.

To be perfectly honest, there’s so many things at weddings I don’t pay that much attention to. I’ll remember if something embarrassing happened, or what kind of bar there was (oh yes, I always remember the liquor … the food maybe not as much, but always the booze) and, of course, I always recall how beautiful the bride looked (though, to be fair, I do tend to surround myself with gorgeousness), but beyond that I don’t notice the little details unless they are real show stoppers. And that makes it harder when you start planning your own affair. I’m constantly trying to remember “how was this handled at other weddings?” I need something for comparison. And this weekend worked nicely for this purpose (oh, and I had a great time and was honored to be there, of course).

But there was one little thing that happened at this wedding that I absolutely, positively cannot stand to happen on my big day – it snowed (a real bummer since the only coat I still have in Michigan is my high school letter jacket … and it really clashed with my outfit).

Granted, I am getting married in the summer in Florida so this prospect seems unlikely at best (and not freakin’ possible – like actually defying all rational possibility – at worst). But it is hurricane season and so I really should be considering the weather. And it did get me thinking about something I might not have otherwise – photography back-up plans. Okay, fair enough, I hadn’t even thought about photography locations at all (add that to the list of “to dos” as well). But, of course, now I will also think up a back-up plan should my original plans call for photos outdoors. See – so many little things to think about.

I’m actually attending several more weddings this year. But I won’t get to use those as research – they all take place after mine. And so, for those future brides (and their respective GARs) who will be attending my wedding and doing their own “research,” feel free to take notes. But don’t you dare go bridezilla on me and start thinking of ways to one-up my event or else, so help me, I will make it blizzard on your big day. And I can do it too. I mean, if I can make it snow in the middle of spring then surely I can pull it off during the autumn as well … or at least conjure up a nice hail storm.

Buying a Stairway to Heaven

When Groom-A-Saurus Rex (a.k.a. GAR) and I decided on a big, overblown rock and roll theme to our wedding we felt the most important element of our big day would be the location. You may recall the struggles we had getting anyone to take our money when we first searched for venues, which was (no doubt) partially due to the fact that we were thinking out of the box and looking at places that weren’t generally known as wedding venues. And that’s because we had one very specific criterion for the ceremony – we wanted to, in true rock star style, get married on stage.

And we found a venue – a bar actually – that would allow us to do just that. Not only does the bar have a super cool look to it, but the stage (which is normally used by flamenco dancers) makes for a perfect rock star perch for us, while all our adoring “fans” can watch us say “I do” from their high top bar tables.

There’s just one little problem – there’s no way for us to actually get up on stage.

Oh sure, there are steps, but they are located backstage. I think it might look a little odd if we walked down the aisle and then disappeared behind a curtain for some time before finally emerging up on the stage. It seems a little disjointed and decidedly not very posh. And so we set about buying (or renting) a “stairway to heaven” that would take us from here to there. But thus far we haven’t had too much success finding something pre-made that will do the trick. So now we are contemplating (or I am actually, I really should run these things by GAR before proclaiming them on here) whether or not we can just make the steps ourselves.

I think we can. I mean, we’ve proven ourselves to be rather crafty thus far in matters of home improvement. And necessity is the mother of invention (or something like that). I’m sure a little Googling will provide us with proper enough DIY instruction. How hard can it be? A few hours of frustrated cursing and hammering on our fingers instead of the boards should do the trick. We just need to make the contraption sturdy enough to not send me toppling over with my dress flying overhead, showing off London and France to our wedding guests (which, with my tendencies for clumsiness, cannot be guaranteed regardless of the quality of the construction). We just need to channel our inner roadies and make it work!

And if all else fails there’s always Plan B – bodysurfing my way to the stage.

Here is the bar in question. We need to make it up there - up where the speakers and equipment are located - in order to say our vows.

Home Alone

Macaulay Culkin, I feel your pain.

I too have battled unwanted intruders when left home without supervision. Oh sure, in my case I’m a grown woman who should (theoretically) be perfectly capable of spending time alone at her house, not a small child who requires parental support. But when it comes to defending my home, I am rather defenseless and would likely need to resort to crazy antics involving whatever I have on hand – frying pans and irons to the face, a nice coating in sticky substances such as pancake syrup, and maybe even a well placed kick to the crotch if it came to it.

All of these rudimentary defense tactics came to mind when, while GAR was away this weekend, my “guard dogs” began barking wildly throughout the night. In fact, they were out in the yard defending the very section of fence that was vandalized just a few weeks ago (though they sometimes took breaks to focus on barking at the front door instead … and clawing at it. So much so that they ripped the “vintage” yellowing mini-blinds on the door to shreds, making it even easier for potential intruders to peek inside). And, to top it off, helicopters were buzzing overhead until 3 a.m. As visions of escaped convicts roaming my neighborhood and hopping the fence to hide in my very own backyard (perhaps crouching beneath the half-deflated pool floaties stacked up outside my bedroom door) danced into my head I quickly began assessing how I would thwart off the bad guys should this occur. And apart from rigging up some sort of electronic shocking device on every window and door, I came up with nada (except hiding in the closet while I wait for police to arrive).

Thankfully I made it through the night just fine, with only a mild sleepiness to show from the whole ordeal. Little did I know that I had yet to face the real threat of unwanted intruders that were about to invade my house that very next evening – they came in by the hundreds … and no amount of slapstick I learned from any of the films in the “Home Alone” series could stop them.

I found the parasitic squatters in my master bathroom the next evening as it neared midnight. I was brushing my teeth when I heard a noise and my eyes wandered over to the window above the tub. And there they were. Hundreds – HUNDREDS – of flying carpenter ants. On the inside of the window. In the bathroom with me. Like that scene in “Arachnophobia” where the spiders are literally covering every surface in the house. Only these bastards – the ones in my house – can also fly.

I quickly backed out of the room (thinking, I might add, “Where is GAR?? Why does this never ever happen when he’s home? Killing bugs is HIS job. Who the heck do I even call at midnight on a Saturday for help?”), trying not to stumble into the ever-so-useful rock garden in the middle of the dang floor (lest they cover my feeble body and devour me whole), and ran straight into the kitchen where I grabbed every can of bug spray I could find. And then I bug bombed the entire bathroom – foam and spray filled the air, dead bugs dropped from above like plump black rain, overall visibility got dim and soon my own breathing became labored. I slammed the door shut and crammed a towel into the crack underneath to keep the poison from spilling out into my bedroom. But, it was too late. The smell was toxic and even the dogs were choking on the fumes. After blocking off that entire half of the house we retreated to the couch for the evening (why not sleep in one of my two guest bedrooms, located far away from the bug invasion? I have no idea. Thus is the logic of my cockamamie defense strategy).

The next day I carefully cracked open the door to the bathroom to assess the damage. I found dozens of ant carcasses on the ground and in the tub, but I didn’t find the hundreds I expected to encounter. And, in the light of day, I couldn’t find a single living soul. So this means there’s a bigger problem – they’re still here but they’re hiding. In the walls most likely. And they’re going to come back. And so I called in the big guns – an extermination service. I figure our house could use a little more protection than some of my homemade booby traps.

Besides, we’ve also got the fleas who get in from time to time. And the wasps. And last year (again when GAR was out of town) I also battled a humongous frog and some pudgy lizards. So enough is enough. But, if next time GAR leaves town the house becomes infested with locusts and a freak hailstorm hits, I’m moving!

Do these guard dogs = a home security system? 'Cause that's all I got!

Bazinga!

On my second date with GAR he told me a joke. It went (roughly) something like this:
A guy is sitting at home when the doorbell rings. When he answers his front door and finds a snail on the porch. Puzzled he picks it up and tosses it across the street. Two years later, the doorbell rings again, and when the man answers his door he finds the snail on his doorstop. The snail looks at him and says, "What the f**k was that about?"

Upon hearing this joke I think I perhaps checked my watch, or started preparing some sort of escape plan. In any case, I remember thinking “Really? That’s his best material? This is going to be a loooong night.” While I didn’t have much faith in GAR’s comedic talents at that moment I quickly learned that he is, indeed, a very funny guy. Mostly because, when he’s not wasting his time telling modern knock-knock jokes, he shares my very wry, dry sense of humor. But I understand why it took him awhile to let his inner sarcasm fly – it’s not a comedy device that everyone appreciates (or even recognizes).

Sarcastic, dry humor is not everyone’s cup of tea. You either get it or you don’t – there’s really not much middle ground. And so there are people who think both GAR and I are hilarious, and those who think we’re the biggest tools on the planet. Frankly that’s fine with me. I want to laugh and be around people who crack me up as well. And as long as GAR and I are stupidly amused by our own brand of comedy then I’m a happy gal. But I’m not going to lie – sometimes my funny business gets me into trouble.

On a whole I’ve gotten much better at judging my audience. Oh sure, I still push the boundaries of what is deemed “okay” to say sometimes (and, fair enough, my perception of acceptable vs. unacceptable is likely far more liberal than most). But I do alter my style when it’s important not to offend. GAR has called it my stand-up routine, and I’m more likely to use this type of comedy when I’m cracking jokes at work (“What’s the deal with all these pencil sharpeners? Is this an office from 1958??”) or when in a mixed social setting (which I would define as any group that contains at least one person who is not a close personal friend of mine), but it can creep up at any time a good one liner pops to mind. And, much like a real comedienne, many of these joke falter or land flat (“Hello?? Is this thing on? Tough crowd…”)

But when I am around friends and loved ones anything goes. I’m often self deprecating, and I’m not afraid to share embarrassing personal stories. But I’m also not afraid to take my loved ones down with me. If you do something funny (intentionally or unintentionally) or stupid I will call you on it. Teasing – especially the brutally sarcastic kind – is an extension of my love for you. And if you’re not the kind of person who enjoys snarky quips at your expensive then you are not going to be my friend. I think most people get this. I mean, didn’t your mom always tell you that the boy who pulled your pigtails or stole your eraser in elementary school only did so because he liked you? That’s sort of my way of showing affection for you – I will treat you much like a schoolyard bully would. After all, I don’t waste my time playfully picking on people I don’t like (or even those I’m indifferent about). Why bother?

And that’s the way my blog works too. I make fun of myself, pick on GAR and tease my father, to name just a few. Ah, but here’s the problem with dry humor – it doesn’t translate well in writing. While I make my finest effort to imply through my writing the fact that I am, of course, just telling a good story in a witty way, it seems that some people just don’t get it. And I may have caused some hurt feelings with some of my loving jabs – specifically those made at Dad’s expense. Now, Dad would never tell me that I upset him, but I did apologize just in case I did. However, I think that clearly – obviously – in case it wasn’t already abundantly evident – I love my father dearly. I appreciate everything he does for me. In fact, I think I would be quite lost without him. We all get that, right? But, come on, he’s a funny guy. And how could I not share his Daddy antics with the world? It’s part of what makes him so loving and endearing in the first place.

So it seems that I’m not quite ready to take my stand-up routine on the road just yet. Honestly I don’t know how comedians do it with alienating everyone they know. I mean, one funny family story into my HBO special and Mom would be so mortified she’d disown me for sure. Perhaps this is why so many of comics begin their acts with “So my girlfriend just dumped me …” And, while I have absolutely no qualms about using GAR stories as comedic fodder, even he has been known to edit and censor at times when I’ve crossed the line – despite his deep appreciation for finding comedy in just about anything.

So maybe from now on I’ll stick to more generically schmaltzy comedy. The type that ends with a big punch line. How about this:
What did one cannibal say to the other while they were eating a clown?

Eh, nevermind…

Disc Jockey Wars

When planning a rock and roll themed wedding it’s safe to say that music plays a pretty integral role. In fact, we had chosen our entire playlist – ceremony processionals, recessionals, first dance, last dance and everything in between – before we chose a venue, picked a date, thought about who our attendants would be, considered color schemes, or anything else wedding related. These choices, such as the parents walking out to Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns & Roses and our cocktail hour music consisting exclusively of Richard Cheese hits, were the easy part. The hard part is picking the right person to spin these tunes for us.

After quickly deciding that, while a band would be pretty rockin’, they perhaps wouldn’t be able to provide the breadth and depth of music we’d require, we moved on to shopping for a DJ. But, here’s the thing – we have absolutely no idea how one goes about determining that one DJ is better than another. I mean, except for perhaps attending numerous weddings in the area and judging their abilities to keep the crowds on their feet, or engaging them in a cage fight to the death to determine the victor … but that’s perhaps overdoing it a bit.

The other problem I have is the extreme cheesiness that surrounds most DJs. The one (frighteningly horrible) time we attended a bridal show all of the DJs present were dressed like – how shall I put it? – tools … yeah, “tool-ish” and “tool-y” are the words I think best describe it. Wearing shades indoors and bopping their heads in sync to bad techo beats, they looked far too serious about setting a sad little club-esque type atmosphere to actually have fun. On the other hand, we’ve all been to too many weddings where every other song is the YMCA, Chicken Dance or Macarena, giant props are pulled out left and right, and the DJ fancies himself a dance instructor or takes it upon himself to embarrass as many people as possible. Not exactly my idea of a good time.

So we started asking our other vendors for recommendations, the main criteria being “must not be cheesy” and “must play EXACTLY what we want” (and, though this almost goes without saying, they must strictly enforce our absolute “no country music – not even that lame stuff people try to pass off as mainstream by calling it ‘crossover’” rule). And this is where things started getting nasty. Soon we had begun conversations with two different DJ choices and, while we liked them both very much, one of them just made things a little too difficult for us. When I wrote to politely let the runner-up know that we had decided to go in another direction, this dejected DJ did not take the news well ... and angrily demanded to know who we chose instead. I didn’t respond. And now I know we made the absolute right decision – no one wants to boogie to angry tunes and a cantankerous DJ does not offer up a party atmosphere.

So now we’ve got MJ the DJ and we’ve got a good feeling about him. But he better not let us down. He promised us a night of rock and roll fun, though considering his ridiculously peppy and over the top attitude during our meeting in his office I do think we might have to search him on his way into the reception to ensure he’s not hiding a pair of oversized sunglasses, funny colored wigs, clown shoes or other wacky props in with his equipment. He’d better rock it or else there’s going to be another type of Disc Jockey War on his hands.

Blingless in Orlando

I have something shameful to admit – I can’t get my engagement ring off my finger. I haven’t been able to for awhile now. And for the past few weeks, even when I could get it off, it required more than some gentle persuading to free it from my finger. I have yanked and tore up my ring finger shoving the ring on and wriggling it back off again and now it’s so swollen that it just won’t budge. And today I doused my finger with Windex in order to pull it off (a trick they taught me at the jewelry store when they offered to clean it for me and I couldn’t pry it loose there either), but I’m worried that in the morning it just won’t go back on at all. But it’s my fault – I insisted they make it this small.

When GAR first gave me the ring it was too big. It just kept sliding all around my dainty finger (yes, I have very slim fingers. In college I was “discovered” by an agent who wanted to make me a hand model. Oh how I rue the day I turned down that offer for making these delightful digits of mine big movie stars). Naturally I took it to the jeweler to have it sized down. And while doing so, I also ordered my matching wedding band. But, see, they don’t really have a pre-made band that matches. So of course I did what any bride on a strict money-saving budget would do – I insisted that one be custom made just for me. I mean, it has to be perfect, right? I want it to sit nice and flush and match perfectly. And, while I might not be a girly girl about many things, I do love me some bling.

And so my ring was shipped away for several weeks while artisans handcrafted a matching wedding band partner for it. During that time I missed it dearly. And, since many people were still just learning of the engagement, I felt like a charlatan when I had no bling to show off to them as proof (oh the skeptical stares “they” give you when you don’t have adequate ice to show that your partner truly loves you enough to spend 3 months salary on a token). When I got it back (along with its gorgeous custom-made counterpart) everything was wonderful again. But then it got hot outside (as Florida tends to be this time of year) and my fingers started swelling. And … well … that brings us to where we are now.

I know I have to get it sized again. GAR can’t be expected to spend 20 minutes trying to put the ring on my finger during the ceremony. And while alterations won’t take weeks this time, it does mean having both rings resized … again. And what if I lose weight? Will I then have to have them taken down again? I just can’t stand the thought of it all. And so I’m holding off … just a little while. But I’d better keep the Windex handy just in case.

By the way, after seeing my wedding band, GAR insisted on having his custom made too. He drew up a design featuring a channel of black diamonds (set in a band of white gold which, of course, is pricier than other metals but it does meet his main requirement for the ring – it is sizeable. Apparently he thinks he’ll need this option as well). We picked up the finished product this weekend and I must say that it’s stunning. He wore it around all day (despite people crying out that he’s not supposed to do so … though I’m not sure why exactly) and it was hard for him to part with it when we got home that evening. So I guess I’m not the only one who hates the thought of being blingless. In fact, he’s looking at “engagement bands” online right now. He figures that if I get something to wear between now and the wedding, why can’t he have a little somethin’ somethin’ as well? Can’t say I disagree with that logic!

Now, come on, how we could not want to sport all this bling?

If It’s Good Enough for Hulk Hogan, It’s Good Enough for Me

Hold the phones people – I joined a gym. And I plan on going there … soon. But I really need to ease into this whole membership thing because, somehow, I’ve made it 33 years without ever once committing to a fitness-based establishment (though I did so many free “trial memberships” around town that I think they’ve likely all got posters with my photo on them saying “Don’t give this woman 1 free week. She’ll never come back after that”). Actually, I did have a membership to a Bikram yoga studio that I let expire last year, but that was more of a Zen experience than the traditional grunting, growling, groaning intense weight lifting sessions found at a “gym." Not that I’ll be doing anything of the sort, mind you, but Hulk Hogan is.

And why does what Hulk Hogan is doing make any difference? Because he works out at my gym (or he was earlier this week when GAR was there anyway). Actually, many of the old pro wrestlers from our youth live near me (or so it would seem from the shared restaurants we seem to always frequent) and so it got me wondering if they all work out at my gym. And, well, that’s a bit intimidating.

Not that I’m not fit (well, actually, I’m not). Okay, how about – it’s not like I haven’t been fit before. I am (err… was) a runner after all. But I’m no Hulkamaniac. And I have no idea what the Rock's got cooking. But I have seen his muscles so I do have a rather good idea of what they’re lifting … and it’s slightly more than the 20 pounds I’m straining with on the circuit. Nonetheless I gotta do it. The term “muffin top” made it into the Oxford Dictionary this year and I don’t want my photo to run alongside it. Also, swimsuit season is coming up. Correction: It’s Florida. So, yeah, summer (and thus swimsuit season) is already here. And we’re getting our pool resurfaced this month. People are going to want to swim in it. And they’ll expect me to swim in it too (or least lounge casually next to it wearing something that exposes some amount of flesh).

And then there’s that whole wedding thing. People generally want to look skinny in photos and whatnot (myself included). I keep hearing people mention “Bridal Boot Camp” and I have no idea whether this is an actual, regimented workout system or just a phrase people use when they want to get fit for their big day. But, in either case, I need to put myself on my own form of Bridal Boot Camp and kick it into high gear. And GAR too. I’ve noticed that on each visit to the gym he makes about 20-30 trips to the drinking fountain. While a simple water bottle would correct this dehydration problem he seems to have, I’m guessing he might have other motives for taking so many little breaks throughout his workouts. We’re never going to attain a pro-wrestling physique if we don’t kick it up a notch. That’s why from now on it’s nothing but romantic dates on the treadmills for us. Heck, our gym even has a cardio theater where you can watch movies in a surround sound, high def, movie theater-like atmosphere while you work out. That counts as movie night, right?

When we joined this fitness establishment last week, the sleazy sales guy (and why must they all be so sleazy? “I can only give you this special offer today” was the line fed to us on more than one occasion, as was the phase “I’ll have to check with my manager to see if I can do that for you,” despite the fact we saw him walk away and talk to no one before coming back to us with an answer), gave us a list of celebrities who belong to the gym (not our branch necessarily, mind you, but they are members at ONE of the gyms in this humongous chain). While I’m sure he thought this would be a big selling point for us (oh yes, Charlie Sheen is a member. I’m sure that working out there means I’m also winning … or at least I’ll have some decent access to tiger blood), it really just makes me feel like I need to dress to impress when I go there (and I certainly wouldn’t want to get all sweaty in front of the A-listers). Nonetheless, Hulk Hogan and Charlie Sheen aside, I have heard that Justin Timberlake has been spotted working out at this very location (5 years ago, but still…) and I’ve got to bring sexy back quick in case he ends up at the elliptical next to me. That’s perhaps the best motivation for Bridal Boot Camp I can think of.

Fine. I’ll give that personal trainer from Belarus a call. Add it to my calendar for next week. Because, other than limiting myself to a light jog so that I can still keep my paparazzi-like camera on the ready should Justin Bieber stroll in, I don’t know where else to begin. Until then, at least my little keychain gym membership cards make me look like a fitness buff!