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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 11, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, April 9, 2011
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…
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…
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
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?
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!
Friday, April 1, 2011
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!
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!
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