I haven't been very prolific lately, and this is for good reason. Three, actually. Namely - moving, remodeling, and last minute wedding details. All done the week before your big day.
If any of you have friends who are attempting to pull off what we just pulled off, you need to take them by the shoulders, shake them hard, and ask them WHAT IN GOD'S HOLY NAME they are thinking. Because it is abundantly clear that they have contracted an alien virus strain called "Absolutely Fucking Crazy." You should not, under any circumstances, undertake anything more complicated than third grade math the week before your wedding. This includes installing hardwood floors.
My most important piece of advice, however, comes from my mom. A long, long time ago, she told me that I should marry a man who really loves me. Unconditionally. I listened and promptly forgot. 20 something years later, 7 days before my wedding, I would completely lose my shit under all the wedding and moving stress. He would ask me if I could let the painter in at 11am, and my reaction would be to start crying, and let fly the most psychotic accusations of all time, my all-star favorite being, "I can't stand you and I WANT TO STRANGLE YOU."
The real reason why you should marry a man who loves you unconditionally, is this: Sooner or later, Psycho-Bitch-On-Steroids will poke her head out to say hello. Your man needs to have no fear of Psycho Bitch. Your man needs to have both the love, and the balls, to push her out of the way, look you in the eye, and take you into his arms and say that he loves you.
We are 6 days to our Big, Fat Chinese-Jewish Wedding Caper. Some people have asked if I'm having cold feet. Others want to know if I'm harboring second thoughts. The answer is no, not at all. When you have experienced intimate tete-a-tetes with each other's demons, when you are this vulnerable and transparent - everything else is cake. And for those of you who are traveling from far and wide to celebrate with us - rest assured - there will be plenty of love and cake to go around on our happy day.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Monday, October 15, 2007
And the bachelorette said, "Go forth, and stand upon a mountain"
The coolest thing about having your bachelorette party in an au natural setting like Yosemite, CA, is that everyone is forced to strip down to their most elemental selves. Cocktail conversation quickly becomes redundant. "What do you do" won't keep you warm, but "where's that extra pair of gloves?" will.
10 of my best friends braved 32 weather, no hot water, hungry bears, and uncomfortable sleeping pads with me. That didn't even cover the litany of discomforts, some of them had injuries that made hiking down a mountain an exercise in pain management. Others had had 5 weeks worth of bronchitis, with doctor's orders to not get on a plane. All of them (Jon excluded) were sometimes so numb with cold, that basic linear logic was impossible.
This is probably why I absentmindedly left my bra in a sleeping bag somewhere. But I digress.
I'm glad they got to share Yosemite with me. I hiked those very same falls, 10 years ago, when I was a senior in college, on the brink of graduation. I wish I could remember what I did that year, but in between the haze of making out with Philosophy TA's and enough cheap tequila shots to induce projectile vomiting, I don't. I do remember feeling simultaneously overconfident and scared. Scared shitless, of the unknown, of the future, of having to carve out my niche in a world that wasn't ordered by exams and class schedules. Scared that after being an academic success, I was about to become a real world failure. Scared that what the oldies said was true, that the best days of my life were over, and that I was about to jump, feet first, into their world. A world of desk drudgery, paperwork monotony, and bad fluorescent lighting.
That year, I labored all the way up Vernall Falls, just as they did with me last weekend. It was springtime, after an uncharacteristically rainy season in California, and the falls were in their full majesty. A light mist blanketed the mountain range. The redwoods stood firm, roots sinking deep into the earth, branches laden with glossy green foliage. I learned a very important lesson that day. Perspective. These mountains and redwoods were here before I was born, and would continue existing after my death. All those human lives scooting up and down the trails, all the private heartaches and joys and angst - they were small and inconsequential in the grander scheme of things. Suddenly, figuring out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, NOW! NOW! NOW! became laughable.
I came back down the mountain. A little less scared, a lot more relaxed.
10 years later and teetering on the brink of marriage, some voices were piping up. Fear can feel like old familiar friend sometimes. What if you make a bad wife? What if marriage is nothing like you thought it would be? What if it makes you want to eat Krispy Kremes and sit on your fat ass all day? Forget about graduating college, getting married in Bev World is HUGE! Up there with winning the lottery, huge. And about twice as scary. If I graduated college and landed a lifelong career flipping burgers, it'd be a fuck up, but one that involved only me. "Fucking up" takes on a whole new significance when you get married. And I was, as most nice Chinese girls are, deathly afraid of fucking up. Without even realizing what I had done, I chose Yosemite for my bachelorette party. I didn't want the clatter and enforced sexuality of a Vegas affair. I wanted to commune with the mountains, listen to the falls, touch the redwoods.
Last weekend, as my best friends strapped on their backpacks and hiked up the trails with me, I was flooded with a sense of gratitude. As it turned out, Yosemite wasn't the only entity with a sense of history, I had one too. And they were right there with me, talking, laughing, breathing. I realized that I had nothing to fear. All that was present would become past, that much was inevitable. In the big picture, there is no such thing is "fucking up." There is only the passage of time, and whom you shared it with. Marriage means spending time with my best friend in the whole world. Nothing scary about that.
I came back down the mountain again. A little calmer, a little wiser, and a lot more grateful for what I had.
There exists a prototype of The Legendary Bachelorette, where the cocktails flow and the city lights stand in contrast to the beckoning glow of the home and hearth. Where we can live it up, Single Girl style, a last hurrah before the invariable onset of domestic boredom. I think we have it all wrong. I think the passages of life sit on a time continuum, and the whole idea of The Last Hurrah doesn't do justice to what really matters: your past, present, and future - coming together, and being at one.
So, Adventure Boyz and Girlz, this is for you. You all rock. Thank you for being a part of my journey. It meant the world to me. Maybe in my next phase of life, we'll all don our Indian names and pay a visit to our old friend Yosemite, again. In the spring or summer this time, I promise.
Also if someone finds a black bra (cup size AA, smells vaguely of 'Smores), you know my number.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Unholy Trinity
I swung by the dress store today to pay Walter a visit. Walter is the name of my wedding dress. I am having a torrid relationship with 20 yards of silk organza, and I must say, it is very satisfying.
While I was twirling around the store in Walter, The Other Bride asked if I liked her dress. I told her that it was beautiful, and we exchanged some ideas on how to embellish it a little more. Her two friends, a married couple, were very friendly and chimed in periodically.
Here's where things get weird.
The man asked when I was getting married, and where. He then divulged that he and his new wife (proud sweep of the hands) had recently gotten married in the Vatican. I was immediately intrigued, and asked a ton of questions. Did the pope officiate? Was it in the actual Vatican, Vatican? Did his wife have to cover up a little more to please the powers that be? Because the Vatican is like The Battleship Galactica for Catholics, right? Some extra special mojo is supposed to happen there, like maybe you get inspired to populate the earth with the fruit of your womb?
All four of us chatted for a bit, and when The Other Bride went to change back into her normal clothes, they both turned to me.
"Listen, is your fiance good looking?"
"He is."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"Do you guys like to party?"
"What do you mean, 'party?'"
They were swingers, and wanted to know if we were into some down home, South Beach, no strings attached fun. They had an "open relationship," they said, and only picked out "nice looking" people to "party" with. I declined their offer nicely.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see myself mouthing the words. Clad in a veil and a wedding dress.
Of all the places in the world where you would expect an offer of a foursome, the wedding dress store is usually not one of them. And never while you're in The White Wedding Dress, which is supposed to symbolize innocence, purity, and *ahem* no prior knowledge of sinful, earthly temptations. Gotta love this city.
While I was twirling around the store in Walter, The Other Bride asked if I liked her dress. I told her that it was beautiful, and we exchanged some ideas on how to embellish it a little more. Her two friends, a married couple, were very friendly and chimed in periodically.
Here's where things get weird.
The man asked when I was getting married, and where. He then divulged that he and his new wife (proud sweep of the hands) had recently gotten married in the Vatican. I was immediately intrigued, and asked a ton of questions. Did the pope officiate? Was it in the actual Vatican, Vatican? Did his wife have to cover up a little more to please the powers that be? Because the Vatican is like The Battleship Galactica for Catholics, right? Some extra special mojo is supposed to happen there, like maybe you get inspired to populate the earth with the fruit of your womb?
All four of us chatted for a bit, and when The Other Bride went to change back into her normal clothes, they both turned to me.
"Listen, is your fiance good looking?"
"He is."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"Do you guys like to party?"
"What do you mean, 'party?'"
They were swingers, and wanted to know if we were into some down home, South Beach, no strings attached fun. They had an "open relationship," they said, and only picked out "nice looking" people to "party" with. I declined their offer nicely.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see myself mouthing the words. Clad in a veil and a wedding dress.
Of all the places in the world where you would expect an offer of a foursome, the wedding dress store is usually not one of them. And never while you're in The White Wedding Dress, which is supposed to symbolize innocence, purity, and *ahem* no prior knowledge of sinful, earthly temptations. Gotta love this city.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Saga of the Bridesmaids Dresses
I had big plans for the bridesmaids dresses, oh yes I did.
I had visions of all my girls, clad in slinky sage green cheongsams, slit up to *here*, hair adorably pinned up, rocking that Modern Asian Chic. And because Miami doesn't house a large enough Chinese population to warrant a proper Chinatown (sorry guys, that stretch of North Miami Beach is a fucking joke. Dublin has a bigger Chinatown than that) - I did the next best thing.
I went online.
My friends, if any of you are planning a wedding, you will soon find out what an invaluable resource the internet is. I have no idea how brides managed to plan weddings before the advent of this wonderful, divine, instrument of God. Need to contact vendors and research quotes while you're at work? It's a cinch. Just remember to minimize your windows before The Big Cheese walks by. But ordering your bridesmaids dresses online? Never do that. And never (ever! ever! ever!) order anything that has to be shipped directly from China, in flimsy packaging, with a cryptic return policy that promises everything but guarantees nothing. Don't do this, even if the pictures look great on the website, even if half your bridesmaids are in California, while the other half are in Miami, and even if you think you can save them money.
The first phone call came from my mom. "Uh, Debbie's dress came. The dress looks...different."
"Different, how?"
"The green is very light. And the dress is sized too large."
I decided to wait till I actually saw the dress, before making any decisions. As it happened, my fiance and I flew out to CA the next weekend, where I held up the offending article of clothing with two shaking hands and tried hard not to scream. It was horrible. It was as if Suzy Wong was thrust into an episode of "In Living Color." What was supposed to be a sleek, sylph-like cheongsam in a muted sage green, was a mass of lime-green and gold threads and garish flower designs. I held it up to my little sister, who scowled plaintively up at me.
"This is awful," I said.
"Yeah, Bev. I look ghetto."
Every family has their loudmouthed, irreverent member. That would be me. My sister is the sweet, docile one. So when sweet, docile Debbie pronounces a dress "ghetto," you know that the true, unadulterated effect lies somewhere between Flava Flav's Flava of the Month, and the cellulite-thighed 200 lb stripper in Lil' Jon's "Get Low" video. Now, I've been known to do a lot of not-so-nice things in my life, but sending my best friends down the aisle in a ghetto Chinese cheongsam? Uncool. Like, reincarnated as a cockroach, uncool.
So my bridesmaids dutifully submitted their returns. Here again is the all too important lesson of the personal being political. The recent spate of faulty exports from China - toothpaste, pet food, children's toys, seafood - should have set off alarm bells in my head. 30 day return policy? Exchanges and refunds? Customer service? Psscch. These are American affectations. The rest of the world, I conveniently forgot, operates within their own set of regulations. The free market, capitalist, anti-government regulation ones. The ones that don't protect the consumer. The ones that would leave me and my bridesmaids high and dry, with 6 ghetto ass lime green cheongsams. It took a series of strongly worded exchanges between The Attorney Bridesmaid and The Ghetto Chinese Dress Store, before they would agree to 100% refunds.
I went back to the drawing board, a little older, a little wiser and a lot more discerning. Yesterday, my bridesmaids and I did the obligatory trek down Miracle Mile. Armed with iced drinks from Starbucks and a steely sense of purpose, we scoured the racks upon racks of dresses. I loved having my girls around me. Normally, when salespeople come at me with a frothy, vomit-worthy taffeta frock, my knee-jerk reaction is to look them in the eye and yell "No." Sometimes this comes across a little too forcefully. I can't help it. I was born impatient. But watching my bridesmaids slice through the inner caverns of dress stores, never stopping to second-guess, always trusting their instincts - I felt a sudden rush of warmth.
These were my best friends. In exquisite floor length gowns, twirling and looking pretty. But what are bridesmaids dresses really, if not team jerseys? They don't come emblazoned with retarded looking dolphins, and they won't stand up to an afternoon of keg stands, grass stains, and tailgating. But every single friend was wearing this lovely dress, because she was part of a team. My team. And this is what's beautiful about friendship, the fact that you have people who don't have to be on your team, but who choose to, regardless. Who would go through The Big Game with you, wins and losses be damned, always loyal, always united.
For a girl who went to a school without a football team, I sure came away with rock solid one. Rah, rah, rah. I am a lucky sonofabitch.
I had visions of all my girls, clad in slinky sage green cheongsams, slit up to *here*, hair adorably pinned up, rocking that Modern Asian Chic. And because Miami doesn't house a large enough Chinese population to warrant a proper Chinatown (sorry guys, that stretch of North Miami Beach is a fucking joke. Dublin has a bigger Chinatown than that) - I did the next best thing.
I went online.
My friends, if any of you are planning a wedding, you will soon find out what an invaluable resource the internet is. I have no idea how brides managed to plan weddings before the advent of this wonderful, divine, instrument of God. Need to contact vendors and research quotes while you're at work? It's a cinch. Just remember to minimize your windows before The Big Cheese walks by. But ordering your bridesmaids dresses online? Never do that. And never (ever! ever! ever!) order anything that has to be shipped directly from China, in flimsy packaging, with a cryptic return policy that promises everything but guarantees nothing. Don't do this, even if the pictures look great on the website, even if half your bridesmaids are in California, while the other half are in Miami, and even if you think you can save them money.
The first phone call came from my mom. "Uh, Debbie's dress came. The dress looks...different."
"Different, how?"
"The green is very light. And the dress is sized too large."
I decided to wait till I actually saw the dress, before making any decisions. As it happened, my fiance and I flew out to CA the next weekend, where I held up the offending article of clothing with two shaking hands and tried hard not to scream. It was horrible. It was as if Suzy Wong was thrust into an episode of "In Living Color." What was supposed to be a sleek, sylph-like cheongsam in a muted sage green, was a mass of lime-green and gold threads and garish flower designs. I held it up to my little sister, who scowled plaintively up at me.
"This is awful," I said.
"Yeah, Bev. I look ghetto."
Every family has their loudmouthed, irreverent member. That would be me. My sister is the sweet, docile one. So when sweet, docile Debbie pronounces a dress "ghetto," you know that the true, unadulterated effect lies somewhere between Flava Flav's Flava of the Month, and the cellulite-thighed 200 lb stripper in Lil' Jon's "Get Low" video. Now, I've been known to do a lot of not-so-nice things in my life, but sending my best friends down the aisle in a ghetto Chinese cheongsam? Uncool. Like, reincarnated as a cockroach, uncool.
So my bridesmaids dutifully submitted their returns. Here again is the all too important lesson of the personal being political. The recent spate of faulty exports from China - toothpaste, pet food, children's toys, seafood - should have set off alarm bells in my head. 30 day return policy? Exchanges and refunds? Customer service? Psscch. These are American affectations. The rest of the world, I conveniently forgot, operates within their own set of regulations. The free market, capitalist, anti-government regulation ones. The ones that don't protect the consumer. The ones that would leave me and my bridesmaids high and dry, with 6 ghetto ass lime green cheongsams. It took a series of strongly worded exchanges between The Attorney Bridesmaid and The Ghetto Chinese Dress Store, before they would agree to 100% refunds.
I went back to the drawing board, a little older, a little wiser and a lot more discerning. Yesterday, my bridesmaids and I did the obligatory trek down Miracle Mile. Armed with iced drinks from Starbucks and a steely sense of purpose, we scoured the racks upon racks of dresses. I loved having my girls around me. Normally, when salespeople come at me with a frothy, vomit-worthy taffeta frock, my knee-jerk reaction is to look them in the eye and yell "No." Sometimes this comes across a little too forcefully. I can't help it. I was born impatient. But watching my bridesmaids slice through the inner caverns of dress stores, never stopping to second-guess, always trusting their instincts - I felt a sudden rush of warmth.
These were my best friends. In exquisite floor length gowns, twirling and looking pretty. But what are bridesmaids dresses really, if not team jerseys? They don't come emblazoned with retarded looking dolphins, and they won't stand up to an afternoon of keg stands, grass stains, and tailgating. But every single friend was wearing this lovely dress, because she was part of a team. My team. And this is what's beautiful about friendship, the fact that you have people who don't have to be on your team, but who choose to, regardless. Who would go through The Big Game with you, wins and losses be damned, always loyal, always united.
For a girl who went to a school without a football team, I sure came away with rock solid one. Rah, rah, rah. I am a lucky sonofabitch.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Deconstructing the Wedding Dress
Warning for all brides-to-be: shopping for your dress is a huge pain in the ass.
First, there is that nagging concept that plagues everyone, from our Founding Fathers to modern-day brides: freedom of choice. And whoo, mama. When you get engaged and start dreaming of your perfect gown, the choices leap out at you. Everywhere. From theknot.com, to bridal magazines, to storefront windows - each overpriced, over-fluffy, over-white piece of concoction demands your attention. Now! Now! Now! It's enough to give you a headache. I had nightmares of myself swimming in a sea of silk taffeta, arms flailing, every beleaguered gulp of air making me choke on an errant sequin. I guess it's true - the freedom to choose is never an easy one.
Then, there's the actual process of dress selection. Several months after our engagement, my maid of honor and I took that time-honored sojourn down to Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. "Miracle Mile" is a misnomer, since it really is closer to a three-mile promenade of bridal stores, bridesmaids stores, mother-of-the-bride stores. Basically, the Quick Shopper's worst nightmare. When it comes to clothing, shoes, and accessories, I make 15 second decisions. Style, color, fit, price tag - if all four pass the test, it's a go. My maid of honor is exactly the same way too, and even better - she has my style nailed to a T. This should have made the dress hunting process easier, but it didn't. We'd walk into stores and repeat the same mantra, ad nauseum:
"Strapless, A-line, simple, very little beading, no pouf, no fuss. Sexy. Sexy. Sexy."
The well-meaning abuelitas would peer over their glasses at me, smile, and return with an armful of Glam Rock Bridal Gowns. My darlings in Miss Sixty, you will shit your pants when you see just how little bridal couture has changed since 1982. No matter how many times you ask for something not resembling an 80's relic, as many as 90% of wedding gowns are polluted by that Mariah Carey-Tommy Mottola look.
Trying on wedding dresses - ye gods. Wear a thong, heels, and nothing else. Stand in a room full of grouchy old women, and keep both arms raised above your head at all times. Periodically scratch your torso with tulle and lace, and suck your tummy in hard as the corsets get pulled in, tight, around your waist. Imagine bright fluorescent store lights shining in your face the entire time. That's what trying on wedding dresses is like. If you try on an average of 5 dresses per store, this means that for one whole afternoon, I repeated this process up and down Miracle Mile stores 30 times. Did I mention that we were shopping in the dead of a Miami summer? Killer.
Finally, there is the question of tradition. It goes a little something like this: mom and you have a ball of time traipsing around all the bridal stores and girlishly bond over the merits of organza versus silk charmeuse. She sees you in your dress for the first time, tears up as the veil slides into place, while both of you stare into the mirror at this new entity: The Bride. With my mom flying in from California for a 4 day wedding shopping extravaganza, I knew our time was limited. Off we went to Miracle Mile again, this time armed with bottles of water (for heat exhaustion) and a notepad (for writing snide phrases like, "ghetto pouf - hell no.") I steeled myself for the inevitable Wedding Dress Trek.
As it happened, that was my lucky day. J. Del Ono (ask for Marina - she's like your personal wedding elf) had a shipment of gorgeous dresses for their Spring 2008 La Spoza collection. In the window reposed The Dress. I went through the motions. Dragged it into the fitting room, stripped down to my thong and heels, raised my arms, let Marina slip it over my head, waited for her to button me into place, and....magic. My mom, Marina, and I peered into the mirror. I smiled. Marina slipped the veil into place. My mom teared up. For the first time ever, I felt like a bride. And a cool, very decidedly un-douchebag bride at that.
In the days that followed, I would think of my dress in much the same fashion as I thought of my fiance, when we first started dating. I'd daydream, and make little doodles on notepaper. I'd try it on for size, and marvel at how well it fit me every time - better and better as time passed, it seemed. I'd talk myself out of committing to that one dress, because I had plenty of time, and there were many other dresses to see, and be seen in. In short, I was, we all were, spoilt for choice. But when I couldn't look at the others without thinking of *the* dress, *my* dress, and I couldn't imagine getting married in anything else - that's how I knew it was the one for me.
I guess the moral of the story is - you should fall in love with your dress, the same way in which you fell in love with him. Be honest with yourself. Listen to your instincts, and to what they're telling you. Don't listen to the how-to guides, the self-help books, or your well-meaning relatives. Does the dress make you feel good? Stand up a little straighter? Make you want to dance and twirl? Does it fit you well and complement you, without detracting from the essence of who you are? Is it a foil for your personality? Or do you need all that bling to hide something that you lack?
In love and fashion, the best accoutrement are the ones that accept your flaws, enhance your positives, and always, always, let the real you shine through. Happy shopping.
First, there is that nagging concept that plagues everyone, from our Founding Fathers to modern-day brides: freedom of choice. And whoo, mama. When you get engaged and start dreaming of your perfect gown, the choices leap out at you. Everywhere. From theknot.com, to bridal magazines, to storefront windows - each overpriced, over-fluffy, over-white piece of concoction demands your attention. Now! Now! Now! It's enough to give you a headache. I had nightmares of myself swimming in a sea of silk taffeta, arms flailing, every beleaguered gulp of air making me choke on an errant sequin. I guess it's true - the freedom to choose is never an easy one.
Then, there's the actual process of dress selection. Several months after our engagement, my maid of honor and I took that time-honored sojourn down to Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. "Miracle Mile" is a misnomer, since it really is closer to a three-mile promenade of bridal stores, bridesmaids stores, mother-of-the-bride stores. Basically, the Quick Shopper's worst nightmare. When it comes to clothing, shoes, and accessories, I make 15 second decisions. Style, color, fit, price tag - if all four pass the test, it's a go. My maid of honor is exactly the same way too, and even better - she has my style nailed to a T. This should have made the dress hunting process easier, but it didn't. We'd walk into stores and repeat the same mantra, ad nauseum:
"Strapless, A-line, simple, very little beading, no pouf, no fuss. Sexy. Sexy. Sexy."
The well-meaning abuelitas would peer over their glasses at me, smile, and return with an armful of Glam Rock Bridal Gowns. My darlings in Miss Sixty, you will shit your pants when you see just how little bridal couture has changed since 1982. No matter how many times you ask for something not resembling an 80's relic, as many as 90% of wedding gowns are polluted by that Mariah Carey-Tommy Mottola look.
Trying on wedding dresses - ye gods. Wear a thong, heels, and nothing else. Stand in a room full of grouchy old women, and keep both arms raised above your head at all times. Periodically scratch your torso with tulle and lace, and suck your tummy in hard as the corsets get pulled in, tight, around your waist. Imagine bright fluorescent store lights shining in your face the entire time. That's what trying on wedding dresses is like. If you try on an average of 5 dresses per store, this means that for one whole afternoon, I repeated this process up and down Miracle Mile stores 30 times. Did I mention that we were shopping in the dead of a Miami summer? Killer.
Finally, there is the question of tradition. It goes a little something like this: mom and you have a ball of time traipsing around all the bridal stores and girlishly bond over the merits of organza versus silk charmeuse. She sees you in your dress for the first time, tears up as the veil slides into place, while both of you stare into the mirror at this new entity: The Bride. With my mom flying in from California for a 4 day wedding shopping extravaganza, I knew our time was limited. Off we went to Miracle Mile again, this time armed with bottles of water (for heat exhaustion) and a notepad (for writing snide phrases like, "ghetto pouf - hell no.") I steeled myself for the inevitable Wedding Dress Trek.
As it happened, that was my lucky day. J. Del Ono (ask for Marina - she's like your personal wedding elf) had a shipment of gorgeous dresses for their Spring 2008 La Spoza collection. In the window reposed The Dress. I went through the motions. Dragged it into the fitting room, stripped down to my thong and heels, raised my arms, let Marina slip it over my head, waited for her to button me into place, and....magic. My mom, Marina, and I peered into the mirror. I smiled. Marina slipped the veil into place. My mom teared up. For the first time ever, I felt like a bride. And a cool, very decidedly un-douchebag bride at that.
In the days that followed, I would think of my dress in much the same fashion as I thought of my fiance, when we first started dating. I'd daydream, and make little doodles on notepaper. I'd try it on for size, and marvel at how well it fit me every time - better and better as time passed, it seemed. I'd talk myself out of committing to that one dress, because I had plenty of time, and there were many other dresses to see, and be seen in. In short, I was, we all were, spoilt for choice. But when I couldn't look at the others without thinking of *the* dress, *my* dress, and I couldn't imagine getting married in anything else - that's how I knew it was the one for me.
I guess the moral of the story is - you should fall in love with your dress, the same way in which you fell in love with him. Be honest with yourself. Listen to your instincts, and to what they're telling you. Don't listen to the how-to guides, the self-help books, or your well-meaning relatives. Does the dress make you feel good? Stand up a little straighter? Make you want to dance and twirl? Does it fit you well and complement you, without detracting from the essence of who you are? Is it a foil for your personality? Or do you need all that bling to hide something that you lack?
In love and fashion, the best accoutrement are the ones that accept your flaws, enhance your positives, and always, always, let the real you shine through. Happy shopping.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A Nugget of Truth
I went out to drinks last night with my friend, Grace, and her friend Alicia. Alicia isn't her real name, of course. I wonder whose identity I am protecting sometimes. This woman should really be feted by psychologists, family therapists, and the masses alike.
Alicia and I have a lot in common. We're both in PR, love literature, are perfection-obsessed about certain things, and apparently have a taste for tart, exotic martinis that have pretentious names and cost way too much. The most important thing, however, was that I could really relate to her. Even with her as a wife and mother of a toddler.
I normally can't relate to moms. I cannot for the life of me understand why someone would voluntarily give up their time, energy, finances, and vanity to have a child. Worse - children - plural. All the moms that I see are tired, have bedraggled hair, and are constantly embarrassed by their screaming brats. All this, to answer some mysterious calling within them to continue their bloodline, to have a mini carbon copy of themselves. I realize I'm being judgmental. I have friends of mine whom I know would make the best parents. Who would give their child everything, and be happy doing so. I'm just not one of those people. Yet. Or ever. I fucking hate Disney and Pixar. Primary colors make me want to vomit. My worst nightmare is going to the mall during holiday season, with rug rats whining to ride on the choo-choo. I think the director of programming for Nickalodean should be shot. I would die if the bulk of my day consisted of repetitive baby talk, peppered with poo poo and pee pee phrases. I think of bright toys carelessly strewn on the floor, Chicken McNuggets, and crayon scribbles on the wall. This thought gives me an actual rash.
I haven't always related to wives either. Until two of my best friends got married in recent years, I was convinced that marriage spelled r-a-w-d-e-a-l, especially for women. I'd go to parties and watch as wives nervously twisted their wedding bands, lips parted in frozen smiles, eyes slanted with suspicion. At me. The single girl. It was painful to watch. "I'm not your enemy," I wanted to say. "It's your husband. You don't trust him. He's the one you need to worry about." Years later, I would fall in love and get engaged. I would come to understand how nonsensical it was - the thought that you needed to stay single to retain your freedom. I realized that when you meet someone who complements you this fully, running free with him feels more liberating than any single-girl hijink that you can think up. But I didn't always feel this way. Let these stupid girls get married, I thought. I'm not getting trapped. Not me.
Alicia, though, was a kindred spirit. She was talkative, salty, inquisitive, and pointed. Kind of like me, on a good day. When I'm feeling alert, and magnanimous toward humanity. She was smart. And aware. She was....one of us. When I found out that she had dated her husband for 10 years, and had been married for 7, the curiosity was too much to bear.
"What do you really think about marriage. I mean, really. Don't sugarcoat anything."
"Marriage is a disappointment."
I was momentarily shocked into silence. What the fuck? And then - an epiphany. I started laughing. This was awesome. This was the best thing anyone could have told me about marriage.
"Marriage is one big, fat, disappointment," she continued, evenly. "How could it not be? You think your life is going to be better, and it isn't. It just gets harder. You love him, and he loves you. But he's going to disappoint the shit out of you."
And this was exactly what I needed to hear. Forget "he's your soul mate," and "you were meant to be together." The truth is, I was still stubbornly clinging to my inner maxim. The one that told me that best friends and lovers were bound for a calm, loving journey together. Yet, as our engagement was progressing, I was discovering that there was no way around the inevitable storms that would come our way. We'd just have to work through them together. This takes strength, patience, and a whole lot of dealing with, you guessed it, disappointment.
I came home feeling chipper and upbeat. I couldn't wait to tell my fiancee what Alicia had said, this little nugget of wisdom. More importantly, I couldn't wait to tell him the best news of all - that I knew that we were both in for a shitload of disappointment. Disappointment in each other, our marriage, our unmet needs and desires. But at the end of the day, I still couldn't imagine sharing my life with anyone else.
I guess if misery loves company, the least that you can do, is to make sure that your company is good.
Alicia and I have a lot in common. We're both in PR, love literature, are perfection-obsessed about certain things, and apparently have a taste for tart, exotic martinis that have pretentious names and cost way too much. The most important thing, however, was that I could really relate to her. Even with her as a wife and mother of a toddler.
I normally can't relate to moms. I cannot for the life of me understand why someone would voluntarily give up their time, energy, finances, and vanity to have a child. Worse - children - plural. All the moms that I see are tired, have bedraggled hair, and are constantly embarrassed by their screaming brats. All this, to answer some mysterious calling within them to continue their bloodline, to have a mini carbon copy of themselves. I realize I'm being judgmental. I have friends of mine whom I know would make the best parents. Who would give their child everything, and be happy doing so. I'm just not one of those people. Yet. Or ever. I fucking hate Disney and Pixar. Primary colors make me want to vomit. My worst nightmare is going to the mall during holiday season, with rug rats whining to ride on the choo-choo. I think the director of programming for Nickalodean should be shot. I would die if the bulk of my day consisted of repetitive baby talk, peppered with poo poo and pee pee phrases. I think of bright toys carelessly strewn on the floor, Chicken McNuggets, and crayon scribbles on the wall. This thought gives me an actual rash.
I haven't always related to wives either. Until two of my best friends got married in recent years, I was convinced that marriage spelled r-a-w-d-e-a-l, especially for women. I'd go to parties and watch as wives nervously twisted their wedding bands, lips parted in frozen smiles, eyes slanted with suspicion. At me. The single girl. It was painful to watch. "I'm not your enemy," I wanted to say. "It's your husband. You don't trust him. He's the one you need to worry about." Years later, I would fall in love and get engaged. I would come to understand how nonsensical it was - the thought that you needed to stay single to retain your freedom. I realized that when you meet someone who complements you this fully, running free with him feels more liberating than any single-girl hijink that you can think up. But I didn't always feel this way. Let these stupid girls get married, I thought. I'm not getting trapped. Not me.
Alicia, though, was a kindred spirit. She was talkative, salty, inquisitive, and pointed. Kind of like me, on a good day. When I'm feeling alert, and magnanimous toward humanity. She was smart. And aware. She was....one of us. When I found out that she had dated her husband for 10 years, and had been married for 7, the curiosity was too much to bear.
"What do you really think about marriage. I mean, really. Don't sugarcoat anything."
"Marriage is a disappointment."
I was momentarily shocked into silence. What the fuck? And then - an epiphany. I started laughing. This was awesome. This was the best thing anyone could have told me about marriage.
"Marriage is one big, fat, disappointment," she continued, evenly. "How could it not be? You think your life is going to be better, and it isn't. It just gets harder. You love him, and he loves you. But he's going to disappoint the shit out of you."
And this was exactly what I needed to hear. Forget "he's your soul mate," and "you were meant to be together." The truth is, I was still stubbornly clinging to my inner maxim. The one that told me that best friends and lovers were bound for a calm, loving journey together. Yet, as our engagement was progressing, I was discovering that there was no way around the inevitable storms that would come our way. We'd just have to work through them together. This takes strength, patience, and a whole lot of dealing with, you guessed it, disappointment.
I came home feeling chipper and upbeat. I couldn't wait to tell my fiancee what Alicia had said, this little nugget of wisdom. More importantly, I couldn't wait to tell him the best news of all - that I knew that we were both in for a shitload of disappointment. Disappointment in each other, our marriage, our unmet needs and desires. But at the end of the day, I still couldn't imagine sharing my life with anyone else.
I guess if misery loves company, the least that you can do, is to make sure that your company is good.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Enya Must Die
I started this blog, because I realized that while everyday life is rich source of humor, planning a wedding puts you in touch with absolute fucking freaks, and their entire universe of wedding-related freakdom. For a girl who once swore she would never get married (ever! ever!), this is a whole new untapped source of comedy.
Yes, I am a bride-to-be. If all goes well, I shall float down the aisle in my beautifully-cut white pantsuit (I'm kidding, baby. I know Bea Arthur doesn't turn you on), say my vows, and turn to kiss my new husband, lips slightly parted, eyes misty with joy....
...and the videographer had BETTER not cue that moment to Enya.
I cannot be more emphatic about this. I hate Enya. Can't stand her. As in - break out in hives and wince like I just heard fingernails down a chalkboard - hate. The only time that I even barely tolerate Enya, is when I'm at at the Standard, and Valentina the facialist is tirelessly declogging my pores. Or when I'm shopping at Publix, and "Sail Away" comes on.
It's not difficult to figure out where this rabid Enya-aversion comes from. I used to work for a luxury yacht broker, and one of the VPs was a raging psychopath. Every time she had one of her episodes, she'd slam her office door shut, blast "Na Laetha Geal," and water her plants obsessively. Her office was lined with pictures of chubby cherubs, frolicking with an anemic-looking Jesus in heaven. On her desk were three candles, labeled Peace, Wisdom, and Balance. Then, she'd storm out and declare that things were "going! to! change! in! this! office!" while throwing malevolent death glares at the assistants.
Till this day, I cannot smell cammillia votive candles without instinctively cringing.
But I digress. Have you noticed how Enya pollutes every single wedding video? And I do mean, every single one. I have news for you, brides. No matter how modern or chic your wedding is, your videographer feels a sick need to augment key moments with her suicide-inducing music. To confirm this suspicion, I put in a call to Mark the Videographer. The conversation went something like this:
"Hey Mark, you know the part when the bride tears up, or when the groom's dad turns to look fondly at his son....what kinds of songs do you usually cue this to?"
"We don't have a particular one. I like the really mellow, New Agey stuff."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Enya, maybe. Or a great cello solo by Yo-Yo Ma."
I was so agitated that I started picking at the scab on my head (his name is Peter). There will be no Enya in our wedding video, I said. There will be no Yo-Yo Ma, either. Any cellist who won't touch Tchaikovsky is no friend of mine. We will provide you with a song list that might include guilty pleasures such as Soft Cell, Debbie Deb, or Young MCs. We might even throw in The Thong Song. But you throw Enya in, and I may or may not personally firebomb your studio.
Ok, I left out the firebombing part. But it got me thinking - why is it that we punctuate life's grand passages with such pretentious scores? Why is it that "Pomp and Circumstance" and "Canon in D" are staples at every graduation commencement and wedding ceremony? What is the true purpose of music? Two people come together to celebrate the union of their souls - is this an arcane, high-falutin' concept that only artists like Enya can appreciate? Can't the NJ blue collar rock of Billy Joel and Bon Jovi uplift and inspire as well? Or are they too common for a complex concept like...love? Maybe this is why rock-n-roll and the blues appeal to so many of us. No class, no barriers, everyone gets to jam out. Everyone gets their shot at love.
It was too much for me to take. Let the frou-frou brides in their ballgowns and their elblow-length gloves float by in a haze of Celtic wailing. Come our wedding day, I'll be rocking out with the proletariat.
Yes, I am a bride-to-be. If all goes well, I shall float down the aisle in my beautifully-cut white pantsuit (I'm kidding, baby. I know Bea Arthur doesn't turn you on), say my vows, and turn to kiss my new husband, lips slightly parted, eyes misty with joy....
...and the videographer had BETTER not cue that moment to Enya.
I cannot be more emphatic about this. I hate Enya. Can't stand her. As in - break out in hives and wince like I just heard fingernails down a chalkboard - hate. The only time that I even barely tolerate Enya, is when I'm at at the Standard, and Valentina the facialist is tirelessly declogging my pores. Or when I'm shopping at Publix, and "Sail Away" comes on.
It's not difficult to figure out where this rabid Enya-aversion comes from. I used to work for a luxury yacht broker, and one of the VPs was a raging psychopath. Every time she had one of her episodes, she'd slam her office door shut, blast "Na Laetha Geal," and water her plants obsessively. Her office was lined with pictures of chubby cherubs, frolicking with an anemic-looking Jesus in heaven. On her desk were three candles, labeled Peace, Wisdom, and Balance. Then, she'd storm out and declare that things were "going! to! change! in! this! office!" while throwing malevolent death glares at the assistants.
Till this day, I cannot smell cammillia votive candles without instinctively cringing.
But I digress. Have you noticed how Enya pollutes every single wedding video? And I do mean, every single one. I have news for you, brides. No matter how modern or chic your wedding is, your videographer feels a sick need to augment key moments with her suicide-inducing music. To confirm this suspicion, I put in a call to Mark the Videographer. The conversation went something like this:
"Hey Mark, you know the part when the bride tears up, or when the groom's dad turns to look fondly at his son....what kinds of songs do you usually cue this to?"
"We don't have a particular one. I like the really mellow, New Agey stuff."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Enya, maybe. Or a great cello solo by Yo-Yo Ma."
I was so agitated that I started picking at the scab on my head (his name is Peter). There will be no Enya in our wedding video, I said. There will be no Yo-Yo Ma, either. Any cellist who won't touch Tchaikovsky is no friend of mine. We will provide you with a song list that might include guilty pleasures such as Soft Cell, Debbie Deb, or Young MCs. We might even throw in The Thong Song. But you throw Enya in, and I may or may not personally firebomb your studio.
Ok, I left out the firebombing part. But it got me thinking - why is it that we punctuate life's grand passages with such pretentious scores? Why is it that "Pomp and Circumstance" and "Canon in D" are staples at every graduation commencement and wedding ceremony? What is the true purpose of music? Two people come together to celebrate the union of their souls - is this an arcane, high-falutin' concept that only artists like Enya can appreciate? Can't the NJ blue collar rock of Billy Joel and Bon Jovi uplift and inspire as well? Or are they too common for a complex concept like...love? Maybe this is why rock-n-roll and the blues appeal to so many of us. No class, no barriers, everyone gets to jam out. Everyone gets their shot at love.
It was too much for me to take. Let the frou-frou brides in their ballgowns and their elblow-length gloves float by in a haze of Celtic wailing. Come our wedding day, I'll be rocking out with the proletariat.
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