Monthly Archives: June 2012

Buyer’s Remorse

During The Dudette Week, The Best Friend and I traveled to the Uber Amazing Mall in the area in pursuit of miraculous make up. I entered the store in hopes to both better my appearance and obtain the proper contraptions for The Big Day.

The Best Friend and I have a weakness. We really really really enjoy cosmetics. In fact, I’m pretty sure this trip to the store stemmed from a lengthy conversation as to durability of eye shadow in almost every situation imaginable. In the end, incorporated a miracle solution she had found years prior, we decided that it could possibly withstand desert conditions or icy demise… but the crying. Will humanity ever figure out how to have make up actually stick around when the women species becomes sad or happy or excited or mad or dramatically interested? (We cry a lot.) The answer is probably no.

So anyway we went into the store hoping for miracles for the aquatic experience that will be the reading of the vows, and we met our new friend who would do a trial for us to pick out products and colors. Let me tell you…. she could work magic.

The Magician began with a discussion of colors, an altogether daunting experience when chatting with a Bride and her Maid of Honor. This hue is correct, not this one. This includes a tint of red, but we’re looking for blue. No, let’s match the men’s ties and not the shoes. Oh, but the flowers! Yeah. It was a bit ridiculous, but she kept up with us like a champion of womanly concerns. She came back to the table with several shades and began to explain each piece one by one.

I have never learned so much about my eye shape, the complimentary colors, and all that went into a “natural look.” I absolutely love doing my make up, and I am known for dramatic colors – so in my head The Magician was indeed my cosmetic angel coming into my life to smile upon my impending nuptials. For if my eyes popped appropriately and my lips were an understated plump… we would certainly defeat all obstacles as married partners. At least he can’t argue with me if I’m pretty, right?

After I looked like a goddess and decided which pieces, colors, and contraptions to purchase I went to the check out counter preparing for the damage. I am not one to spend money. I hardly ever do it, and when it happens I fall victim to an ancient curse. It befalls few women in the end, but if you are prone to it – it becomes a nasty spiral of self-doubt, hate, and pathetic wimpering.

Buyer’s Remorse.

Purchasing anything for my pleasure or appearance usually yields this response. I once bought two purses (which were something like 80% off) and I debated returning them for approximately a week before a friend told me to snap out of it. I could only imagine what this large, one time purchase of cosmetics would yield. It’s a well known fact that a single color, a single brush when it comes to a woman’s face is expensive. Compile all the expensives into one purchase.

When the number scrolled across the screen my heart plummeted into the depths of my soul and screamed out in distress. My brain attempted to console my heart, acknowledging that I would need to buy each piece of the purchase in the end. Buying them all in one swoop was perhaps panic inducing, but I would survive.

I walked out in a stupor, clinging to sanity with the last bit of me I could control. The Best Friend attempted to distract me with stores focused on decorating, kitchen utensils, and even a jewelry store. It helped a little.

Slowly but surely, though, I fell into the all-too-familiar process. It wasn’t pretty.

I truly believed someone should have been angry with me for purchasing such an extravagant gift for myself… needed or otherwise. I struggled with it for a few days, until yesterday when I decided to attempt the make over myself in practice for an angelic state down the aisle.

Believe me when I tell you I am approximately 10.2x hotter with this make up than with the old stuff.

Buyer’s Remorse is no longer a problem… Pride however… Well we’ll deal with that when we need to.



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The Dudette Week

About a month ago The Man told me that he needed something before we get married. He needed a final “dude moment.” Assuming this moment would consist of a Bachelor party and copious amounts of boozy beverages, I reminded him kindly that he had one of those moment planned for a few nights before The Big Day.

He looked at me with his “Oh you’re so naive” look and explained that a Bachelor Party could not even come close to the “dude moment” he had to experience. No, he needed a moment of pure and unadulterated dude-dome. He proclaimed he would drive alone up and up and up to the neighbor land.

That’s right. Quebec held all the promise in the world for The Man’s necessitated Dude Moment. Now, before you call him out for being a ridiculous person because you have loyally read Canada O Canada… You should know that we obtained new passports and are now legal nomads once again. The Canadian Dude Moment would be entirely lawful, and seeing as it was required, it was going to happen.

He left promising no external communication and took on Quebec, his D-minus French speaking and all. He met up with friends, made new friends over poutine, trudged through student protests, and lost a respectable amount of money playing slots. He also consumed what he has since explained to be “the most amazing Rueben sammich of all human history.” Taking the surface roads all the way back, lengthening an already lengthy trip by about 5 hours and documenting each moment with but the snap of a cellular camera… The Dude Moment was exactly as The Man intended.

Solo. Independent. and Dudely.

I couldn’t help but feel that I had missed out on this last ditch effort at being a single person, and I planned my own adventure. The Bachelorette Party had already taken place, and those it did involve some crazy karaoke judging and being propositioned by a free-lance stripper, I felt as though I needed to create a moment just like The Man did. I called up The Best Friend, and Operation Dudette Week was all systems go.

I asked The Best Friend to come over to the new apartment and engage in what I dubbed “urban camping,” as I still (at this moment) have no furniture in the place. I could offer her no chair, but I could provide wine, pizza, and girl talk. She said this was a spectacular idea, and we planned on four days of finality. This would be the last time before one of us would be hitched to some dude (having completed his Dude Mission and all). She, too, is an engaged person and will be making the leap in a year. This would be our moment. Our Week. Our Dudette Week.

She arrived on Monday, and I don’t think we stopped talking until Thursday afternoon. We were roommates in college, and our love runs deep. We talked about impending marriage, old memories, and serious things like whether or not I would ever be able to knit like a proper person. We also made trips to the Uber Amazing Mall, engaged in a healthy amount of buyer’s remorse, drove around and around for the mundane, cooked things in unorthodox ways, and set up intricate machinery. Each of these stories are soon to come. Let me tell you now, though… The Dudette Moment was equally if not more successful than The Man’s Dude Moment. With these moments taken care of, we can now say a big “Bring it on” to what the next week holds.

I can’t wait!

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Display Candy

Today I moved into my first real, adult apartment. I’ve lived in apartments before, but it’s always been a sublet situation or a fully furnished summer situation. This time it’s just me and my moving tubs piling into an unfurnished two bedroom waiting for The Man to show up with the bed. (I am calling the week before his arrival my “adventure camping” stage.)

Without the comfort of modern life, The Internet, I shall become a hermit destined for movie watching and even more knitting attempts (See “The Real Vows”). On top of that I will engage in what is my new favorite pastime. I absolutely adore decorating this new home in my mind. The Man and I are poor as dirt, so thoughtful moments or even astral decorating are all I can muster.

I walk through the mind’s Pottery Barn or Pier 1 with thoughts of maritime themed decks and rich mahogany desks. Every once in a while I even stroll by The Man’s dream of a rotating book shelf door. Yes… it’s a wonderful experience, though there is something more than simply dreaming. I want to continue a legacy… The Mom’s legacy to be exact.

See, The Mom has a love – no a passion – for decorating. The House went through the seasons like a well-groomed celebrity couple. We switched out entire decorative schemes, erected nutcracker armies, and lit every scent of Yankee Candle known to man. The Mom held open houses periodically and hosted parties just to show off the decorations, reveling in the beauty on her own in the evenings with a nice cup of tea.

There was, however, a dark side to this beauty. Every holiday seemed to provide The Mom with a brilliant idea: using the holiday candy as a display.  The Dad and I would bound down the stairs gleefully just to grab the first handful of candy pumpkins, jelly beans, or hershey kisses just to be scolded with the wrath of every Martha Stewart devotee.

“Display Candy” was never to be eaten, simply observed.

So now as I sit on my own in The Apartment, I can’t help but feel the prick of duty. I must carry on the family name. It is a powerful thought, an ennobling thought.

The Family Women will be proud.


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The Real Vows

The Man and I are about to get married in a few weeks, so we are crazy people. One second we love life, the next we are freaking out. We freak out about the little things like the potential catastrophe within the reception venue or whether or not we picked the right colors. I have had to refrain from color-coding and spreadsheeting everyone’s lives to death. I’ve also found that I have a tendency to insist on DIY projects every step of the way through stress.

I chose to attempt knitting again, which is turning out to be a disaster. I’m claiming to be a master and will create the cake topper with my own hands. I also spent two hours painstakingly assembling favors the other night to the tune of every Bruno Mars song imaginable. Some may say this is a coping mechanism for a territorial, OCD person. Some may say I have been reduced to a quivering mess. I, however, call it genius.

I would be wrong not to include that there is a very real freak out, too. We’re making some big promises to one another. To love and to cherish from this day forth…. Richer or Poorer (I’m a Linguist, The Man is a Poet. You decide.)… in sickness and in health…

It will be a big moment.

And being the romantic I am I suggested we write our vows. The Man insisted we also recite the traditional vows, since he was worried about it “counting.” So we will really really be married after two sets of vows…

Now when I sat down to write my vows, I initially wrote some pretty thoughtful things. Then I sat down and wrote what I like to call “the real vows.” Ladies and Gentlemen, this is what marriage is really about…

I promise to you to always yield my Interlibrary Loan Privileges upon your request.

I vow to use your kindle daily until  you buy me my own.

I promise to love you for your proofreading skills  until the end of my PhD…or my life, whichever comes first.

I also love how you fix the blankets that I inevitably mess up within two seconds of entering the bed.

…I love you, and I will always love you as long as we both shall live and longer.


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One Smart Dog

I am the only child of an only child. I have a rich history of moments of demand to change that, and the first was at 7 years old. I decided then that I needed to take matters into my own hands. I called The Parents into the living room with all the authority I could muster, sat them down, and delivered my opening statement. It was about time we addressed the singularity issue at hand. I explained my need for companionship. It was their duty as loving parents to see to my needs. And for their sake, I gave them a choice as to how to go about doing so. I would settle for a sibling… or a puppy. It was clearly a reasonable proposition.

It wasn’t too long until the three of us were on our way to the animal shelter preparing to meet all the puppies possible. The Mom gave her instructions, knowing she could not begin to predict the future if The Dad and I were sent in alone.

We were to obtain a small dog. Preferably a female.

And then we went in.

In the first crate a fluffball of a dog looked up at us. The fluffball was pregnant with fluffballettes, and each of them would need a home. As a firm believer in instant gratification, I refused the minimum of a two week wait before I could bond with one of the fluffball’s offspring. The Mom grew suspicious of what was next.

The second crate carried an older dog, one I quickly named Oreo and explained that she would follow us home. Turned out that Oreo needed a few weeks of canine therapy from a bad home situation before she could be put with another family. The Mom decided that a psychotic dog was perhaps not the best choice for her family, and I was still on the instant gratification kick.

That’s when The Mom’s worst fear hit. All she could hear were squeals and exclamations of cuteness and perfection from The Dad and I around the corner. She quickly came around to discover that we had fallen in love with a puppy, a boy puppy, and one with paws seemingly bigger than his head. He was a border collie mix according to the shelter, and the mix was suspected to be rottweiler. The Mom pointed out that this puppy failed to meet any of the guidelines she had put forth, but the look in our eyes were the deciding factor.

We got to pick up Judah later that week, and I was ridiculously excited. I had named him Judah because I was a totally normal child with a fierce fascination with the Old Testament. (A cat was later named after a character in the Dynotopia series. Deal with it.) He was to be the smartest dog ever, the best dog ever, and my friend forever. We put him in the back of the van, and I sat with him cooing over him every nanosecond. It didn’t take us too long to realize my plan for perfection probably wasn’t going to happen.

About a half mile from the shelter, The Dad pulled over to my screaming bloody murder. Turns out Judah had become curious and got his head stuck under the driver’s seat of the car. I decided that translated to untimely death, and I demanded aid in the dog’s rescue. The Dad stopped, grumbled about perhaps getting the dumbest dog in the lot, and helped Judah out.

This process occurred at least three times on the short drive home.

Judah, in fact, turned out to be a particularly special canine – refusing to sleep any other way than flat on his back with his feet straight up in the air. Known to engage in several hours of hopping because of his fascination with underground moles. He also insisted that he was a lap dog, though it only took a few months for him to exceed 80 pounds. He had no control of his tail, repeatedly taking down entire pieces of furniture like our couch. On top of that – he was POSITIVE our cat would fall in love with him. Boy was he wrong…

In the end, I think a sibling might have been a “smarter” decision.

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Demonic Possession

Betsy was a babydoll The Mom had when she was young and passed on to me. She was the size of a toddler and had a big head of bright red hair. Honestly, she looked exactly like Chucky. Her gifting to me was poorly timed with the release of the first film. As I was not permitted to view the film, I lived on in ignorance. She was one of my favorite toys, and I took her everywhere throughout the house.

One night we were in the bathtub playing through another emergency scuba dive scenario. For me a bath was not a necessity but a joy. I took nearly every submersible toy in with me and orchestrated entire universes during the hour I was permitted to soak. (I still do this… it just involves romance novels) This night, though, Betsy began to look a little off. I got really close to her face to ask her what was wrong, and these furry worms began spewing from her mouth. One after another after another.

I called for The Dad because he would obviously know what was wrong with Betsy. Maybe she needed one of those pills that they kept around for when I got sick. I have never seen The Dad move so fast, even now after all these years. I was ripped out of that tub, and The Mom was called in. The Dad yelled something about demon possession, and The Mom remained unmoved.Finally after a pause she said one word in response.

Note that I’m still convinced my childhood toys took on living, breathing existences once my bedroom door closed. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are full of lies. Anyway I didn’t want my toys to feel left out – especially Betsy- while they needed to put on the show of lifelessness during the day. I decided to treat them just like anyone else.

Betsy took baths with me, watched TV with me, held incredibly long conversations with me, and yes – she even ate with me. She had a particular fondness for those crunchy chinese noodles people put in casseroles and salads. I knew this because they fit perfectly into the hole strategically placed in her mouth for what I assume used to have a paired baby bottle with it. She never got full, and we would continue to snack on the noodles through the latest episode of Lambchop.

Turns out when you add water and wait… those chinese noodles turn into furry worms!



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