So (anyone notice how I start off a lot of paragraphs/sentences with “so”? I think it’s my most overused word. I blame my mother). Anyhoo, I’ve been spending a lot of time working on this story that grew from a little teeny blog entry into a nearly 20,000 word essay. And if you want to know how long 20,000 words is, let’s just say that you can hear a small tree screeching in pain every time I print it out for review. Writers, by nature, kill a great many trees. This is something I can’t seem to get around, despite my good intentions of only printing when absolutely necessary and my tendency to utilize both sides of every sheet of paper. Don’t even get me started on how confusing that can be when you mix up the pages and go from some emotional prose into a blog entry on how awful this persons breath was in line at Starbucks. It’s like reading Kate Chopin on acid.
Regardless, this little teeny blog entry has somewhat taken over my life. A shorter version of it is to be printed in a magazine later this year (hurrah! drinks on me!) but it now has a life of its own and I find myself waking up at night thinking “Oh YES! I must add THIS!” and peppering post it notes throughout the house with ideas as they come to me. Marc often finds them stuck to his forehead, which is handy as I can sit across from him, listening to his chatter, and simultaneously be in deep thought over a particularly difficult sentence. This is marital multi-tasking at its best. “You have to go to the hospital for what now? Crap…I think this sentence has a dangling participle in it. Stupid grammar.” Don’t worry, he doesn’t listen to me either. It’s how we keep the peace.
My point being that I think I’m finally coming to the end of where I can take this thing, which is a great relief, as my head has been putting in requests for some space/time to think about other things. Like, how it’s sunny out! And how bikini season is almost upon us! And Sweet Mary and Moses – will my ass fit into said bikini? Perhaps we should think about vacationing somewhere that doesn’t involve a beach? And then a panic attack ensues and I go and eat a sandwich and watch Millionaire Matchmaker. Perhaps just focusing on my story is a better idea…for my intellectual health, if nothing else.
Shit. Now I’m all concerned about my ass.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tequila, 3. Angie/Jen, 0.
SO, the dress shopping endeavor ended up being so efficient that we were in and out of the store within 15 minutes. The person who took our parking spot must have thought they were on the receiving end of some excellent karma as we left the meter with nearly an hour of time still on it. In North Beach.
This is not to say that the store didn't have anything worth trying on. Incidentally, there were four dresses that could have been fabulous. HOWEVER, even with TWO HOURS LEFT before closing, they were not allowing any more fittings because two other brides were already there, in line for the changing rooms. WHATEVER. I asked if we couldn't just hunker down in a corner and I'd, like, hold up a sheet or something to act as a modesty panel for Angie while she changed. I don't think this particular establishment was willing to stoop quite so low even in the name of a sale and the proprietor said, "Um, NO. But you could come back next weekend during normal business hours and try on the dresses." "But we're here NOOOOOOOOoooooowwww," I wheedled. She would not be moved (hence my dislike for shop people...so unbending!), so we left and comforted ourselves with several margaritas. How many? you ask? I shan't tell, but let's just say the bartender commented that we must not have much planned for the rest of the day, given our consumption. Don't judge us. Those were 15 exhausting minutes of sifting through what looked like reject costumes for the next season of IceCapades. My retinas are still burning from all of the beading and sequins. The tequila was purely medicinal.
So! Next weekend we hope to get more done and perhaps find The Dress. We shall see. Because as any woman who has gotten married knows, you just have a visceral reaction to the dress that is the One. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to look like walking down the aisle (read = HOT), but wasn't sure what that would translate into, frock wise. After a few weekends of trolling around San Francisco and wondering how it was that so many dresses existed that were so outrageously ugly and then also expensive, I finally found the one that made all others melt away. It was simple...nothing to write home about on the hanger, but when I put it on, I actually burst-into-tears in the dressing room before coming out to show my friends. I'm not really the bursting into tears sort, so I knew that that kind of reaction meant something. And to this day, I loved how I looked on my wedding day in that gown, despite the huge red wine stain that ended up decorating the front by evenings end. Hey, it was a great reception. It happens.
I have faith that we'll find something excellent for Angie. And she'll look stunning, because no matter what she wears down that aisle, the fact that she'll be looking at Mike at the other end, full of happiness and ready to tell him that she's going to love him forever, well, that will make her more beautiful than any dress ever could. Truly.
Wow. That's a lot of sentiment for a Monday, no? This being said, perhaps we could just wrap her up in a white sheet and be done with it? Maybe? Yes? It would leave more time for margaritas! Hey-o!
This is not to say that the store didn't have anything worth trying on. Incidentally, there were four dresses that could have been fabulous. HOWEVER, even with TWO HOURS LEFT before closing, they were not allowing any more fittings because two other brides were already there, in line for the changing rooms. WHATEVER. I asked if we couldn't just hunker down in a corner and I'd, like, hold up a sheet or something to act as a modesty panel for Angie while she changed. I don't think this particular establishment was willing to stoop quite so low even in the name of a sale and the proprietor said, "Um, NO. But you could come back next weekend during normal business hours and try on the dresses." "But we're here NOOOOOOOOoooooowwww," I wheedled. She would not be moved (hence my dislike for shop people...so unbending!), so we left and comforted ourselves with several margaritas. How many? you ask? I shan't tell, but let's just say the bartender commented that we must not have much planned for the rest of the day, given our consumption. Don't judge us. Those were 15 exhausting minutes of sifting through what looked like reject costumes for the next season of IceCapades. My retinas are still burning from all of the beading and sequins. The tequila was purely medicinal.
So! Next weekend we hope to get more done and perhaps find The Dress. We shall see. Because as any woman who has gotten married knows, you just have a visceral reaction to the dress that is the One. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to look like walking down the aisle (read = HOT), but wasn't sure what that would translate into, frock wise. After a few weekends of trolling around San Francisco and wondering how it was that so many dresses existed that were so outrageously ugly and then also expensive, I finally found the one that made all others melt away. It was simple...nothing to write home about on the hanger, but when I put it on, I actually burst-into-tears in the dressing room before coming out to show my friends. I'm not really the bursting into tears sort, so I knew that that kind of reaction meant something. And to this day, I loved how I looked on my wedding day in that gown, despite the huge red wine stain that ended up decorating the front by evenings end. Hey, it was a great reception. It happens.
I have faith that we'll find something excellent for Angie. And she'll look stunning, because no matter what she wears down that aisle, the fact that she'll be looking at Mike at the other end, full of happiness and ready to tell him that she's going to love him forever, well, that will make her more beautiful than any dress ever could. Truly.
Wow. That's a lot of sentiment for a Monday, no? This being said, perhaps we could just wrap her up in a white sheet and be done with it? Maybe? Yes? It would leave more time for margaritas! Hey-o!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Finding the Frock
I am not a fully functioning girl. Well, not in THAT way. All systems are go where they ought to be, if you catch my drift. But! I seemed to have missed the day in girl school when they told you to love things like Shopping! Hair products! Lip gloss! Spending time in the bathroom! Shopping! Endless chats on the phone! Shopping! Shopping! In fact, shopping makes me break out into hive like sores. I dislike it to such a degree that I have feigned illness when I’ve known it was on a friend’s agenda. You want to shop? I’m sorry, but I need to stay near home. I’ve had an attack of angina.
This is strange in that I love clothes. Adore them. Consider myself something of a fashion expert. Hilarious, since I spend most of my day in sweats, yelling at people. After which I come home and put on my Official Eating Pants. So it’s not like I’m trotting around in couture and Jimmy Choo’s, though I long for a life that would require more of that.
Regardless, my darling friend Angie decided to go and get married. And, as one knows, THE DRESS is one of the most important parts of that entire affair. Since I’m bossy and will plan out your life for you if you let me (actually, who am I kidding? I’ll do that for you even if you don’t want me to), I named myself her stylist. This works for several reasons: a. I’m not going to let my friend walk down that aisle looking anything other than totally magnificent and b. Angie hates to shop ALMOST as much as I do. SO! We’ve come up with a battle plan for finding her the perfect dress. Which means that I do a bunch of research online (in the Official Eating Pants…with snacks) and then we do a blitz-kreig like few days of stalking my research down, killing it and dragging it home for further inspection. Sort of a hunting/gathering type enterprise, if you will. We are efficient! And do not let shop people deter us from our goal! (We do not like shop people). Though if you are a cute, small, gay man you’ll definitely get our undivided attention…for at least five minutes…longer if you compliment Angie on her hair. She’s susceptible like that. Also, we agree that small, gay men are made out of the Baby Jesus, kittens and butterflies.
So, this weekend will include such an expedition. We plan to rock the shit out of it. Me, as Angie’s bitch, and Angie, racing around in all sorts of complicated underwear that one needs when one is trying on The Most Important Frock Ever. Pray for us. We’ll need it. That and the flask of tequila I plan to bring along. For sustenance and wise decision making. I am, if nothing else, prepared.
This is strange in that I love clothes. Adore them. Consider myself something of a fashion expert. Hilarious, since I spend most of my day in sweats, yelling at people. After which I come home and put on my Official Eating Pants. So it’s not like I’m trotting around in couture and Jimmy Choo’s, though I long for a life that would require more of that.
Regardless, my darling friend Angie decided to go and get married. And, as one knows, THE DRESS is one of the most important parts of that entire affair. Since I’m bossy and will plan out your life for you if you let me (actually, who am I kidding? I’ll do that for you even if you don’t want me to), I named myself her stylist. This works for several reasons: a. I’m not going to let my friend walk down that aisle looking anything other than totally magnificent and b. Angie hates to shop ALMOST as much as I do. SO! We’ve come up with a battle plan for finding her the perfect dress. Which means that I do a bunch of research online (in the Official Eating Pants…with snacks) and then we do a blitz-kreig like few days of stalking my research down, killing it and dragging it home for further inspection. Sort of a hunting/gathering type enterprise, if you will. We are efficient! And do not let shop people deter us from our goal! (We do not like shop people). Though if you are a cute, small, gay man you’ll definitely get our undivided attention…for at least five minutes…longer if you compliment Angie on her hair. She’s susceptible like that. Also, we agree that small, gay men are made out of the Baby Jesus, kittens and butterflies.
So, this weekend will include such an expedition. We plan to rock the shit out of it. Me, as Angie’s bitch, and Angie, racing around in all sorts of complicated underwear that one needs when one is trying on The Most Important Frock Ever. Pray for us. We’ll need it. That and the flask of tequila I plan to bring along. For sustenance and wise decision making. I am, if nothing else, prepared.
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