moving in, part deux

I was dreading today, because I thought it would be larger. And by "it", I mean this:

We'd just started getting a handle on things -- most of it was put away, except for the few boxes that were awaiting the return of furniture-they-get-stored-in ... and that furniture was in The Box.

Contents of The Box = everything that didn't fit into the apartment after we merged households. (It sounds so sexy when I describe it like that, doesn't it?) I was scared because I hadn't seen The Box before today -- it was packed (like a mutha!) by the Mr. at his old apartment. And I'd heard that it was the world's biggest game of Tetris ever to pack it. (See below -- it totally was.) But once I saw the actual size, and realized that if you took into account his mattress & box spring, dresser, bedside table, desk & bookcase (all items we were definitely needing), it couldn't be that bad. Right? Well:


Wow. Well played, babe. It's just like moving in all over again ... hooray.

We've already consigned the futon mattress set & lots of t-shirts he's managed to live a healthy & fruitful life without for the last 6 months to the Donate Bin. If they didn't already love us at our local Out of the Closet, they haven't seen anything yet.

aaaaand we're back!!!

Phew! I was seriously turning a shade somewhere between cerulean & indigo there, waiting for our FUCKING INTERWEBS TO GET WORKING. Ahem. I'm sorry. I don't mean to swear. (Really. I try not to. I just suck at not-swearing.)

In case anyone has been wondering about the brevity/simplicity of my recent (aka post-move) posts, allow me to elucidate: We had DSL service at the apartment, with a small-ish provider whose service/pricing/support we adored. So naturally we tried to just shift our account with them to the new Owned By Us address. We had to wait 5 (five!!) days, because AT&T makes you suffer if you don't use their 'net service, for the phone to get "turned on". I guess the guy who had to flip a switch was busy that week. Anyway, once the 5-day time frame had elapsed: still no 'net. So we called, and were asked to wait ANOTHER 2 (two!!) days for a technician to come out & investigate.

Which he did. I was here. And a Very Large Dude, who was surprisingly friendly AND helpful, played with some wires outside the house (even though it was raining). And he diagnosed us as 3000 ft. too far from the DSL hub to get service. (Insert Lumbergh voice here:) "Greeaaaaat."

So: back to square 1. Call cable company. They'll come out in 3 (three!!) business days. Except that the 3rd day was Effing President's Day. (Stoopid Presidents.) So we just. finally. got. service. today.

(By the by, my interim posts were made via a nifty iPhone app called BlogWriter. I was very pleased with the results. Get the free version, unless you have the urge to post photos -- then it's a worthwhile $1.99. But you can't delete posts ... hence the bewildering stuff that I just got rid of, from my "learning curve" phase.)

At any rate: Howdy! I'm still here! And we still have no bathroom to speak of. (Epic Construction Timing Fail.) But here's what we do have:
An uber-fancy new light/fan, with switches that independently control both functions! And paint! And some bead board (slightly visible)!

A couple of fixtures! Including a rain bath shower head, and that awesome outlet-find light for over the (eventually) medicine cabinet.

And various kinds of flooring! That's the river rock stuff in the shower floor, and those (totally my fault, expensive-ish) penny tiles on the rest of the floor. Also, a better look at the bead board.

Now all we need is for the Effing Grout to dry, so we can re-connect the toilet. That's all I care to say about that ... except that NO, I'm NOT enjoying this part.

2 steps forward ... 2 steps back

That's not a scientific rendering of the number of steps we've taken, in any direction, by the way. I'm just sitting here humming Paula Abdul songs (and now, so are you. You're welcome.) And yes, I know I keep fiddling with the heading of this here re-purposed blog. It's a work-in-progress. Also, I'm indecisive. But moving on:

We have a fridge! Check it out:
That's the Mr., a) looking cute, and b) showing off our excellent handiwork in getting all the shelves/drawers/etc. properly situated. I had no idea fridges were so complicated. Here it is from the outside:
Pretty! We got a sweet deal -- it's a brand-new last-year's model, courtesy of a giant warehouse out in the porn end of the valley. No website (?!?!), but they're at 8930 Mason Avenue, Chatsworth 91311.

We're also pretty much sorted on lighting, at least as far as fixtures go. We made a trip out to the Restoration Hardware Outlet in Camarillo, where we found this:
Ours has the brushed nickel finish, to go with the rest of our hardware. Also, that's totally the tile I've decided I no longer want! (But more on that later.) Again brand-new -- probably an internet return (so now you know where stuff goes when you buy online & return it: Camarillo) and they were giving an extra 20% off bath stuff "just because" that day, so outlet + sale = $51. Or as I prefer to call it, 25% of retail. Woo effing hoo!

After much more dithering about styles that one of us loved & the other hated-with-vehemence, we found these at Ikea:
Calypso, for the bedroom; and one that they don't have on the website yet but it's pendant-y & white & fun & cool, for the office. I'll post a pic once we've hung it. And by "we" I mean "our awesome handy-hombre".

So that's the cool stuff. And then, from the Dept. of Destruction: guess what was underneath all that tile in the bathroom?
MORE TILE!! We now officially have more tile than a Mexican restaurant in this house. And while I don't really dig the colors, the stuff they covered up was actually nicer than the stuff on top. Aaarggh!! Who the eff were these people? (Answer: the same people who cut through supportive studs to install windows & doors where-the-heck-ever they pleased, and did it without permits of course, which our guys now get to fix. Thank goodness for flat-fee contractors.) I'll get some more pictures of the mayhem tomorrow, but in the meantime:
Why yes, that is a demo'd bathtub on our front porch. And we're happy to see you!

my new best friend

Yes, thing are going swimmingly at the Un-Casa. (That name sucks. I'll work on a better one. But meanwhile ...) The locks have been changed, the interior doors have shiny new doorknobs, and the paint samples from Ralph Lauren arrived today & were promptly smeared on the relevant walls. I'm not sure in which parallel universe one pays for 2-day express shipping on December 29th and receives said order on January 4th, but I plan to take that up with the dear people at RL first thing tomorrow. And frankly, I'm too excited about getting my hands on Pretty Colored Things to let it bring me down. Even better news: the Mr. and I are in agreement on colors for 3 rooms -- we're 60% of the way home, and still speaking to each other. Woo hoo!

But getting back to the semi-caustic substance in the spray bottle: it all began with our Mission Statement: Replace Ugly Crap With Nicer Stuff ... On Budget. To wit:
In a perfect world, I'd get rid of the ugly "oak" cabinets & start over. But in Our World, we're going with plan B. (No, not that Plan B. Nobody knocked up our cabinetry.) Plan B started out as "Let's just paint them white," but has since turned into "Let's get an electric sander & some varnish remover, so that the white paint we apply will a) stick, and b) not be lumpy." So while the Mr. has learned how to use varnish remover & not die (it involves gloves, a face mask, and not taunting the substance), I've been tackling the insides of the cabinets.

Fun fact: other people's shelf paper is disgusting! Especially when combined with All The Dead Spiders (see previous post -- free shipping offer still applies!)

Also, the previous owner's Stupid Plumber Tricks has led to 2 of the lower cabinets being rather mildewed. I discovered this as I was systematically scrubbing the living daylights out of them, and the ick-factor jumped from an 8 to a 10. At that point I stopped reaching in with my sponge and just basically sprayed & ran. That's when the miracle happened.

I came back the next day, and it was better. Dramatically better. It went from "Maybe we should just replace that" to "The patient is ALIVE!" I kinda wish I had a "before" picture to post here ... but then again, I wouldn't want to make anyone spontaneously kill themself in horror. Suffice to say: it may smell like the devil and wreak havoc on your cuticles, but I LOVE me some Lysol anti-mildew spray.

Back tomorrow to check the paint samples in better light. And yes, I will absolutely be addressing the ceramic floor tiles that go halfway up the walls -- count on it.

new project!

(in which I discuss my transition from "obsessed with planning wedding" to "obsessed with finding a place to live", or We Attempt To Purchase a House)

Greetings, oh followers of this blog. If there are any of you left, given my post-nuptual slacking (2.5 months and counting -- woo hoo!) I am happy to report that my days are no longer consumed by finding affordable venues, caterers, et al. Oh no, children -- I've moved on. Evolved, even.

Now, my days are consumed with weathering the slings & arrows of entry-level Los Angeles real estate. Let the celebration begin!

Things I've learned thus far: when a listing describes the square-footage of a property as "tax assessor's data lists X", what they mean is "previous owners added onto this house without a) permits, b) taste, c) a moment's thought to how said addition would affect the property's resale value, or d) any shred of understanding as to how actual humans reasonably use their homes -- you know, for living in, and such."

Also, the favored building materials of the Great Unwashed are (in no particular order):
*stucco! because those 1910-built Craftsman homes look better without all that pesky wood

Or even better, a look I've dubbed "WTF-Chic"

*ceramic tile! on the floors/walls/anywhere you shouldn't have to clean or maintain ever again

(living room)

(bedroom)

*concrete! because we're not cheap, we're green -- you can't argue with 6000 square feet of concrete in leiu of anything that needs water, now, can you?

So far, we've put in offers on 2 places. The first one we didn't get ... we're in "back-up position". Which basically means we're hoping that by Saturday the other people's loan falls through. No schadenfreude here, folks!

And the second one ... well, the second one features ceramic tile throughout (in every. damn. room.), and concrete covering at least 80% of the lot. Also, the previous tenants absconded with the air conditioning unit, which should only cost $3-4000 to replace. And we've offered $14K over the asking price. We couldn't be more excited!

(all pics are knicked from public real estate websites ... if that turns out to be not-so-legal, I'll take 'em down)

treading water

General status update:

*Closed the show. Don't know if we'll be back -- it's an amazing project, but theater is extra-hard right now. Stoopid economy, wrecking all our fun.

*Been sick all week. This always happens after I close a show. Despite valiant efforts to the contrary, apparently one cannot expend that much energy indefinitely. At least, not without consequences. Sneeze.

*Fired our first realtor. He's a nice guy, and a friend-of-a-friend. But he's also effing flakey, and we can't afford to only make it out 1 of every 3 times we have an appointment to see places. I'm afraid I'm gonna kill somebody (possibly somebody I like) without at least the appearance of progress.

*Had one friend give up & move home, and news that another friend's band is breaking up. Tough week to stay inspired.

* This helped:
I saw 3 deer on Monday. In Pasadena. Only one of them stood still long enough for me to get a picture, but there were 3 of them. Right there in the middle of the big bad city. I gotta figure -- if freaking Bambi can hack it here ...

2122 ...

That's how many pictures I'm working my way through. Slowly, sure ... but c'mon. This is more of a career than a job. And it doesn't help that our photog did such an amazing job that I love every 3rd shot.

Here's one of my favorites so far -- I'd been dancing for hours, surrounded by my favorite people. I had no idea my hair had fallen down, nor did/do I care.


Another reason for a picture of my back: my agent got me an audition to be the new spokes-chick for Botox. Yes, really. So don't anybody hold their breath for more photos ... 'cause I'm going back to bed.

To change, or not to change (my name)?

The Mr. & I got our marriage license two weeks ago, and while we were filling out the paperwork I was confronted with spaces for me to put "Current Name" and "Married Name". While I'd always thought I knew what I wanted here, I was suddenly gripped by a flood of "You mean I have to decide this now?!" Nothing like a little legally-binding document to make me question myself.

I admit that I probably have a more complicated relationship with this subject than most. First, my point against: I'm not changing it for professional purposes. I've worked for years to carve out the beginning of a niche in my industry -- no way am I going back to "who?"

Second, my points for: I hated my last name when I was a kid. It can be rhymed with far too many embarrassing things, and even occassionally employed as a verb. I was aching to be rid of it since age 6. (Yes this is probably the silliest of my reasons. But at the time it seemed terribly important.)

More significantly: I am the product of a divorce. Growing up, I was the only person in my house with my last name, and I can't imagine why I'd continue that voluntarily.

My fiance's family thinks I'm adorably retro on the subject -- both his mom & sister kept their maiden names. But the phrase "maiden name" has always stuck uncomfortably in my throat. Am I waiting for Robin Hood to come rescue me from a dragon? Talk about retro.

All of these thoughts swirled around my brain in roughly 3.5 seconds as I paused while filling out that government form. And then it hit me: I could have it both ways. I added my family name to the "Middle Name" box, and put his as the "Last Name." So I have two middle names now (or I will in 12 days).

The truth is, for all my over-thinking the subject, I've grown rather attached to my name. It's followed me around the world, and it reminds me of so many people I love who aren't here any more.

Besides, if it's good enough for Charlotte York MacDougal Goldenblatt ....

hello lethargy, my old friend

I knew this would happen. After the last two days' absurd level of productivity, today came up bust. And yet I feel like I've been "doing stuff" for hours. Sure, most of that was cursing at my bank & resetting my Target.com password. Oh, and ascertaining that I am in fact teaching tonight -- which was apparently meant to be a surprise. (Boo!) I love it when that happens.

Beyond that, I managed to replace a few out-of-stock items on our registry with things that are still available, update the list of RSVPs, and realize that the Mr. & I really do need to collaborate on the whole honeymoon registry idea ... but at least we have an account now. That's the good news.

The bad news is that we waited too long to make a deal with a hotel in L.A., and my I-hate-that-piece-of-crap cell phone currently only transmits voices via the speaker function. And my brain seems to be incapable of tallying any more receipts. Won't they organize themselves if I continue to stare at the pile on my desk?

Which is (yet another reason) why I am oh-so-grateful for Mr. UB and his amusing ways. Via text:

Him: Pierre just asked if we'd like some tropical fish linens as art touches on the buffet tables, and some tiki torches. I said yes linens, no torches. Sound good?

Me: (gulp) Not sure about fish linens - might clash with rest of decor. Can we see a pic?

Him: He says they're black with colorful tropical fish.

Now, I think that thus far I've been pretty damn zen about a lot of things. The band we wanted doubled their asking price: hello, iPod. One of the groomsmen is too broke to fly out: ask a friend to step up, or we'll just have uneven numbers. We don't have a fancy "getaway car" for the photos: will anyone even remember that?

Also -- I love me some Pierre. The guy is giving us such a deal that he'd be justified in just tossing the food out the window as he drives by. But instead he keeps thinking of all these additional touches to add in for free. But this horse needs to be reined in pronto.

Me: (trying not to hyperventilate) Gently suggest that the seashells are a minor decor touch. This isn't the Enchantment Under the Sea ball.

Him: Oh crap, I just approved one of the waiters to be dressed as a great white shark a la Eagle vs. Shark.

Okay, perhaps I deserved that.

Him again: And I've got a midget dressed as an octopus wearing a sombrero filled with chips & salsa -- for the cocktail hour.

He makes me laugh. But I still may strangle him -- I haven't quite decided.

And then I got this text from his former roommate:

I'm going to be there! Not bringing anyone, can't wait to meet your bridesmaids. You got a sister?

It's a good thing I live on the ground floor ... because I may just jump out the window.

look! i made ... goo.

I don't want to go so far as to say "I should've known better" ... but I think it's time to acknowledge my limitations.

I can design invitations. Build a website. Make paper flower-ball doodads. But this is what happens when I attempt to make homemade marshmallows for our candy buffet. Sigh. Not even my tray of the Place de la Madeleine from Fauchon can help this ... goo.

It doesn't look anything like the picture that came with the recipe. Cutting it into squares only marginally improved its appearance, and was a far messier operation than anticipated. (I now have vanilla marsh-goo between my toes.)

Also, I was promised "a lot of marshmallows" ... by my count, there are maybe 60 here (the tray is holding 3 layers of little snot-cubes). The recipe's author & I appear to have different definitions of "a lot." Then again, we clearly have many, many differences ....

Fortunately, I know myself pretty well. Which is why I made sure to note these while I was at Target buying the supplies for this experiment:

They make white ones!

Now who wants a snot-mallow? Anyone? ... hello?

i shall attepmt to remain calm, but no promises ...

source

We all know about the tradition of the groom not seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding. I have no clue about the reason for/origin of this "rule" -- bad luck? not as exciting? just one of those Things You're Supposed To Do? Sure, I could probably Google & find out, but I don't particularly care. It's important to Mr. UB, though, which means I'm happy to play along. I think it's kind of adorable that I need to warn him when I post pics of my head thingy, petticoat, etc.

But now he's taking this a bit further. He doesn't want me to see what he's wearing before the wedding. As in I've been banned from the expedition with groomsmen to Men's Warehouse this Sunday. Hence the title of this entry ...

Allow me to explain: it's not that I'm some crazed control freak who wants to micro-manage what my man wears, or disregard his opinions about things. Hello -- he has to wear the damned thing, of course he should get what he wants. But ... um ... this is the same man who caused the Irridescent Teal Tie Incident a few months back ... so I have concerns. And I'm trying to stay reasonable -- really trying -- but I don't know about this.

I tried everything, from mentioning that I would consult him on a video game purchase, to acting hurt, (am I proud? no -- I'm human) to outright begging. No dice. What am I supposed to say when he tells me that picking out his tux feels like the last autonomous act of his single-dom? I can't compete with that.

Fortunately, I had one last weapon in my arsenal: his Best Man's cell number. While the above discussion was still going on, I was furiously texting, with lots of things in all caps and way too many exclamation points. And while it turns out that the bastard drives a much harder bargain than I expected from such a normally mild-mannered dude (his 1st response: "What's it worth to you?") ... I have secured his having-my-backness. It's costing me money, drugs and lapdance lessons for his girlfriend, but it's worth it. Now I just have to figure out where to get drugs. And money, for that matter.

So: LL -- if you're reading this, let me re-itereate: NOTHING REFLECTIVE!! Or I'll make you guys wear those effing ties!

*Please note that the purpose of this entry is to (hopefully) get the Bridal Blogoverse to weigh in and take my side, regardless of my argument's merit. And babe: love you!

it just gets better

She was serious. Insane Caterer #3 has responded to Mr. UB's email, and she was serious. She claims that we never discussed our budget (sure, because it's easy to forget that insignificant detail in a vendor meeting), and reminded him that she hadn't even included a price for renting china. Which is odd, because he & I both recall talking about how we'd like to use eco- (and wallet-) friendly bamboo.

Other things I cannot begin to fathom: If we're paying $350 each for two chefs, and somehow have the only buffet in the world that requires six waiters, then what pray tell do the other three kitchen staff do? Forgive my ignorance, but if they aren't cooking the food or serving it, then what exactly are they doing? I imagine it's pretty special since it costs $300 per person.

Also, we really look forward to the explanation of her $2000 "production fee", which as best as I can tell from the fine print seems to include nothing more than driving the food to our location. Yes, of course -- the cost of fuel has skyrocketed in the last few years, and I'm sure that most people hold their events in her freaking kitchen, so naturally we'd expect to pay a 20% premium to have the food delivered to our venue.

Now I just have to figure out how to let the person who recommended this psycho know that "it didn't really work out."

On the upside, I managed not to swear today. At least, not here in print.

the Actress Diaries, ch. 4

{part 4 in a series of strange tales from Acting Land}

Today, I am tired. I feel like I've acheived a new, higher plane on the tired spectrum. I normally hit the snooze alarm as many times as possible (Mr. UB mocks me for this, but I persist) and greet the morning with more of a groan than a smile ... but this is different. This is a bone-weary, squinting at the light, questioning why I say "yes" to so many things kind of exhaustion.

It all started last Thursday. I was at rehearsal for the Jack Nicholson show, and I'd just learned that I was adding another Random Bimbo to the line-up of characters I'm playing -- a Cuban hoochie who ends up having Fidel Castro snort cocaine off her ass. (There are some funny stories in Nicholson's life.) Castro is being played by Amy, the only other girl in the cast, so I guess things could be worse ... and the guy playing Jack is snorting coke off the stomach of our director, Patrick, who's playing a tranny hooker, but that has nothing to do with why I'm so tired.

Right after that, we started working on a scene from "The Shining," where I learned that I get to hit Patrick with a bat, so the evening wasn't a total loss. Just as that part was wrapping up, my phone buzzed. Who the eff is texting me at 2am? Mr. UB saying something naughty? Nope. It's the director from a show I did last fall.

Help! We open Sunday, and someone just quit on me! PLEASE tell me you're available?!?

Oh, crap. I don't want to. And I just realised it's 2:00 in the morning. No wonder I'm so loopy.

Me: I'm still at a rehearsal. I think so, but I can't confirm until the a.m.

Director #2: I love you.

Me: I'm going to sleep in, but I'll let you know as soon as I can.

I did sleep in ... since I teach all weekend, I've made Fridays my de facto weekends for as long as I have these late-night rehearsals to get through. When I woke up, I checked my calendar ... dammit, I am available on Sunday night. And this guy has cast me in several things. And I can't just leave him & 20 other people hanging in the wind. So I tell him I'll do it.

So yesterday, after teaching for 4 hours, I high-tailed it over to the theater, where I met the cast & walked through my scenes once, at around 6:30. There was another show at 8:00, so we couldn't keep rehearsing. And then at 9:30, I went on.

I'm not sure who was more terrified -- me, trying to remember a show I hadn't done in 8 months, and figure out how the idiosyncracies of the new cast affected my part, or them, already amped up for opening night, sizing up a total stranger they'd never even rehearsed with. The one reassuring thing about the whole mess was that the actor playing opposite my role was the same person I did the show with last fall, and he's wonderful -- so I had a basic idea of what he was going to do, and I knew he'd have my back. Which was good ... because the director walked backstage just before curtain and announced, "You've got a full house!" Grreeeaaaat.

Amazingly, it was a great show. All the hard work the cast had clearly put in came together with that magic stuff out there in the ether, and it was almost glitch-free. (For completely glitch-free, stay out of live theater.) Which led to much celebrating afterwards ... on an adjacent stage, since the main theater is rented out to an AA meeting, and they understandably don't like a bunch of drunken actors stumbling around. I didn't even over-indulge -- just 2 or 3 drinks -- but I did dance my butt off.

Which is probably why when I woke up this morning, I could feel the rotation of the earth. And while I'm fairly proud of myself for pulling it off, and it's enormously flattering that they're asking me to do the rest of the run ... I just don't know if I have it in me. Besides, I was already dragging myself to another Jack rehearsal, which at least allowed me to dodge that phone call today.

But hey -- at least I'm not bored.

{I promise to resume wedding-centric posts soon. I have things to report &/or rant about, really I do.}

this makes me ... decidedly less happy

Forgive me if I lapse into irrationality here (wait, I'm a bride - that's expected of me) or if I swear (which my aunt has said doesn't upset her) ... but what. the. hell. is up with all the Dieting Brides out there? Did I miss the memo that said I won't be eligible for a marriage license until I drop a dress size? Was there an episode of Oprah where "Everybody Gets A Complex!" Or is something far more sinister going on?

credit

First, some context: I stay away from most cultural references to "what I'm supposed to weigh" on purpose. I skip Celebrity Diet Plan articles because those are written by publicists who don't give a damn what anyone actually eats, as long as their client's face gets magazine space. I change the radio station when some deep-voiced Announcer Guy asks me, "Ladies, have you ever said 'I feel fat today?'" because that garbage drives me berserk. I've never been on the Atkins/Grapefruit/Stand On Your Head diet, and I firmly believe that the Master Cleanse is a dangerous crash diet wrapped in a more-organic-than-thou disguise. Why? Because I was anorexic for 17 years.

It still feels a little strange talking about this, but for all those years everything I felt about my body was tangled up with feelings that I was the only freaking person who felt that way, which made me extra-ashamed. So now I talk about it.

The thing that's pissing me off today is how many brides out there, whose blogs I truly enjoy, occasionally go on at length about their goal to be a dress size "x" by their wedding day. I mean, seriously -- what causes this? Why are spunky, feisty, unconventional, creative-as-hell women sucked into the "it has to look like a magazine" vortex over this one particular issue? It makes me want to scream, "You're marrying your same-sex partner at a Day Of The Dead-themed hoe-down, officiated by your very best Wiccan friend ... and you're not eating bread after 6pm for the last month before the big day?!?" This is insanity, ladies.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm all about making a decision to be healthier in your general life. Cutting out fast food and making exercise more of a priority are wonderful things ... IF YOU'RE GOING TO CONTINUE THOSE PRACTICES AFTER THE BIG PARTY. Go for it, make a lifestyle change with my-blessing-that-I-know-you-never-asked-for. But if, after the pictures are taken, you're going to be like a female body-builder & grab a half-eaten donut from a very-surprised stagehand (which happens, by the way) ... then please ask yourself WHY you're doing this. Your fiance loved you enough to ask you to marry him, without an asterisk about a size-6 dress being involved ... and we know how visually-stimulated guys are. So tell me: what's your real motivation?

Women have so many mixed-up feelings about their relationship with food. I can remember being in a restaurant with my family when I was about 6, and after watching everyone order saying to my dad, "I'm glad I'm a kid because I can still have a burger, and grown-up women can only have salads." The messages start when we're young, and we don't even know that's what they are. But if you're trying to change your body just so you'll look "perfect" in the wedding pics, then don't. Because there isn't any such thing. I've seen girls who grace magazine covers in bikinis turn down a glass of water at a photo shoot, to avoid "bloating." I've watched friends starve themselves for 3 days before a big job, in order to look "great." I used to do all of that crap, and worse, myself.

I don't claim for a second that any of this is easy. It's not. It took a lot of years, and a lot of really hard lessons, for me to drag myself out of the rabbit hole. But I do say that your lovely location, your gorgeous dress, and the gaze of the person you love will do much more to make your pictures look amazing than one dress size smaller ever could.

Besides ... doesn't being hungry make you grouchy? I can't imagine trying to plan my damned shindig on a fuse that's even one micron shorter than it already is. (Think about it: how crabby do you get when you don't get lunch until 4pm? Multiply that times 17 years, and you'll know how amazed I am that anybody, from my mother to my oldest friend to my fiance, still talks to me.)

we went shopping ...

We went shopping today for our wedding bands. It was a spur of the moment, "I'm 2 minutes from your apartment getting my windshield repaired (stoopid truck) and I know your job interview isn't until 2:00" kind of thing.

I knew that he had the Ghost of Turban Man -- almost a full ounce of gold. I had Stuff From Mom -- a ring & earrings that my dad gave me when I was a kid (they'd lived in her jewelry box, just waiting for me to need them) and the remnants of Mom's wedding ring from my dad. Which apparently has donated all but one of its diamonds to other causes over the years. Whatev's. We had gold and we had a stone. We were off to the jewelers.

Mr. UB found a lovely little shop just blocks from his home. They made my engagement ring, so I liked them already. And they're going to take all of our materiél, which should total between 1/3 to 1/2 of the cost of the wedding bands we picked out.

This is weird. And not just because the Jeweler Lady got all teary-eyed about "Gran Torino" when we were talking about movies. But because we keep taking all of these little steps that drive the reality of "We're Getting Married" home for each of us. For him, it was while on the drive home from the venue we found in Malibu. For me, it was handing over the teensy sapphires my dad got me as a kid + the remnants of my parents' wedding ring, for a Much Higher Purpose.

"There are more things in heaven & earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

... or something like that.

(Image on Flickr here.)

the seagulls are taking over

Think I'm kidding? Check out this cheeky bastard:
What the hell? It's not a monument to you, jerk. But that's okay ... go ahead & perch up there. Make a spectacle of yourself.

And look who was waiting for me, over by the lake:
He's just staring at me, with his weirdo "I can only look directly at you by turning my head" bird vision. Is he sizing me up? Challenging me? Waiting for me to turn my back so he can go all Hitchcock on my ass?

Their influence is so pervasive, it's even affecting the art in the park:
This Putnam guy supposedly finished a sculpture up to two years after he died?! Who do you think is responsible for that? Yep ... the frickin' seagulls. They're terrible with dates. Go ahead -- ask one when William of Orange invaded England. He won't know.

You've been warned.

(Actually, these are just pics that I accidentally left out of yesterday's post. But you should still watch out for seagulls. They're evil.)

they told me stuff would go wrong

So this happened ... I got a phone call yesterday from the lovely lady who handles weddings for the S.F. Parks Dept. And it seems that the construction timetable for the POFA has changed. Which means that we no longer have our venue on our date.

Fuck.

The weird thing is that the place will be available from May 15th through August 15th. (I don't get it either -- apparently there's going to be another "phase" of retrofitting. Whatever that means.) So we seem to have two options before us: a) new date, or b) new location.

The main reason that I'm completely open to changing the date is that we'd only picked it thinking that we could get the Palace by then. And frankly, I wouldn't mind a bit if I suddenly knew there were going to be 10 fewer weeks of this planning insanity in my life.

In a little bit of serendipity, Mr. UB & I were already planning a quick trip to S.F. on Monday, because my little sis from Ohio is going to be in town. Oh, and he still needs to meet my dad. (Yes, he "cold-called" my dad to ask for his permission to marry me. The boy has balls of steel.) So we'll be able to visit the alternate park sites that are available in August, and figure out which option makes more sense.

Thank goodness no one's bought their plane tickets yet. Sheesh.

it was bound to happen

I had my first anxiety dream about the wedding last night. I dreamt that it was our wedding day, and everything had gone perfectly. We were at the reception, having a great time, when I looked at Mr. UB and realized that nobody had done anything to plan the honeymoon. No plane tickets, no hotel reservations ... nothing. And we were supposed to leave in two days.

Not exactly a nightmare, but I understandably didn't wake up refreshed. And babe -- if you're reading this, can we chat about where we'd like to/can afford to go? Kthxbye!

a work in progress

We want to have a website, Mr. UB & I. You know ... for the wedding. Not because people need to know every stinkin' detail about our lives *cough i do that here cough*, but for practical purposes. And by practical, I mean to keep things within our budget.

1) Save-The-Dates: Yes, I'm still adamantly refusing to refer to these by their acronym. Also, to paraphrase the marvellous Ania, we are in a new millenium and there's nothing tacky about an electronic Save-The-Date. Especially if we use it to introduce our website, which will be chock-full of oh-so-much useful information (see below). I don't plan on doing anything as generic as an eVite, mind you. I'll be putting my photoshop skillz to use & making a lovely PDF image.

Also, no paper or postage costs for this round.

2) RSVPs: According to many recent wedding veterans, a disturbingly high percentage of the rsvp cards that are mailed out with return postage already on it simply do not come back. I don't know why. Nobody seems to. But I'm not keen on spending extra monies on a) little cards, b) little envelopes, and c) postage (again) just to have it thrown away. If I'm going to have to pester people with calls/emails to get their yay or nay -- and from what I hear, I will -- then please don't make me also have to stuff the gigantic "grrrrr!" back down my throat. I don't edit myself well. Seriously.

3) Stuff we don't want to include in the invitations: Things like maps, hotel info, and whatever else I haven't even been told about yet that we're "supposed to include" ... Really? People are actually this together in their planning process? There's nothing they've left out/forgotten/spaced on, by the day the invites get mailed? Interesting. Where does one find such people, as I've never met any?

4) Registry: I can't decide which is sillier -- the idea of registering for gifts ("buy us this!") or the hubbub surrounding how to, and especially how NOT to, let people know the damned registry exists. So it'll be on the website. Done.

At first glance, it seems like there are lots of resources out there to create a free wedding website. However, upon further inspection, "free" has a variety of definitions. The most common one seems to be We'reTooCheapToPayForTheUpgrade.com/OurNamesHere. No way am I putting that on the invitations I've poured blood, sweat and tears into. Hell to the No. In all of my searching, I couldn't find a single hosting site that lets you have OurNames@OurWedding.com without an annual fee. And none of those are cheap.

So: Plan B. Build us a website. Daunting, but I've done it twice before. Of course, my computer had its "memory incident" since then, and while I managed to save all my data (phew!) I lost many of my programs. Which just means I have to figure out how to use iWeb.

I registered our domain name (and got the exact one I wanted, thank you) for $2.19. And the hosting of our site for 1 year is $56.88. Still not free, but a lot less than the $100 average on other sites, and I have total creative control. Also, we can keep the domain name after the wedding & use it for general info about us. For anyone who cares, that is -- whatever, it's still a non-disposable item, even if it is electronic, and that pleases me.

I uploaded the first version today -- some of the links are a little wonky, and I haven't quite sussed out how to make my updated pages get from my laptop file to the interwebs, but it does exist. And that has to be worth something. Right?

Check us out if you're interested: JessAndJudd.com
Domain registry & site hosting via GoDaddy.com

I'm sure this is normal

This absolutely terrorized me for almost a week:

Why, you ask? Is my mail carrier mean? Did I have an early childhood incident with a slightly mangled box? Did the return address label say Kaczynski? No -- it was far worse than that. This box contained my wedding dress.

I wasn't expecting to feel this way about it, mind you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Perhaps I should've reflected for a moment on how quickly I ran out of the one wedding dress shop I've managed to walk into, and factored that in. As it was, I left the box sitting there on the chair for several days. I kept "meaning" to try it on. But what if I hated it? I considered grabbing my next door neighbor, Theresa, and making her hold my hand while I tried it on. (Metaphorically, of course -- that would be logistically difficult, if taken literally.) But I decided not to "bother" her, and left it sitting there for another day. (I say "bother" in quotes because she's terribly excited about the whole wedding thing, and has said she's more than willing to help.)

And then, one night, in the middle of a tv show that I wasn't paying much attention to, I just got up, opened the box and the protective envelope inside of it, and tried it on. Right over my wildly wrong-colored underwear. I remembered to put my shoes on, too.

And I didn't hate it. It was a little wrinkled from its trip, but in perfect condition & exactly as advertised. I think I made the right call on the size, too -- it fit in the boobs, but needed to be taken in down the sides. Which I figured was better than the alternative of fitting in the waist with boobage spilling out the top.

Now, of course, I found myself in the position of having a wedding dress without an accompanying wedding dress shop to do the alterations. D'oh! I looked on The Knot and Wedding Channel.com, but all of their recommendations for "L.A. alterations" seem to be in Orange County. Not out of the question, but not exactly convenient either. (Plus, it's scary behind the Orange Curtain, and I try not to go there.) On a whim, I looked on Yelp -- which took a damned long time to load for some reason, but then yielded up gold. Two tailor shops just outside of Beverly Hills with specific reviews for altering wedding dresses. I ultimately went with the place that had six reviews that were all raves, with three of them specifically mentioning that she saved them from wedding dress disasters created by other people.

Of course, getting the dress altered meant that I had to try it on again. In front of other people this time. And while I was standing there, moving my arms out of the way so the very nice people with pins could do their thing ... I literally got dizzy. The room didn't quite spin, but I was definitely light-headed, and possibly green around the gills. "Holy crap this is my wedding dress ohmigod I want it to look perfect I'm freakin' marrying J__ in this dress ohmigod do i hate it is it ridiculously drab what if i wanna change it can i change it of course i can change it i don't wanna change it it's fine ..."

Ahem. I'm a little bit embarrassed by that outburst. I think I just had my first "bride" moment.

Also, it's about an inch or two short. Which I don't think the tailor can fix, but I bet a petticoat will. (And thank you, sis, for pointing out that the correct term is not, in fact, "poufy slip.") And if it doesn't, and the thing people remember most about my wedding a year after it happens is that my dress could've been an inch longer, then we will have done something wrong.