2008: The Year of HomeValley

1. Become more clear-headed.
2. Perhaps drink less alcohol.
3. Also, consider a mantra.
4. One Thing At A Time.
5. Because honestly, we can't go on with our head so - cluttered.
6. Meet Howie Mandel.
7. Provide Internet photographic evidence of said meeting.
8. Take the GMATs.
9. Take them again and really rock them.
10. Apply to graduate school.
11. Actually go this time around. (Don't ask.)
12. Be amazing future wife. Think special presents and thoughtful gestures, amongst, ahem, other things.
13. Visit a California winery.
14. Develop exquisite physique for July nuptials.
15. Avoid burritos.
16. Watch less television.
17. Finish Anna Karenina.
18. Even though Lisa Turtle gave away the ending trying to impress that snobbish intellectual she had a crush in that one episode.
19. Reduce call-screening by 50%.
20. Call Grandmom more.
21. Give more compliments.
22. But make sure they are sincere.
23. Stop DVRing Sex and the City on TBS.
24. Stop worrying so much.
25. Consider another mantra for this.
26. More. Yoga.
27. Get published.
28. To this end, definitely drink less and cut out bad TV.
29. Post more.
30. Become a friend of the blogosphere. Delurk.
31. Floss.
32. Organize office.
33. Maintain organized workspace.
34. Send "thank you" cards.
35. Visit Africa.
36. See the pyramids in Egypt.
37. Go on a safari.
38. Quell road rage.
39. Get promoted.
40. Become a better networker.
41. Volunteer at least three days this year.
42. Become a student of theology.
43. Pick a religion that works.
44. Stop offending Jesus.
45. Become spiritual person.
46. Quit complaining.
47. Gossip less.
48. Finally get belly-button ring removed, because honestly. You got that thing at 18 on South Street. Time to let go.
49. Develop solid wedding song playlist.
50. Avoid most wedding cliches.
51. Share your success in these quests with the Internet.
52. And also those damn Istanbul pictures already.
    

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Tonight is our annual Girls' Christmas Dinner. I believe this is the 11th year and counting, because, fuck, we are old.

The players have been tweaked slightly over the years, as some of us drifted a bit through the college years. For the last half a decade or so, it's been Homevalley, Grace, Koos, Allie, D, and Ol.

So each holiday season, one of us dutifully offers to host the festivities (this year D is up). There is much food and wine and beer and hard alcohol and gifts, because we are spoiled. The gifts are typically not too pricey (two years ago I picked up "I Love New York" tees for everyone - which, dudes: why haven't you worn those???) but alas, I was horribly tee-shirt shamed when Koos doled out this jem:

Uncle Jesse does Thailand. (And subsequently our wedding invitation. What up!)

You can't see it, but that tee reads "Have Mercy!" Brilliant.

Last year we spent our evening at Allie's, where we ate and drank everything in sight, exchanged gifts, then wisely decided that we should most definitely go out to the local "dance" club, where we danced and danced and drank some more, until ever-rambunctious Grace began thrusting me about the floor and pushing me onto the stage with the band. Narrowly escaping injury, we headed back to Allie's where we ate whatever was left in the apartment, because Christmas comes but once a year.

The year prior, Ol hosted in my beloved Queens, where we both found ourselves living at the time. We followed pretty much the same regimen, only we visited a Bayside bar, where my patented Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club dance was born. Then Koos and I made a desperate attempt to thwart the rest of the girls by calling it an early night, as we secretly wanted to eat all of the chocolate cake and watch What About Bob, inexplicably. (Our mission failed, and we shared the damn dessert.)

Who knows what surprises this year will bring? D is making fondue, so we're all charged with bringing meats and appetizers and alcohol. I have spent a large portion of the day emailing with Grace about what the hell I should bring for an app, to which she insisted "Caprese Kebobs". When I suggested I just make regular old Caprese salad, she threatened:

so help me Jesus it better be on a stick!

Merry Christmas, Ladies.

Jean.

I bought a dress.

(Or, more accurately: thank you, Mama!)

I had The Dress picked out after our New York shopping spree, but hemmed and hawed and stalled because I didn't actually want to make a decision. That would be so... final.

Last week I pushed my reservations aside and told my mom I wanted the damn dress already. She suggested we visit one more bridal shop.

And unbelievably, there was The Dress. Not perfect, as it is in desperate need of some sequin removal (Why? Every damn dress with the sparkles!) and some button changing, but so help me God, I could envision the final product. And it was good.

Of course I can't show it to you until after July, but let me give you some idea of what we're dealing with. Here is what I wanted:

I am slightly obsessed with late Carolyn Bessette Kennedy's style, as my tastes lend more towards simple, elegant, and classic. (Also, my late grandma Mildred was similarly obsessed. She had ripped this photo from a magazine and hung it on her bedroom wall and frequently exclaimed, "Melissa! You look like just like the Kennedy wife!" Quite.)

Unfortunately, I am not as slender, nor as tall, as the statuesque Carolyn. So the dress I selected? Shares several elements with this stunning Narciso Rodriguez, but suits my feminine 40-inch hips. (I blame the booty, as my waist is small and my curves are kickin'. J is very much on board.)

It also has a decidedly old Hollywood feel, with rich, curve-hugging fabric. My mother remarked that it evoked Jean Harlow, which is fitting as I used to tell people she chose my middle name (Jean) based on the platinum haired "blonde bombshell"; until one day she overheard me recounting this story and interrupted with: "What the hell, Melissa? I named you after Jean Haggerty! She was a girl I really admired in high school."

Totally sticking with my version, by the way.

(Carolyn's middle name? Also Jeanne. Coincidence?)

Lament

Blah blah blah work is so hectic blah.

Jotting this down at 10:22 PM as J snores in bed... Almost finished with my responsible adult holiday duties, i.e. Christmas gifts, wrapping, and cards. Blah blah blah holiday chaos blah.

So many things to chat with you about, yet so little time. J and I have taken off all of Christmas week, so that should give me loads of time to tell you about:

1. Istanbul. Seriously, I have amazing pictures. Why haven't I posted them? Oh, I'll post them. Next week. At the very least I will tell you The Tale of Turkish Scott Baio, and That Night at the Cozy Pub.
2. Thailand and Cambodia for that matter. Because you deserve to know.
3. The imminent return to Queens, tentatively titled Uncontrollable Sobbing in Our Favorite Borough, Part Deux.
4. Wedding dress!
5. I swore I had more topics.
6. But I can't think of them now.
7. Nonetheless, these blog posts on various topics are my holiday gift to you, Internet.

Whatchoo talkin' bout, Homer?

Whatchoo talkin' bout, everyone.

(Need sleep. Immediately.)

WWJD?

So last night I wrote and wrote and in the end, I appreciated what I had to say about God and my religious beliefs, but still felt a bit uneasy about the blog entry.

I attributed the nagging feeling to a bit of self-doubt, perhaps an "over-share", but I soldiered on and hit publish anyway. Then I watched The Office on TBS and finally fell asleep around 11:30 PM.

I was off and dreaming. I found myself in my childhood bedroom, sitting at my old wooden desk typing on my laptop, eagerly joining some sort of online writing program run by Oprah. (God, I am obsessed). Suddenly, a woman I didn't recognize entered my room and announced:

"Jesus is here to see you, Miss."

Shit, I think.

Enter Jesus, with shoulder-length blonde hair, clad in white and burgundy robes. He's looking well, strong and handsome. He hurries into my old bedroom and I can see he is not pleased with me. He's quite exasperated, in fact.

I don't hang around to find out what JC is about to tell me. I wake myself with a start, heart pounding. I turn on the light and expect to find him at the foot of the bed, though mercifully he has gone.

Frightened, I breathe deeply and realize: I just blew up Jesus's spot.

You see what you didn't read in yesterday's post about religion was a deeply personal story about my mother, who has always asserted that God, in his infinite wisdom, will do whatever He can to you until you get your ass back to The Church. It was a beautiful tale of how that worked out for my mom, one that as I typed I wasn't sure I should share with the Internet, at least not just yet.

After pissing off Jesus in my dream, I tossed and turned until 4 AM, when I decided to boot up my computer and delete my mother's story from the post. The entry still flowed and I felt calmer, and immediately drifted off to sleep.

JC or only my subconscious, I did the right thing. Blogging is a dangerous sport, y'all.

This post is about God.

Watching Good Morning America this morning, I repeated a silent command to my brain: under no circumstances, I said sternly, are you to remember his name, this deranged motherfucker who shot up a missionary in Arvada, Colorado, then traveled to Colorado Springs to kill teenaged sisters at a church.


I also angrily demanded of said brain: Why? Why must they exploit him and award him with infamy? Please, please don't say his name. I won't listen.


Later, when my brain and I were introduced to Jeanne Assam, the security guard who shot and killed the deranged motherfucker (as he will henceforth be known), I willed myself to remember her name. (I wish I had succeeded. I just looked it up on MSNBC.) I watched her speak plainly about the events and claim, "God guided me and protected me."


And I thought, then why didn't God protect the murdered four? Why didn't He safeguard their families against that interminable pain? And why didn't He intervene in deranged motherfucker's case? Why didn't He guide and protect him?


We have a funny relationship, Yahweh and me. (As in, why did I edit that last paragraph to ensure I had capitalized all of the pronouns referring to Him?)


Do I still believe?


That is the crux of the matter, isn't it?


I attended Catholic school for thirteen years, though I haven't attended mass in ages. Catholicism and I don't mesh on many levels (abortion rights, homosexuality, birth control, attitudes towards spiritual leaders' pedophiliac tendencies, etc.). So I don't practice, and I study other, more liberal, inclusive religions, and I imagine that one day J and I might seriously become Buddhists. I live by the golden rule; I strive to be good and do good and I am eternally thankful for all that I have in this life.


Usually, I believe that is enough. I believe in Heaven and not hell. I am deeply skeptical of deeply religious people most of the time, though I attended an amazing benefit for poor Egyptian children given by close Christian friends in DC recently, and I cried most of the night during their earnest prayers. I was sublimely happy among them, sniffling and writing checks to help poor Christian babies living in garbage slums near Cairo.


My cynicism quickly resurfaced when I learned that Christians were in the minority in Egypt, a predominantly Muslim country. The moment I sensed that these religious sects were enemies in Africa, I was reminded why I eschewed organized religion in the first place. That.


That posturing, that positioning. That self-righteous attitude that nearly boasts, we're better than you. We know we have it right. And if you ain't with us, well then honey, may God have mercy on your heathen soul.


Or, I don't know, calling a teddy bear Muhammed, and doing hard time?


That.


There is a beautiful monologue in a terribly underrated film, Keeping the Faith. In it, Ed Norton plays a Catholic priest, whose best friend is a rabbi played by Ben Stiller. I've always adored the movie, as the main characters struggle to make religion mainstream in present-day Manhattan. Mostly I've always been captivated by the Ed Norton homily, in which he discusses faith:


And it's very important to understand the difference between religion and faith. Because faith is not about having the right answers. Faith is a feeling. Faith is a hunch, really. It's a hunch that there is something bigger connecting it all... connecting us all together. And that feeling, that hunch, is God.


(Also beautiful, and a bit embarrassing, as perhaps I have concocted my own belief system via a comedy that didn't even do very well at the box office. But I'll take divinity where I can get.)


I want to believe. I want to pray, and thank God, for it all. I don't want to be God's fair-weather friend. I don't want to only speak to Him when I desperately need Him, when I am drowning. I want a strong relationship with Him. I want community. Sometimes, I sing Christian hymns to myself while driving, and my eyes well and I think, I really will get to mass this week.


I want the answers. I don't want to judge others; I don't want to judge other religions, other gods. I want to know. I want to know what is right and be free from doubt. If in fact, Judgment Day comes, I really don't want to be standing there with egg on my face with the other Catholics, say, if Jesus only really digs Baptists or Methodists. I don't want to angrily question God's motives; I don't want to be pissed at Him each night as I watch the six o'clock news. I want to know the plan! I want to know if all of the pain and suffering and joy has a purpose; I don't just want to blindly believe that it does, because what do I base that on?


So that's faith, Edward Norton? It's not about religion, or answers; it's a feeling, it's a hunch.


That is the crux of the matter, isn't it?

Awesomeness in Our Favorite Zip

New feature!

I have been completely obsessed with Beverly Hills, 90210 as of late. Thanks to DVR, I can record all of the episodes that air on Soap Net, all 74849 a week. J is most certainly not pleased. He just doesn't get it. Because, man, at one point it was so, so good...

Take, for instance, 1992, the summer before senior year at the Beverly Hills Beach Club. The kids from West Beverly spend most of their days entering volleyball tournaments and tanning, except Andrea (who plays camp counselor and befriends an adorable deaf child), and Brenda and Donna (who are holy hell in a French "immersion" program in Paris which is AWESOME, though I can't tell if these scenes are actually filmed in France. But Donna almost becomes a world-renowned fashion model and Brenda starts smoking and affects an incredibly poor French accent to impress "Reek", a handsome Dean Cain!)

*Takes deep breath. All too glorious.*

So one day new gal Nikki hippies her way from San Fran to the Bev Beach Club, and spots shirtless Steve and his Curly Mullet (which really should have received its own billing, because WOW!) in the sand. She says hello, then becomes distracted and abruptly asks something like, "Where's that great sound coming from?"

She needn't look far. As behold! There is squeaky-voiced, bejeweled David Silver in Mel and Jackie's cabana, ernestly playing his keyboard and crooning:

You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?
You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?

Nikki starts grooving to Silver's beats, naturally, as the show's producers will spend a lot of years trying to convince us that David is a talented musician/dancer, before they finally pack it in and just give him the Peach Pit After Dark already, he's terrible. Nonetheless, he and Nikki make out (for shame! He is with Donna.) and Steve and the Curly Mullet decide to manage ole Squeaky-Voice, because the Curly Mullet has contacts in the biz, his mom is Samantha f-ing Sanders from The Hartley House, damnit!

And it was awesome.

Against All Odds

So my IT guy swears it is not possible; but lo! The disconcerting details of what just transpired:

I received a new Treo 700 in the mail today, which was subsequently "synced" with my Outlook: emails, contacts, calendar, and tasks, as you do.

I occasionally (read: always) use this mobile for personal calling. Very few of my personal contact numbers (if any) are stored in Outlook.

But they are all stored in my new Treo. And then some!

"Not possible," says IT Kyle. "The only contacts that would be in your phone are those from Outlook."

"But I swear to you; some of these people were never in my Outlook..."

I dated most of them before I had this job, I think.

*Shivers*

Impossibly, not only have my business contacts been loaded into the new 700; most of my ex-boyfriends have been too.

Universe, what exactly are you trying to tell me?

It's beyond freaky. It's like that urban legend, the one that inevitably ends with: "You couldn't have met my daughter on the bus today... She's been dead for ten years..."

*Shudders*

J offered only this: Don't call them.

Is It My Turn?

My dear friends, you are in dire need of an update! I’m once again strapped for time (sipping decaf coffee at Max and Erma’s in the Columbus airport), but I’ve got a few moments to update you, list-style. Pumped?

1. First things first: here in Central Ohio, there is an FM radio station that plays only television theme songs. TV theme songs, y’all. It was quite possibly one of the strangest things ever; yet also: the most awesome. Notably, I am the sort of girl who turns up the volume and sings along to Laverne and Shirley. I am also the sort of devoted blogger (hee!) who jots down notes on some of the more interesting songs played, say, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

When the evil Shredder attacks!
These turtle dudes don’t cut’em no slack!

Hands down, the highlight of my day.

(Though I was temporarily crushed when I did not hear any Family Ties, a ditty I was at one time seriously campaigning to use for our first dance at the W.)

2. I recently forced J to sit through a DVRed “My Night at the Grammys”, a summation of the top twenty Grammy performances ever, as voted by ignorant viewers who obviously are insane as number one (or 2 – 20, for that matter) was not Michael Jackson performing “Billie Jean” and positively killing it with the moonwalk. Seriously?

Oh, but one performance that rightfully did make the countdown was Ricky Martin’s “La Copa de la Vida”, in which he single-handedly ushered in the Latin music revolution of the late 90s, before he fell off the scene once again in a barrage of “is he or isn’t he” gay rumors. (Oh, Ricky, I love you either way, honey.)

Watching Martin shake his bon-bon instantly transported me to second semester of freshman year, the coldest February in New York City history (at least that’s what it felt like to us). Vanessa and I remained holed up in our Brooklyn Heights dorm, likely scarfing down pasta or delicious ham and cheese sandwiches from the bodega across the street, watching Ricky explode onto the scene. And we instantaneously adored him and we totally watched TRL in search of him and the phrase “livin’ la vida loca” entered the lion’s share of our conversations. It was a magical time, nineteen and naïve in our glorious city. Back in the present day, a pang of heartsickness hit me suddenly, and I knew what I had to do.

I opened iTunes immediately and downloaded many, many Ricky Martin songs. I also discovered that iTunes shopping under duress (or nostalgia) is dangerous, because I also bought P.M. Dawn (what up?) and Boyz II Men’s greatest hits, because at that moment I could not go another second, dear God, without hearing “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday”. (Because it is, y’all. It really is.)

3. Shit, I’ve got to catch a plane. To be continued.

Comedy Gold

Inspired by the Slapsgiving episode of How I Met Your Mother and the fact that I can't stop reading blogs right now even as J is having conversations with me in which I just nod politely even though Cops is on and mmm the wine; ladies and gents, an original song by J:

Who is this person?

You're talking to?

You might as well just sit here and sing songs

Because no one's listening to you!

Just sit here and drink your fucking wine!

Nobody's listening to you.

Who is this person?

You're singing songs to?

You might as well drink your fucking wine and shut up

No one's listening to you!

Who is this food?

I heard so much about?

It's obviously not here and even if it was

I couldn't eat it. (Shout out to the wedding diet. Woot!)

Happy Thanksgiving (complete with histrionics)!

On Thursday morning, J booted up his laptop and urged me to read a review of the Punta Cana resort we'll be visiting in July for the W. I acquiesced, so long as he brought me a cup of decaf hazelnut already (yes, I'm off the caffeine again. More on that later.)

It was an amazingly thorough review. The couple had just gotten married there in October, and the groom provided every detail of the entire affair, all rainbows and sunshine and la la la most perfect day ever!

Then I read this gem:

You will meet with the photographer approx. two hours before the ceremony.

And then I freaked out. Ever so slightly.

"Oh no!" I whined. "No, no, no! J! This is awful!"

The horror, the trauma: wedding photos taken two hours before the ceremony? With family? And friends? And J?!?

I know we are fairly unconventional, but Christ. This is my moment; this is J's moment. Our moment. It's supposed to be beautiful and romantic and memorable. It's that second when J sees me from afar looking stunning and angelic and virginal (shut up), walking down the aisle to meet him and pledge my undying devotion to him. His eyes are supposed to well up with tears, y'all. Tears!

And so with all of my melodramatic histrionics here, you can imagine that ole HV was not too keen about having The. Moment. in the hotel lobby, before the ceremony. It's so unnatural, and mechanical, for the sake of the photos.

J assured me that we would could do it differently, and then I sniffed and wiped at my eyes and sat in the kitchen and sighed wearily.

"Happy Thanksgiving, babe," J said.

Beat.

"You know, I'm really glad you and me hooked up."

And then I laughed, hard, and agreed with him.

Thrills of Life on the Open Road

I once again find myself on an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia, eager to put the week behind me (Columbia, SC from Sunday to Monday; then Worcester, MA, Mystic, CT, to Westbrook, to New Haven). I am still smarting from my stay at the Mystic Marriott. You see, all I longed for yesterday was a simple pedicure, as the dogs are long overdue to be beautified. I meandered down to the Red Door Spa, and requested the "Express" pedicure, priced at $50.

"You know it's just a polish change. Is that okay?" Says the perfectly-coiffed receptionist.

"$50 for a polish change?" I ask.

She nods assent.

"No," I say softly, horrified. "NO! That is most certainly not okay!"

Exit HV, huffily.

So - Acela. In line for concessions (Because the hot dogs! They are still delicious!), when the man in front of me hands his money to the cashier and asks, "Did you recognize that famous actor you just waited on?"

Good night! My ears perk up.

"He seemed familiar," Oblivious Cashier admits.

I clear my throat. Friends, I can't not ask. The intrigue! Which actor - nay - famous actor has joined the commuter masses this afternoon? "Uh, who was this actor?" I inquire casually. I am nonchalant, of course.

"Mark Ruffalo."

If this were a sitcom, I would spit out a beverage theatrically at this moment. "Mark Ruffalo? Is on this train?"

"Yes," he says.

"Uh, which car?" I ask, only half kidding.

The man chuckles and tells me he does not know.

I return to my seat, carefully examining the faces of everyone I pass. I notice an attractive head of brown hair four rows back, but I shake it off and concentrate on my delicious hot dog.

Oh, but when we stop in New York and passengers begin shuffling, I turn back.

And I behold the glory that is Ruffalo (yes, that was his wavy brunette mop I spotted). He is clad in jeans and a black long sleeved tee-shirt; and ladies, he doesn't disappoint. He is fairly gorgeous, yet the fact that he is on this commuter train is perhaps most attractive. Ruffalo! A man for the people! He rose at Penn Station, retrieved one large travel back-pack from the overhead, and just like that, he walked out of my life. Fare thee well, Ruffalo. Fare thee well.

So that was my day, y'all. Tonight J and I will have drinks with friends; tomorrow I will rise at six AM to travel to Manhattan and search for a wedding dress. And possibly Mark.

(Oh, and um, this wedding dress shopping? I drew up an itinerary. Yes, yes, I did. And I called it "Wedding Gown Shopping with HV: Not For the Faint of Heart." Haha! Am crazy. Will let you know how I make out.)

Part Deux: Thank God I have had a recent tetanus shot.

Seriously, seemingl- innocent can of creamed coconut?

Newly bandaged, was just seriously startled by beeping microwave that holds Lean Cuisine dinner. Did not expect beeping.

Lord.

So... Miracle Whip?

Not mayo. As it turns out.

And I was so excited to cook a meal for Grace; one that I knew how to cook.

Why, Acme, would you place Miracle Whip right next to the mayo, so as to confuse me???

Drunk now, but so?

I know that mayo should have no vinegar; that Far-Mor Stina's Curry Chicken recipe calls for MAYO! NOT MiracleWhip! What are you, Miracle Whip? You have vinegar and smell so suspicious. You are not a friend. You FOE!!

Was on phone with Koos when I discovered my grave misstep. "J!" I called, as Koos burped her adorable new baby, Four (for blog purposes) on her lap (Child is adorable and amazing. Can't explain. He is just better than your average kid.)

(God. Pinot Grigio!)

"J - I messed up? Where is pizza menu? J? How do I call Santucci Brothers?"

J: Um, how do you call Santucci Brothers? (Shakes head slowly; wonders why he proposed exactly?)

HV: I mean, like, do we have a menu?

(PINOT!)

Seriously? Probably should have eaten dinner. Would not be so drunk if could bring self to eat vinegar chicken a la curry and cream of chicken soup.

(mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm)

Gah!

Must wATCH Mionday night foooball....

Seriously? Miracle Whip??? Why?

Luckily, salvaged delicious Thai dessert of fried bananas, toasted coconut, and coconut cream sauce. Am glorious cook. Betches.

(PINOT!!!)

(Shall erase this in AM.)

The Power of Christ Compels the Wedding

You guys?

I love today.

It's Monday. It's Monday coming back from a magical European/Asian vacation. It's Monday coming back from said magical vacation in which I woke up at 4 AM to catch a flight to Boston and waited 18 years for my baggage and was late to my meeting.

But oh, how I do not care.

I am exuberant! I am giddy with joy!

You know what I think? I think I have just gone crazy, but like, in a totally awesome way.

Liken it to alcohol-tolerance. There is but so much alcohol you can consume and consume until inevitably your tolerance (and your liver) just crap out and leave you drunk from one tiny dirty martini these days. Am I right? Well, like alcohol-tolerance, wedding-related stress can only induce panic attacks during Knocked Up for so long. Soon, friends, the debilitating stress is too much for you to shoulder; and you must surrender to it, in all of it's unneccesary and ridiculous glory.

Wedding, I conceded long ago. Now, I will just sit back, prop up my feet, read this new O Magazine, and let you run wild. Go. Do what you must; I will just be over here, drinking pina coladas and ignoring you.

I was going to bare my soul to you, Internet. I was going to lament all of the dirty details of the last travel agent-related debacle that occurred while J and I were smoking hookahs in Turkey. I have been so vague in describing it; I thought you had a right to know. I was going to illustrate all the banal events in excruciating detail for you to peruse right here. But then, when you start blogging like that, the wedding has already won, right?

There is so much ridiculousness to this, y'all. It's, um, retarded. I vowed never to get sucked into it, but the Wedding, she is ferocious and she scoffs at the smug recently-engaged. You don't care about the flowers? Bitch, I will make you care about those fucking flowers! typically in the form of an obnoxious aunt or a boastful newlywed.

And so I have shed tears over package prices, and grossly ignorant travel agents; I have lain awake nights tossing and turning, willing my family and friends not to resent me for my wedding of choice, certain that they will, forever. I have agonized over invitations, and addressing envelopes; I have gotten so sick with frustration over fucking envelopes that my eyes have welled up and I have tossed pens aside, shouting, "I can't do it! It looks terrible! I hate these invitations!" I have poured over the wedding etiquette book, wondering what was alright to do and say and write, because I have never done this before. I have told people no, you cannot invite your first cousins because this is a small affair with conviction; then I have gone to J and agonized over that small decision: perhaps we should invite them? They are my third cousins, twice removed after all?

And for what?

For who? (For who? FOR WHAT? Thank you, Ricky Watters.)

Today I woke up, and I felt lighter. I think my glorious friends laid the foundation for this serenity on Saturday night by encouraging me not to feel guilty. You're not forcing anyone to come, said Di, matter-of-factly.

People have said it to me before; but this time it clicked.

It was in this spirit that I emailed Vanessa today:

And I talked to my aunt when I got home and she told me how mad my uncle was about [the prices going up] and how he went off on her and he wasn't going... And then I thought, then, dude - don't go. Be happy with your decision either way. I'll be fine. J will be fine. Van - how about my mom saying something about the PLANE crashing and killing us all in one fell swoop?!?! Like I don't have enough to worry about; now I lay awake wondering if I have just set into motion events that will kill ALL of my friends and family???

Honestly, is it any wonder I am crazy?

No more! I love my family; I love my friends. J too. We would love for you all to join us if you have the means. If you do not, we understand. That's that. No more guilt trips; no more people added to the guest list. No. More. Drama. (Thanks, Mary J.)

J and I fell in love; and then we got engaged. And then we had a destination wedding, where hopefully everyone remains alive.

No more drama. Only exuberance! This is a good thing; this is a wedding for me, a vacation for you. Christ, there is a swim-up bar! This is a no-brainer.

The end.

Merhaba!

Merhaba (hello), mah people.

As I write, Istanbul muslims are being called to prayer on a loud speaker that echoes throughout the city. Is amazing place. I cannot wait to tell you all about it; sitting in Sultanahmet Park between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, arguably two of the most beautiful structures in the world; Efes beers with new friends at the Cozy Bar and Pub; smoking water pipes with Turkish Scott Baio; visiting the harem at Topkapi Palace... Istanbul is truly other-worldly! (Though the comforts of home exist on late-night NBC, where I totally caught How I Met Your Mother the other night in English!)

We leave tomorrow. Tragic. Until then: gule gule!

Dunder Mifflinity

First things first: Andy Bernard is my new boyfriend.



Secondly, hello! Welcome back to Manayunk is the New Queens is the New Manhattan or whatever, where this charming little blogger has been in 7833890 cities in 3 days, or something. I can't keep track anymore. Last week I was in Charleston, South Carolina, but kept thinking I was in Charlotte, North Carolina.



Today, a homecoming: Back in 'Cuse. Where everybody knows McNabb's name. (Shout out, Real JC!)



Tomorrow Oswego, New York. Thursday, the WORLD. Or, more specifically, Istanbul.



You may have noticed Turkey in the news last week. Briefly, Congress is trying to pass a resolution to declare the Ottoman Turks' killing of the Armenians during World War I a genocide; in fact, they want to declare the killings the first official genocide of the twentieth century. The Turks, as you can imagine, are charmed; or rather, protesting. They have argued that the death toll is over-inflated, and they have warned the United States not to pass this resolution. J and I aren't sure what this means for us, or any American travelers in the country for that matter. We are monitoring the situation closely (along with the U.S. Government Travel Site); and plan on laying very low, and possibly playing Canadian, as you do. Ultimately, we still plan to have an amazing adventure! And I will totally blog from Turkey, my people. Recognize.

We're also hoping that our "W" invitations will go out this week. Pray God.

DC: The Ultimate Photo Essay

* Please note: the following was started some time ago, and not finished properly, due to extreme time constraints by author. She is deeply sorry she keeps using her insane schedule as an excuse for not blogging. Unacceptable! Must change. Read on.


Oh, hello there. Welcome to DC, land of fucking quadrants. When you are intimately familiar with the New York City grid system, quadrants will blow your goddamn mind. But try to stay positive, like me. Here I am playing the role of happy-go-lucky woman whose head is not about to explode. Nope.

J, I told you, he said 7th and F! The Spy Museum is on 7th and F! I don't see any Spy Museum. God, I am hungry. And I have to pee. (Nefarious "SW" on sign overhears, and cackles. Another frustrated tourist! All in a day's work.)

Look, J! The Capitol Building. It's a magical place where bills become laws. Remember *sings* I'm just a bill, sitting up on Capitol Hill? Oh, right. *Rolls eyes* I can't believe you never saw School House Rock, J. Honestly.

Now take a picture of me, holding the Washington Monument like a sword, k? Oh man, J, this is clever. I bet no one has tried this before! Awesome.

Here we are trying to redeem ourselves, after the incredible photo a French man took of us once:

Wow, this is quite an abrupt ending to this less than stellar post! Rosie the Riveter, take us home:

Premature Ugg-Wearing, And Other Things

As luck would have it, my Providence meeting was canceled for today! So I flew in last night from TF Green, having traded my favorite Guess pumps (newly re-heeled and re-soled, thank you, as I destroy shoes) for my favorite sheepskin Uggs. You see, I erroneously assumed it would be cool in New England. It's fall, goddamnit! Not so. Also, it was 80 degrees in Philadelphia. Bastards. When will the air be crisp and cold, so that I can wear my glorious comfortable shoes every day? When?

Other things.

Last night I sat next to the chattiest man evah on my Southwest flight. By the time we landed (one-hour flight, y'all), I'd learned all about his boat in New England; his work at the Franklin Mint; his current job; his current girlfriend; that time his ex moved all of her things out of their Indiana home one day with her brother, and he took off to Club Med in Punta Cana the next day and played Caesar in an improv skit (and when they asked him what Caesar wanted, he proclaimed: "VIRGINS!"); and then some dude there told him that now he could have any woman he wanted; but then he didn't; he only had one. Then there was the time he saw his ex at a wedding a few years later, where she ignored him; then he convinced the best-looking woman in the room to dance with him, to make his ex jealous; then they spent one night together and he sent her flowers the next day, but they never spoke again.

"So how old are you?" He asked between these charming anecdotes.

"Twenty-seven," I replied, burying my nose in Vanity Fair, the universal travelers' sign for polite conversation over, man: I've got never-before-seen pics of the Kennedys by Richard Avedon to pour over.

"Man, I could use a 27 year-old."

I shift uncomfortably.

"But not you! Obviously, because you're engaged. I could have a daughter your age! I just turned 50."

I sensed a sadness in his voice when he said the words. For a moment, I felt pity.

"So," I began, "No children then?"

"Nah. Never been married. That's why I need a woman of child-bearing age."

(I really couldn't make this stuff up, these revelatory travel tales.)

"Then your girlfriend is older?" I ask.

"Yeah. Older than me, actually. 51. In L.A. right now. But she works a lot. Man, I told her: you keep working your ass off like that. I'm just gonna play."

I may be projecting, or reading too much Faludi these days, but his words are joyless. I imagine he is very lonely.

"But who's going to marry me?" He asks.

"Someone will marry you!" I assure him.

"Of child-bearing age?" He asks me. I say nothing for a moment. Then, "You could adopt."

He shakes his head dismissively, then picks his small blue tote off the floor. "Scallops," he smiles. "Caught'em myself. I can't wait to get home and eat these."

Then I pretend to be incredibly interested in his live scallops, as he pries open a shell to show off his treasure.

When we land, the conversation ends as it always ends on planes: the take care, good luck.

"Well, nice talking to you. Take care."

"You too. Good luck with everything."

I'm not sure it's relevant, but this is one of those enlightening experiences that wakes me up for a brief moment; that teaches me what it is to be human. We're all searching. The tide is always changing. We long to connect. And sometimes, the best thing we can do is put aside the Graydon Carter editorial for a second, and look at the scallops. Because it is kind.

Another Monday, Another Airport

Afternoon at the Philadelphia Airport. I have been so busy lately with travel, I haven't even had time to upload my super cool pictures from DC! Man, when it rains, it pours. Have been in Washington; Arlington, Virginia; Danvers, Peabody, Salem, and Newton, Massachusetts; Randolph, New Jersey; Manhattan; and Hoboken in last eight days. Now heading to Providence, Rhode Island; New London, Connecticut; and Worcester, Mass.

God - I am bored reading that. My apologies for this lame post.

Upcoming post spoiler alert:

Which happy-go-lucky bride-to-be found out her Dominican resort was changing ownership, name, and going though multi-million dollar renovations in the next few months?