Friday, May 22, 2015

That Second Fitting...

Ben's not home and I partook in more girl scout cookies than planned, so I dig my wedding dress out of the bedroom closet, make a dash for the office and shut the door firmly behind me.

I'm not sure the proper bridal etiquette for putting one of these big ol' dresses on, but I can hop in and out of it fast like a fitting fire drill.

But of course, once I get it zipped, and everything placed where it's suppose to be, I can't ever just hop out immediately. I just want to be in it for awhile.

Ben can't see me though, so eventually I do hop out, zip it back in its bag and bury it back in the depths of the bedroom closet.

I could tell you I've done this once, but heck, I do it almost any chance I get. I'd rather not clarify if I meant that related to the girl scout cookie eating or in home dress "fittings"...

I can't wait for next Saturday.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Neilinda and the Babes


While my parents were in town last weekend, they got a glimpse of our yard kitty—Neil. Upon spying on Neil though the best spy spot—the basement window—my mom commented, “either Neil has a bit of a jungle pouch, or Neil is a lady.”

Neil? A lady? Couldn’t be. I named him Neil for cryin’ sideways! My gal pal Elena kindly suggested I call her Neilinda. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Lady or man, the name “Neil” stays.

Just when I had fully coaxed myself back into believing he was a he, Ben bursts my bubble with evidence that suggests otherwise. Neil loves our side yard so much because Neil has babies living behind the shed. While I was out running this morning, he woke up and closed the bedroom window. Our bedroom window is above the best spy spot basement window, and while finagling our old wooden window shut he saw three kittens.

KITTENS.

Hearing this when I got back from my run sent me into a lady tizzy of paralyzing cuteness, of course. KITTENS!? HOW BIG? HOW MANY? WHAT COLORS? The length of a spoon (coincidentally Ben could show me this because he was eating cereal by the box), three, two black and one Neil colored (light gray).

Ughhhhh is there a medical term for how painful it is when something is so cute you can’t stand it? I had to see them for myself. I stalked the basement window about six times this morning before we finally left for brunch and errands.

But right when I got back, I went out to check and yes—YES—kittens!!! I raced inside and forced Ben to come downstairs to spy on them out the basement window with me. Oh my god. Oh my god. So cute. I love them. Never grow up kittens. Live in our yard forever and squeak and wrestle and eat bugs and stuff. Also, please never multiply again. Please.

video

Thursday, May 14, 2015

#alltheflowers

You know what I don’t know anything about? Flowers. I needed and wanted some for the wedding but what kinds, how much, and all that jazz, I just didn’t have gobs of opinions on.

I started out working with my favorite local grocery store/greenhouse. They’ll be helpful, right? And cheaper since they’re a greenhouse, not a florist, right, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong.

They weren’t super helpful in meeting me near my price point, or in suggesting what flowers would work well together for someone who really needed help with that. So after a few weeks of going back and forth I went on my merry way and found a new place to work with.

Until Monday.

I just finished getting all final payments to vendors squared away when an email from the grocery store/greenhouse popped in my inbox. “Hi, your wedding is soon, are you ready to make you final payment of so so many hundreds of dollars for smelly plants that will die after your big day?”

Gulp.

I scoured my sent folder for the “thanks, but no thanks” email I swear I sent to them last fall, but my search was as empty as a flower vase a week after being filled.

I’ve been burned like this before—I’m looking at you, college apartment complex who claimed a dirty oven constituted holding my the majority of my security deposit. And really, isn’t getting overwhelmed with flowers just the strangest epitome of bad luck?

So, while starting to sweat, I started on a short reply. Um, I think I canceled? I don’t remember signing anything? Please, no, no, no, I don’t need or want your flowers, what the heck am I going to do with ALL THOSE FLOWERS.

I pushed send and my mind started spinning. Maybe I’ll make flower crowns for all my guests as wedding favors. Maybe I’ll carry a 40 pound bouquet and get an arm workout in on my wedding day. Maybe Ben and I can sit on a thrown of flowers at the head table and sneeze our way through the entire reception.

Then a reply came back: “Oh, sorry! We did get your cancelation call, but hadn’t written it into our calendar. Have a lovely wedding day!”

Oh thank sweet gardenias. Although it would have been a treat to see my dad in a flower crown…

Sunday, May 10, 2015

No-Om

In a warm, dark studio filled with spandex’ed strangers, I’m laying down next to my mom. We inhale, roll over to the left and look out to the right. I see her beyond my right arm—sprawled out on a neighboring mat, pretzeled up just like I am.

I don’t even know how we got into this position—which is a common thought in my Sunday morning yoga class. Some how the instructor got me, my mom and a group of others there. My mom and I are just two girls gettin’ bendy on a rainy morning.

Yoga is a weird thing. Some take it so seriously, from the expensive outfits to the audible om’ing and chakra finding. But really, it’s like adult preschool; we’re playing with body awareness, often confusing our lefts and rights then taking a nap at the end.

It’s a treat to have my mom with me at my yoga class this Mother’s Day. I’m proud of her flexibility and strength in class; then on the car ride home we giggle and gossip about the girl on the right whose form was awful and the guy with the ponytail who modified so many poses he must have a sports injury.

And about that audible “om’ing”—we both agree it’s more weird than enjoyable. Hey, like mother like daughter I guess!

Weekend recipe: This north African meatball and couscous recipe I stole from my pal Elena. Wow is it good—warming, spice-filled—and if you thicken the sauce up with a little cornstarch slurry it’s even better.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Weddding Blitz

Yesterday Ben and I took the day off to hit all our wedding vendors for a final meeting. Wait, let me catch my breath, final meeting before the wedding. Oh my gosh. Ok.

We started at our venue chatting with the coordinator there. We hit our caterer up next, who had accidentally made double the order of deli sandwiches needed for another customer so we got a free lunch while we were there.

Then we met with our DJ at Panera—which is a great idea unless you forget exactly what your DJ looks like and spend five minutes circling the guy you think it is. Not that that happened to us of course, but yeah, it was the guy we thought it was.

Then the photographers—who we love, and not just because they have a corgi, although I embarrassed Ben by asking how their dog is doing. And finally the florist, where we dropped off all our homemade centerpieces.

To celebrate our whirlwind of a day and how good we feel with what the wedding will look like, we stopped at Harmony Brewing Company for two personal thin crust pizzas and a couple of their tasty cocktails.

By the time we got home at 8:30, we were pooped. How pooped? One of us promptly put ESPN on and fell asleep for the rest of the night. Not that that was Ben, but yeah, it might have been.