It's not a break up, it's just a break.

Yes, it’s been half past forever and I promise I’m still alive. It took me three days just to filter through my emails. I almost see the light of day.

So while I work on some of the more complex issues you’ve sent me- like uninviting guests and parents with multiple marriages to their name…. here’s some of the quick questions I’ve been sent recently.

“Where are you and what are you doing?”

Well I’ve been right here doing those idiotic things that I usually do. Mostly going to school and work- and usually failing at both. Strange but true, school actually takes some effort. Well, some for normal people and a hell of a lot more for those mildly retarded souls such as myself.  Work just requires a self-depreciating sense of humor and a well-hidden flask. So I’d say it’s the education thing that’s kept me away for so long. Sorry about that.

My kitchen chalkboard

“Tell me a quick story”

Jose and I spent a weekend at the beach with my parents- in November. If you’ve never been to the beach in November I’d recommend not starting now. We were the youngest people there by at least 20 years and quickly realized that people just go there to die in the cold months.

We brought Sadie along for the trip (the dog), who immediately and violently attacked my mothers lap dog upon entering the beach house. Then ate all her food. And crapped on the floor. And spend the next three hours in a glazed over state of confusion, shaking and foaming at the mouth while staring at the ocean.

The TV only got one channel and internet/phone/civilization access was non-existent at best. But dad did make chili and the freezer was stocked with booze… So I’d call the weekend a success.  And the dog eventually recovered from her psychosis, which is always a plus.

There you have it, a short story AND a happy ending. That’s how much I love you.

“I saw on Wedding Wire that you are a minister. Is that true?”

Yes- but don’t go getting yourself all impressed over it. They literally give these things away to anyone, just as long as you promise not to ordaine anyone without their knowledge. I know. Weirdest rule ever.

“Are you a wedding planner?”

Dear God no, having half crazed brides take over my inbox is quite enough insanity for me. And would you really trust me with your wedding anyways? I'm clearly a disaster in real life. Remember what happened at the bridal shop? Let's avoid a repeat at all costs. If I end up under that bench again I just may stay there. 

“Do you mail Christmas cards now that you’re married? Everyone says I should.”

Sure do. Every year I buy very fancy Christmas cards. I like the cards with lots of glitter and shiny things. And I like to use a black magic marker to write unspeakably rude and horrendous things in them before mailing them to my family and friends. I say things like, “I shit on your doorstep this morning” or “Have a happy effing Christmas you worthless bastard”, and then I sign them in the dog’s name to save myself any awkward moments over Christmas dinner.

I save them all in my car until I have an exceptionally crappy day at work- and then I take them to the post office to make my day better.

The cards have become wildly popular, and the dog’s hate mail list is now longer than my actual Christmas card list. I find them proudly displayed in people’s houses at holiday parties.

Either the population in general enjoys being insulted under the muse of a house pet- or I just happen to hang around a bunch of weirdos. Either way, I highly recommend trying it out on your own family. Even better if you own a fish or turtle or something. Get some cards and get nasty.

“I got a wedding invite with a registry on it for money. Can I take a marker to her paystubs? She’s a bitch anyways.”

This sounds like a wildly sticky situation already, which I ADORE. So you may destroy her person property but  only if I may join you, and I’ll even bring my own marker. And a video camera.

There you have it- quick answers to quick questions. I mean honestly, with all the eggnog and what-not, none of you are really thinking about napkin colors and monograms right now anyways. We’ll handle the tricky stuff after we all sober up in the New Year.

Happy Holidays J

How to impress the ladies

Blog request: Unique and Fun Bridesmaid Gifts

- From at least 10 different brides.

Oh, the bridesmaids. How we love these girls. They do anything and everything for us, and we want to show them just how thankful we are.

But what to get them? This is where the uncontrolled panic and slight eye-twitching set in. Jewelry for the wedding day is usually on the menu. But let’s be honest, these girls all have different tastes in jewelry. Most of them will wear it for the big day and then banish it to the back of the jewelry box. Giant tote bags? I’m personally a fan, but I’m a purse whore. Some girls just can’t stand the thought of another bag clogging up precious closet space. Flasks? Let’s leave those to the boys.

Okay seriously I need to stress that last one- don’t buy a woman a flask. Ever. It’s tacky.

I personally did not have any bridesmaids, but I did have two friends who went above and beyond in my wedding planning. For my snap-happy photographer friend I got a Dooney and Bourke waterproof wristlet to carry her camera and keep it safe. For my fashionista chick I got a white sapphire cocktail ring, perfect for any outing.  Happy girls? You betcha.

So let’s make just one rule for bridesmaids gifts:

When you’re thinking about the gifts- think about the girl.

Not the girls collectively, but each girl on her own. You really want to make her feel loved. The same gift for every girl can be challenging, some will love it and some will think it was just an afterthought.

And as I'm writing this rule I have visions of my email box flooding with nasty grams- But I want to get them Giant Bags/Jewelry for the Wedding/Something to ignite their alcohol intake! 

Okay. I hear you. Just make sure every one is a little different- fit the girl, not the group. 

Bags they’ll actually use:

Sale colors under $40.00. They last forever, hold everything, and are machine washable.

http://www.verabradley.com/product/Category/Handbags/Tote/154817/defaultColor/Suzani/pc/638/c/0/sc/641/p/154817.uts

The black bags with pink or light blue monograms are classy and cute- perfect for everyday use.

http://www.davidsbridal.com/Product_Exclusively-Personalized-Quilted-Tote-4118-1113_Gifts-Wedding-Party-Gifts-Bridesmaid-Gifts

Jewelry for everyone: 

My favorite Etsy friend. I once told her I liked a necklace, only to have it show up in my mailbox a week later. 

Ask for pieces in the same theme or same colors for the girls, but go with different pieces for each. Necklace for one, earrings for another....

 http://www.etsy.com/shop/harlykwin714?ref=ss_profile

You're so awesome they named a wine after you:

Put on your Bob Ross hat (or hair, I guess), and make a super swanky wine bottle label for your girls. You can order blank stickers and make them at home, or have a printing company do it for you. Pick up a bottle of their favorite wine and stick on the new label. Add ribbons to the neck to make it extra cute. 

http://www.myownlabels.com/wine_labels/?gclid=CIeAhbGZ_6sCFYSo4AodqBGHjg

And for those of you feeling adventurous enough to shop for each individually, I've compiled a list of random finds on the internet to get you started on your search. Everything is between $25 and $50.00, but don't buy just yet. Save your favorites and check prices on Black Friday and the day after Christmas. And if you buy anything without looking for a coupon code first so help me I will come to your house and cut your internet connection. 

After all, every girls knows that finding the perfect gift is even sweeter when it’s on sale.

The Sexy Chick:

Sexy girls need sexy robes.

http://www.victoriassecret.com/ss/Satellite?ProductID=1316653349376&c=Page&cid=1316658130945&pagename=vsdWrapper

A little animal print never hurt anybody.

http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/nine-west-animal-print-sash-scarf/3192285?origin=category&resultback=2034

The Non-Girl Girl:

It’s cute without being cutesy.

 http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/cara-accessories-leather-metal-cuff/3201120?origin=category

The Green Girl:

Made with love from your favorite veggies.

 http://www.uncommongoods.com/product/fruit-vegetable-parchment-bracelets

The tech geek:

Sexy gadgets need sexy cases.

 http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/marc-by-marc-jacobs-stardust-ipad-case/3178433?origin=category&resultback=2078

The glam goddess:

The perfect cocktail ring- and it’s on sale.

 http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/kate-spade-new-york-fly-girl-butterfly-ring/3191659?origin=category&resultback=1831

Everything she needs in an adorable case.

http://www.victoriassecret.com/ss/Satellite?ProductID=1265621343932&c=Page&cid=1265625572170&pagename=vsdWrapper

The Hippie Chick:

A light, year round fabric in patters that go with everything.

http://www.uncommongoods.com/product/jewel-tone-sari-scarf

Her work is second to none- ask her to make a custom piece and you’ll be amazed.

 http://www.etsy.com/shop/harlykwin714?ref=ss_profile

But what if you’re a bride on a serious budget? Well not to worry. A bridesmaid luncheon is the perfect way to show your appreciation for the girls. I suggest a Sunday brunch- complete with Bloody Marys and Mimosas. Invite the girls over for finger foods (mini quiche and fresh fruit), drinks, and gossip. Give them each a thank you card (with a hand written note) and flowers to take home.

So remember, weather you're throwing a party or buying a gift- it's not just for a bridesmaid. It's for the girlfriends who have really gone above and beyond for you. It's always the thought that counts, so put some time and effort into whatever you're doing for the ladies in waiting. After all, you'd kind of be lost without them. 

Happy planning!

Mail call!

"I need an idea for a save-the-date. I want to use a card but I want to word it differently than what everyone else is doing. I can make it myself I just need the words."

- Janelle



Ask, and you shall receive.


FRONT:

Janelle and Allen would really like

you to save   this little card

because it has all of the  

information  you’ll need about a very

special date that is  quickly approaching!

BACK:

Save the date!

Janelle and Mike

Are tying the knot!

August 25, 2012

Invitation to follow

(wedding website)

Stuff you need to know:

Add some color by printing the "SAVE THE DATE" on the front and back in your main wedding color. Or if you're feeling exceptionally lazy, just print this page and take it to the nearest wedding invitation store. 

Keep the font at left justification- it loses its awesomeness when centered on the page. 

Any card stock with a nifty raised design on the front will have depressions on the back of the card. Meaning anyone who flips over the card for the important information will see the backside of the design. (Read: don't buy those cards.)

Happy planning!

Weddings are fun

Weddings are fun- especially when they’re not your own.

Don’t get me wrong; despite my endless attempts at self-destruction, my wedding was nothing less than amazing.

I spent a week on the beach with my friends drinking Dominican Rum and generally making a fool of myself until my friend (thank you Laura) shoved me into a wedding dress and threw me down the aisle. And when me and my mariachi band got to the end- oh yeah I said mariachi band baby- well then I got to marry this super cute boy. It was pretty sweet.

I know. Fabulous. 

But at your own wedding you’re kind of all over the place. Is everything perfect? Is everyone having fun? Christ I can’t breathe in this dress. Can I possibly smile for another moment without breaking my face? Oh crap I have to pee. What if I have to poo? Do my friends love me enough to hold 300 layers of tulle over my head while I poo? I can’t ask them to do that. No. Hold it girl!

So obviously, very important things are on your mind. But at someone elses wedding… well all bets are off. You just have to show up and stay marginally sober enough to keep your dress on through the cake cutting. No pressure. Just show up and be awesome.

And this weekend, that’s exactly what we did. Jose and I hopped in the car and drove to Jersey for a weekend of someone elses wedded bliss.

Upon arriving to the hotel, Jose set out on an exploratory mission to find friends. And beer. He returned 30 minutes later reeking of liquor and ½ a bottle of Corona.

While choosing between a nice dress and a skank dress, I down my shot of Corona and decide that I will be totally freaking awesome at this party and make lots of friends. Skank dress stays in the closet. Much hair teasing and aquanet follow.

On our way to the wedding we meet other guests in the lobby- one of which offers a ride to the wedding and begins a quite hysterical conversation about her children, categories of snot, and the shame of owning a minivan. Friend #1- accomplished.

At the ceremony I cry like a sissy girl, because no one is watching me so I really don’t give a damn.

Cocktail hour, also known as the tipping point. Go hard? Ease in? Jose orders beer. A man slides next to me and insists I try an apple martini, stating that I should always trust a gay man. And then compliments my shoes/belt/purse matching skills. Oooh, friend #2- let me buy you a martini.

The boys notice that Jose is not wearing a tie, as was his trade off for not wearing Adidas sneakers with a suit. The boys are jealous, and strip off their ties in this small victory for all domesticated men.

We eat all the food at the cocktail hour. ALL OF IT. We talk about football and curse the Gods for our misfortune in fantasy league. We take shots and tell bad jokes… because we can dammit. It’s not our wedding.

Reception- we eat lots of steak and drink lots of drinks. We dance, systematically worse as the night goes on. Jose and Lou clear the dance floor for the one Latin song played. Kirlin takes off his shirt and does the worm, almost successfully. Cake is served, and I love cake. I eat mine and anyone else’s at my table who is not currently sitting in their seat. (Five, to be exact) I leave them the icing as a courtesy.

The rest of the night pretty much followed as you’d expect- everyone drinking and eating until we could no longer fit into our already ill-fitting clothing and announcing that every song played was our favorite song and baby we just gotta work it out on the dance floor. And did we think we were cute! And charming. And funny. Not at all drunk, just totally freaking amazing.

Successful wedding? Well I know I had fun. Just ask my liver.

But in the end, it wasn’t my happiest day. That title is reserved for the day I scarfed down half a pizza while wearing a big white dress, and giggled like a five year old girl in Disney world while I said my vows. That was my happiest day.

Other peoples weddings, those are the fun days. The remember when we did that? Now lets go make out in the corner and dance like it’s prom night days. Let’s get dressed up, stay out late, eat good food and drink too much. Let’s go see people we haven‘t seen in ages and meet new ones who are equally amazing. Let’s go! It’s going to be a great party.  

I love those days.

A week in the life

Among the emails I get from my blog, most are questions about how to write this or that or some other thing that will make its way into a mailbox. (Eventually I will answer those.)

But all of them end pretty much the same way- is your life always this ridiculous?

The short answer is… well yes my entire existence is a continuous cycle of unfortunate and comical events that could only happen in a low budget MTV movie. But usually not in the grand way that I write about- like contemplating life under a bench in a bridal store or threatening my dog with a chicken costume.

Usually, in any given day, everything goes pretty much as planned. I go to work, I go to school, I go home. But somewhere in there during the day, something stupid happens. And I mean seriously insanely stupid.

Anyone that sees me on a daily basis knows that I plan EVERYTHING. I use an old school planner and a pen and I write down every little thing that needs to happen in whatever given day, in hopes of keeping at least the illusion of control over my life.

For the most part, it’s a complete failure. So here I give you seven random days out of my planner- and the events that happened with them. Enjoy.  

Friday, August 12: Mail out all the wedding crap to the resort

I take two giant boxes full of favors and napkins and really just an amazing array of worthless crap to the post office to mail out for my wedding. I decide that even though Friday is “jeans day” I will wear 5 inch heels with my jeans. As I stumble with my boxes into the post office by my office (also known as the middle of effing no where) and announce my intentions to mail giant boxes to another country, every postal worker in the office comes to see just what the hell is going on. Seeing as there are cows across the street… there were a total of three employees.

One takes the boxes. One opens up a very large instruction manual on international mailings. The third turns on what may be the very first computer ever created.

Two hours later, I leave with seriously screaming feet and a sneaking suspicion that my crap may end up in the Amazon.

Sunday August 14: Dinner with Jose

Jose and I decide to go out to dinner. I give myself strict instructions to be home and in bed by 11pm because I have many many things to do on Monday morning.

Jose and I decide to call friends to join us. Friends come and have drinks. We have more drinks. We laugh and talk and drink drink drink drink drink. So fun! So exciting! Yay! This night with never end!

And then I ask that most dangerous question that leads to regrettable decisions, public urination, and a general loss of inhabitions, morals, and any rational thought process.

Shots?

Monday August 15: 9am- pick up legal docs at the courthouse. Go early before it gets stupid busy.

At 9am I slam my alarm clock into the nearest wall and scream in languages that may or may not actually exist.

Two hours later, I wake up. I am convinced that I am dying, have already died, or will be dying very soon. I hug the toilet and curse at yesterday Jessica for not remembering that the day after drinks is not as easy as it used to be.

On the way to the courthouse I get pulled over for expired tags.

On the way home from the courthouse I wait in traffic for 45 minutes while watching a dog run down 695. Apparently he was in someones car and decided that today was the day, and he was getting the hell out.

Go dog go….

Tuesday, August 23: Just effing survive

My entire car starts bouncing around like a Mexican jumping bean while I’m sitting in it at lunch. I am immediately angry as I really don’t have time for engine problems. I get out of the car to look at- well I really don’t know what I thought I was going to do. I’m not a damn mechanic. So anyways I get out of the car and… cheese and crackers it’s the freaking ground. I’m now standing/falling in a parking lot holding onto a Yaris while wearing a pencil skirt and stilettos in the middle of an earthquake.

Freaking brilliant.

Wednesday, August 24: Write thank you notes

I write all the thank you notes for all the nice things that people have sent. I go to the printer to print envelopes. The printer wants ink. Needy bitch.

I go to the store to buy ink. The printer does not like it. I download software to fix my ailing printer. No dice. I have an epiphany… and see myself 20 minutes later screaming obscenities at the printer while throwing it off my third floor balcony. I decide to give up while I’m ahead.

Thursday, August 25: Check USPS tracking for crap mailed to the resort.

I check the tracking numbers for my boxes and see that they are sitting in Florida because of the hurricane wrecking havoc on the Atlantic ocean. I call the postal service, who as a whole seem shockingly unconcerned with my boxes of useless crap and can offer no timeline for delivery other than "not today".

Stupid weather. Stupid boxes. 

Grr.

Saturday, August 27: First day of class

It’s the first day of a new semester, and the first day of school never loses its charm. I have my new pens and pencils and calculator and backpack and all my books. Lots and lots of books in my backpack that threaten to topple me over in a strong gust of wind.

I get to my math class, and I pull out my books.

My anatomy and physiology books- also known as the books for the class that is NOT happening today.

So there you have it- lots of days, lots of stupid things. 

It’s a miracle that I survived childhood. 

Why I'll be a horrible parent

When you start talking about getting married, you start talking about having babies. And oh baby, do I love babies! 

They’re cute! They’re soft! They’re cuddly! And BONUS- I can send them back to their mommies when those diapers start to smell suspiciously stinky. Oh those little drops of heaven, who wouldn’t want one?

 

But now that the baby talk has a glimmer of seriousness behind it, I’m beginning to question my slightly (completely) outlandish parenting skills. While I’d like to say I’m in some hilarious state of panic over this completely nonexistent situation, I have to say that I frankly just don’t care. I’m like 97% sure that there are people out there who are way more dysfunctional than me popping out future criminals at a rate that puts bunnies to shame.

That being said, my future gremlins have a least a slight chance of becoming semi-functional members of society. It’s Jose. Let me explain by using our dogs as an example.

MEET THE DOGS

Scout

Big, fluffy, stupid. Ever loyal, scared of everything, extremely emotional. Inside that massive noggin of his are two brain cells viciously fighting to the death in a WWE-style cage match. He’s pretty much like the worst girlfriend you’ve ever had.

Sadie

Tiny, angry, evil. Cute as she is bad. Always aloof, hates everything. She’ll cuddle with you just long enough to make you think she likes you, and then she’ll fart on your bed. She’s exactly like that total douche bag you dated in college. 

CRIME

No matter what the circumstances for whatever it is that Scout may be doing, he gets in trouble.  Doesn’t matter if Satan, Hitler, and Sarah Palin are all at the front door- you better not bark. And so what if Jose left half a pizza in a semi-open box on the living room floor? No excuse- don’t even think about eating it. All crimes are equal in the book of Jose.

When Sadie does something wrong, my response is based solely on my anticipated need to actually do something about it. For example, I couldn’t possibly care less if Sadie bites Scout. He looks like a deranged Muppet character, he’s kind of a pain in the ass, and he probably deserved some chompers to the backside anyways.  Bite away little lady.

But if she were to bite the creepy neighborhood guy that always knows EXACTLY when I’m coming home and eerily knows my name without me ever actually giving it to him…. Well then we have a problem. As happy as I’d be to witness my little monster take a hunk out of his cankels, (yes I said cankels) I would probably have to apologize profusely and deal with insurance claims and hospitals and…. Well that just sounds like a lot of unnecessary work. I hate work.

So I tend to discourage the biting of people, no matter how much I may enjoy it.

There are also seemingly bad behaviors that I not only condone, but I downright encourage.

Sometimes, just sometimes, that little hellion is just too much for even me to deal with. She screams like a banshee, she farts like an old man, and she likes to stare at me for hours on end. It’s disturbing. So when I’m ready to kick her fluffy tail I throw her in the car and take her to moms house. I hear that actual parents do this quite often, so that gives me a sliver of hope.

Sadie loves to go to moms house. She gets lots of snacks and attention, for a little while. But once all the excitement calms down, Sadie prepares her special gift for mom and dad. She sneaks away, up the stairs, into mom and dads room and, well...

she runs upstairs and she shits on the carpet.

Just drops a load right there inside the bedroom door. 

It's painfully obvious when she’s done it because afterwards she comes barreling down the stairs with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth like a cracked-out spider monkey and runs a few victory laps around the house. At this point in the production dad is shockingly still surprised that Sadie would ever crap in his bedroom. Mom ever so gently reminds dad that Sadie does this all the time and he should really. Really. Seriously. Close the $#@!*&% bedroom door. 

Obviously this situation is just too delicious to let go of, the entertainment value is extraordinary. So I highly encourage Sadie’s carpet-crapping hobby at mom and dads house.

PUNISHMENT

All of Scouts punishments are exactly the same- go to your kennel. As much as Scout loves his little home, he hates being sent there involuntarily. While excruciatingly mundane, I have to say it is quite effective. Now when Scout barks at the door, he puts himself in his kennel for about 5 minutes as his own repentance. 

Bark, run, sulk. Weird dog.

When Sadie does something that requires reprimanding, I’m left with very few options to get the job done. Smack her on the nose and she’ll pee on the carpet. Banish her to her kennel and she’ll scream like a banshee.

Never heard the Shiba Scream? Here’s a lovely example for you. I dare you to watch more than 10 seconds at full volume:

Screaming Shiba

Painful, right? And totally not worth it. 

So depending on how motivated I am to catch Sadie after she climbs on the coffee table to drink my iced tea, I may not do anything at all. Or…. I’ll embarrass the crap out of her.

Prideful little dogs require special treatment, so as punishment I force Sadie into ill-fitting dog clothes for my own amusement. And then I take pictures.

She's too embarrassed to scream and draw attention to herself, and if she pees then she's stuck in a wet chicken costume. 

I win.

 So there you have it- dysfunctional dog owner equals horrendous parent. 

Think that’ll stop me?

Not a chance!

The Fighting Bears

Oh, the changing of the name. In the world of modern brides, there are just so many damn choices. Keep my name? Hyphenate it? Maybe just go balls-out and take the boy’s name altogether. It’s just too much to think about. So up until this point, I’ve avoided the thought process like the bubonic plague. I find that the best way to solve problems is to avoid them until they go away. Or blow up. Whichever comes first.

  

But that little wedding app I picked up (Also known as the neurotic bride app) just loves to remind me that it’s time to start gathering up all those legal documents for the big name change. Every day… ding ding! You have 62… 61… ONLY 60… DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING! Wedding! Wedding! Ding Ding DING!

Ugh, quiet down crazy. You’re more pressed than I am.

But what if I don’t want to give it up? Anyone that knows me knows that I’m Hartnett. There are a few people out there that don’t actually know my first name- I’m just Hartnett. So what happens when I change it? Who am I to force those unsuspecting souls to actually learn my first name? Poor things. And let’s be honest, I don’t look like a Gonzales. I look like an angry Irish-Italian who occasionally drinks excessively and has been known to possess the temper of a caged mountain lion. That’s a Hartnett for you.

I’ve tried to convince Jose to change his name instead. Who doesn’t want to be a Hartnett? Dad will be happy to tell you the family history of the (not even a little) famous “Fighting Bears”.

Is it dad’s story time? Okay. Dad’s story time. I called him to get the story right:

“Aaaaah the HARTNETTS! The warrior bears- that what they are! Epic in battle. Feared by all. The men were men, and the women were men too. MEN. That’s the Hartnetts!”

Well, the Hartnett’s are really remembered as the raging drunks that stripped down naked and ran into battle waving flags over their heads. Fighting bears is actually…. Flag bearers. (Freakishly. True. Story.) Somehow that one got lost in translation. We like the bears better, so we stick with that.

Anyways, I’ve tried to convince the boy that Jose Hartnett is a perfectly acceptable name- in fact; most men would be honored to take that name. He should feel privileged to be invited into the family of fighting bears and take the name with gratitude. And besides, Gonzales is such a difficult name to sign. With the “L” next to the ‘E” and a “Z” thrown in there- nobody knows how to write a cursive “Z” anyways. Lose the name- join the Hartnett’s.

He’s not buying it.

So, here we are. The app is bleeping away, and blow up time has come. Gotta change the name. I print all the paperwork. I read all the name changing stuff. It’s boring stuff. I hate this crap.

I attempt to practice my new name on paper, but I suck at signatures. My bank already calls on a regular basis to question my signature at various stores. Usually it’s Lisa, the older lady that probably calls just for amusement. I love her.

Jessica? It’s Lisa at the bank.

Hiii-eeeeee Lisa! Long time no talk! I thought you forgot about me. What’d I buy now?

You went to a gas station in Frederick, Target in Owings Mills, and Macys in Columbia.

Yup.

All today?

All today.

And you signed with your left hand how many times?

Maybe twice. I can’t remember.

You went to three different cities in one day?

Yes- I get around.

Oh hush now!

I know, I’m a train wreck. Charity case. Now take pity and erase the charges, and I promise not to tell.

On second thought, maybe I can just get away with the same signature. And I may be a Gonzales, but my future-babies will hear the story of the glorious flag bearers. No- fighting bears. Yes, the glorious fighting bears.

Hartnett forever!

A Deacon, a world traveler, and a social leper. No good can come from this night.

Going to church. It’s not exactly on the top of every man’s to do list.

Convincing Jose that we not only had to go to church but also talk about feelings with complete strangers was going to be about as easy as asking him to give up his left testicle to science. In the end I used the “Girl stands in front of the TV while football is on to ask an intoxicated man for something he would never agree to do” tactic. (See blog post “Math, Church, and other confusing things”.) As well as this tactic works, it has unfortunately led to the first rule in our marriage:

Thou shall not hold me responsible for things I may agree to while heavily intoxicated and blinded by ESPN

I’m still working on a loop hole to this rule.

So anyways the time has come for us to meet with the Deacon. I made sure I set the date out at least 30 days from when I contacted the Deacon, to allow Jose the time to process the man steps for acceptance of woman-trickery. It’s pretty much like any grieving process:

1.       Denial and Isolation

Jose says he did not agree to this and we are not going. He then locks himself in his office with his comic books for many hours.

2.       Anger at the she-devil and heavy drinking

Once emerged from his man cave, Jose is angry that he has been fooled by a she-devil woman and her witch-like trickery. He finds comfort in the company of beer, bars, and man friends who have succumbed to similar fates.

3.       Bargaining with things that will never actually happen. Ever.

Next comes the offering of gifts, praise, and promises of a varied array of chores that will be done if we do not have to go to Church. Everyone involved in this situation knows that none of these things will ever actually happen in this or any other lifetime.

4.       Depression and pouting

Jose is sad. He does not want to go to Church. He wants to play video games and watch football and read comic books. Epic loss of fun time is imminent.

5.       Hostile acceptance

Finally, after many days, Jose accepts his fate. He will go to Church, but he will not be happy about it.

So, okay, here we go. I tell Jose that we are meeting the Deacon at his house and give him the address. Jose looks at the address and decides that the Deacon lives in a horrific area home to drug dealers, ex-convicts, and homicidal maniacs. He warns that if we end up chopped in tiny pieces in the basement of a serial killer it will be entirely my fault. I am now terrified that I have made a terrible decision and prepare myself for the horror that awaits us.

Thirty minutes later we drive into a gated community in Catonsville. At a stop sign we watch deer prance through a nearby field while neighbors stand in their front yards and chat. Perfectly manicured yards meet up to long driveways with very expensive cars occupying the space. Clearly, the drug dealers and serial killers are doing well in this economy.

Next comes the exchange of awkward social graces. Awkward because I never really learned the correct way to say hello to anyone- I still pretty much act like a 12 year old being forced to meet dad’s work buddies. Hand shake? Or is that just for guys? Do I hug you? Kiss on the cheek? Well now I’ve just completely taken over your personal space. How about I just stand over here to the side and give a meek wave hello while intently staring at my flip flops. Okay that’ll set a nice stand off-ish tone for the evening and bonus: now you and your wife realize that I’m a social leper.

We all sit down in the living room, the Deacon in an arm chair and Jose and I on a sofa that is obviously made for giants. My feet swing aimlessly looking for the floor. Jose begins an assault on massive pillows that threaten to swallow him into the sofa. The Deacon either doesn’t notice or is perfectly aware of the sofa’s Venus fly trap abilities.

The Deacon pulls out his notebook and asks about our life history. I start.

“I grew up in Columbia, and I went to school there, and…. Well that’s pretty much it.”

I hand him my little baptism certificate and he draws a line under the one sentence for my life history. Pathetic.

 

He then asks about Jose. I’ll paraphrase for the sake of space, writers cramp, and the sliver of ego I’m hoarding:

“I was born in Russia…. Then lived in Angola…. Then traveled to Peru for school… back to Angola… left because of a civil war… then to Rawanda…. Pulled out of Rawanda by the US Government because of another civil war….”

Jose hands the Deacon the notarized letter from his father stating that they do not have his baptism certificate because it was lost when they were escaping the genocide and civil war in Rawanda.

“My father worked for Catholic relief services…. I volunteered there in high school…. I went to a Catholic college…. Oh did I mention I met mother Theresa?”

OH MY GOD. The Deacon is in love with Jose. He has an entire page written on his history- right under my tiny line. I succumb to the sofa and literally die of embarrassment.

Next the Deacon pulls us each aside individually to ask the necessary questions about if we’ve been married before and yadda yadda yadda.  He takes Jose and hands me the TV remote. Real housewives? Jersey shore? South Park??? I flip through channels and work myself into a panic while cursing the TV networks for not showing ANYTHING appropriate of watching while in the house of a man of God. I decide on the weather channel. Naturally while it’s my turn, Jose watches sports- which he and the Deacon then discuss for an excruciating amount of time.

The rest of the evening went pretty much this way- me sinking even farther into despair and embarrassment, which in turn made me more awkward and liable to do things like trip over large pieces of furniture or ramble on aimlessly on subjects that have absolutely nothing to do with anything that anyone else is talking about at the moment. It kind of like when your mouth just keeps going while your brain is screaming FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST SHUT YOUR FREAKING PIE HOLE BEFORE YOU DO ANY MORE DAMAGE YOU DIM WIT!

 Jose on the other hand was shining like the sun- and getting blindingly brighter by the second. Right up until we get into the car to leave. I crawl in like a wounded animal while he bounds into the drivers seat and says to me- “Well damn that was painful”.

Seriously? Just drive the damn car. 

The Perfect Gift

Jose's first blog post- how to impress the ladies and snag yourself a wife. 

(Double-click the video to view it on youtubes' site- it's easier to read that way)

Dad books his trip

The day I confirmed the plans for our wedding, I immediately called my dad and told him to book his trip. That was six months ago.

So a few days ago dad calls to tell me he finally called the travel agent. Usually when dad calls it’s because he’s bored and wants to badger me about something asinine. Since retiring to the beach a few years ago, he occupies his time by working on his tan and finding new and interesting ways to bring me severe mental discomfort. He gets a lot of joy from this hobby, and he has a very high success rate.

The problem with dad is that you never actually know when he’s lying. I’ve come to realize that when I really really need him to be lying, like for the sake of the tiny ounce of sanity I am violently hoarding in hopes that I may escape this unharmed- that’s usually when he’s telling the truth.

You don’t believe that he’s driving around town in a Barney costume? Well just look out the window- because there’s a purple dinosaur in a pickup truck waiting outside your house. How about buying a life size Marvin the Martian figurine at a flea market to display in the game room? Yup. It’s there. So obviously any conversation with the man is liable to send you into convulsions. Especially when the conversation is about your wedding.

Anyways, dad starts the call by excitedly telling me he made sure the travel agent knew he was the father of the bride. Numerous times. Very very very many times during the conversation. He also likes to talk in a loud, sing-song type of way while on the phone, kind of like Oprah. He demonstrates how he relayed this information to the travel agent in his best Oprah voice.

Do you who I aaaaaaaa-mmmm? I’m the father of the briiiiii-deeee…. I cut dad short and tell him the travel agent was warned in advance about his hobby. One point for me.

Dad switches gears to his fall back routine that I like to call “I’m not talking with you, I’m talking at you”. This is an immediate win. At this point in the call I usually begin pacing the house and/or pouring myself a drink and wondering if he’s still too young to hide away in a retirement home. (He is, and he often reminds me of it.)

So for now I’ll just have to study these conversations and find a loop hole in his strategy.

I have yet to find it. 

What should I wear to the wedding…..?

You should wear pants

I think I’ll wear shorts

I need you to wear pants. I need you to wear tan pants.

I’ve got some shorts, that’ll look pretty fancy.

Please wear pants. …..   Dad!      ……         Pants!   …….        I’m begging you.

You know there’s this shop down the street. A clothing shop.

Do not go there.

Like a vintage clothes shop. My buddy went there.

Do not go to that store. (panic)

Bought himself a camel skin coat.

A what?

A caaaaaaamel skiiiiiiiin coat! (Oprah)

Do not buy that coat (extreme mental discomfort, slight eye twitching)

Paid fifty cents.

Fifty cents? There’s a reason for that. Do not buy a fifty cent coat. (searching for asprin)

Pretty slick coat…. I could wear that.

You will never wear that coat because I will burn it first. (giving up on asprin, looking for vodka)

I think I’ll go by there tomorrow. Get myself a camel skin coat.

Are we actually having a conversation, or are you just talking in the general direction of the phone?

The conversation continued in this way for another 30 minutes, and spanned such topics as his dating life and a recent awkward trip to a restaurant that turned out to be a gay bar.

So anyways, dad has booked his trip. If you happen to see a man at the resort in cargo shorts and a camel skin coat, be sure to say hello.  

Save the date, for free cake! How to make kick-ass save-the-date cards that won't get lost on the fridge.

This blog has given me the chance to meet lots of other brides to be, who email me their own stories of wedding planning disasters and questions about my plans as well. After my blog on etiquette I got numerous emails on save-the-dates, so I thought it was worth posting a little blog about them here.

Should your save the date match your wedding theme?

Well, that’s up to you. Personally I think the save-the-date stands on its own, so you can go a little bananas with it. You’re mailing them out well before you have the bulk of your plans set in stone anyways.

What is the layout for a save-the-date?

About 99.9% of save the dates I see follow this format:

It’s basically a business card glued to a sheet magnet, and I don’t recommend it. It’s just too small to layout all the information you need, and it’ll get lost on the fridge. They’re also more expensive since you have to pay for all the magnets, which you’ll have to attach to the cards yourself.  That in itself is no small feat- it once took me over 2 hours to perfectly align 250 magnets to little business cards for a save-the-date order, and I can never get back those 2 hours of my life.

Your best bet is postcard sized cardstock, and skip the magnet. The larger size gives you more room to put the important stuff on the card. If you’re a super stealthy tiger bride on a budget, I’d skip the picture too. It’s cute, but pricy. And I don’t need your smiling faces staring me down when I’m raiding the fridge at midnight for snacks.

   

What information goes on a save-the-date?

Glad you asked.

Who

What

When

Website (If you’re using one)

“Formal invitation to follow”

Put all that stuff on the card in that order, and you're good to go:

Save the date- for free cake!

Judy and Mike

are saying "I do!"

June 10, 2011

Formal invitation to follow

If half or more of your guests will need to travel for the wedding, I'd recommend adding the location as well. 

Judy and Mike's dreams will come true

at Cinderellas Castle when they say "I do!"

Walt Disney World, Florida

June 10, 2011

Formal invitation to follow

Cheesy, right? That's my niche. 

Anyways if you can’t fit all that on the card, then pick something bigger.

What did your save the dates look like and did you make them yourself?

I designed my save the dates using an online printing company. There are so many to choose from you can honestly just Google it. Find one that allows you an insane amount of freedom with font and placement. You really just want the card stock from the company. Save-the-dates are super easy to design, so have a little faith in your abilities and just design them yourself. It’s cheaper, and you can buy lots of flip-flops for the summer with all the cash you'll save.

For our save the dates, I needed something a little different. This is a destination wedding, so I need my guests to ACTUALLY READ THE FREAKING CARD. Honestly when I get a save the date I read the names and the date, and then if it’s a magnet I use it to stick NFL schedules to the fridge. If I need more information than that, then something on that little card better scream it at me. It better be bright, colorful, or just different in some way. You want me to go to your wedding website? Then it better be in a large enough font for me to actually read the web address.

So after Jose laid down the sledge hammer on my first four designs, I came up with this one:

It’s a 4x8 inch card, almost the size of a plane ticket. Jose was very clear that he did not want anything cheesy, hot pink or generally girlie and/or bizarre, so I had to come up with some other way to grab peoples attention. The odd-sized card was a good fit. 

It not only lists the standard information, but also tells guests where the wedding is. I added this info on the side of the card to make it stand on its own since I really needed my guests to see it. It took me all of an hour to design, and my guests really liked them.

So now you know the steps: Google, postcard, important info, attention-grabbing. That wasn’t too painful, right?

Happy Planning J

Prepare for battle. We’re going to David’s Bridal.

So after my triumphant purchase of a reception dress, I was all too happy to show it off. I loved it so much that I decided I didn’t need a big white dress- this was the only wedding dress I needed.

That is, until, Jose’s mother saw it.

If you’ve never met Jose’s mother, I’ll be the first to tell you that she is a very lovely woman. She’s an amazing cook and my ever present translator over holiday dinners, where I am awkwardly the only one at the table who does not speak Spanish. That’s also when I tend to catch up on my drinking.

But none of that matters now, because she’s about to become the mother in law. My sole purpose in life is no longer testing the limits of my own liver or researching the possibility of hitting puberty after the age of 20. It’s making sure that little Peruvian woman is absolutely in love with me. Forget the wedding vows, seriously. If his mother hates you then a slow painful death will sound heavenly compared to facing her at every family event you attend for the rest of your miserable little life. Make sure mom adores you. That is your new purpose in life.  

So when Mamma Rosa sees the wedding dress and asks…. This is for the wedding? Well that dress very well may be for the wedding, but do you know what you say? You say No mamma Rosa of course not! This is just some dress. That I bought. Because I need a white dress for some occasion other than my own wedding. Honestly I don’t even know why I showed you this. I have a dress. It’s a big white dress. Where? It’s… not…. here- it’s at the store! I need to pick it up. Yup. I need to do that. Frick.

Crisis adverted, but I suddenly feel nauseous and run for the bathroom. Once there I succumb to an EPIC PANIC ATTACK and proceed with literally banging my head against the wall while verbally abusing myself. Frick frick frick! Seriously what were you thinking? You don’t have a big white dress and you can’t get a big white dress because you have now gone down in history as the only person dumb enough to be banned from a bridal store. This is tragic.

Mamma Rosa wants to see a big white wedding dress and you’d better find one quick. Now put on your big girl panties and march your happy tail into any store that sells ANYTHING resembling a wedding dress and buy it. NOW.

This calls for a drastic change in plans. I need a dress in a hurry. I have to go to Davids Bridal.

For lack of better words, David’s Bridal literally scares the crap out of me. It’s full of screaming, delusional, and quite possibly homicidal girls tearing through isles with arms full of dresses in giant plastic bags. Do not come between a girl and her dress unless you have military combat training or suicidal tendencies. You see, wedding dress overload short circuits their brains and morphs these otherwise logical and well-adjusted ladies into half crazed murderous zombie-brides. And those helper women that work there are always stalking you around like a dirty old car salesman. How am I supposed to be a stealthy tiger with you following me around asking about my cup size? That’s not helping me, that’s giving me a complex about how unconvincing my push up bra must look.

Helper women, homicidal bridesmaids, and zombie brides. No thank you. Or… face a lifetime of angry mamma Rosa. She could curse at me in no less than six languages.

I choose the lesser of evils and put on the big girl panties. I give myself numerous pep talks. I procrastinate and fall into the “circle of despair”. Eventually, I get out of the house and into my car, and drive to that industrial sized warehouse stocked full of crazy women fighting over white and poof and glitter…. I go to David’s Bridal.

My trip to David’s Bridal was surprisingly calm. I went on a random Tuesday afternoon to avoid the vultures. I marched into the store with my head high and refused to make eye contact with any of the women sitting behind the helper desk. On a side note, I’ve noticed that if you walk into a store and look like you know what you’re doing, people tend to leave you alone.  

So anyways I marched into the store while replaying in my mind a vision of the perfect helper lady. She came in the form of a tiny overweight woman wearing an animal print jacket and lime green eye shadow, cursing at tiaras that would not sit properly on a high shelf that she could barely reach. She was wearing a toxic amount of perfume, rings on every finger, and gold flats. She was 100% Italian and quite possibly drunk. I tend to stick with my own kind, and this chick was perfect.

I adjusted the tiaras for her and explained my terrible situation, my fear of wedding dresses, and the possible nightmarish outcomes of not presenting my soon-to-be mother in law with a proper wedding dress. She laughed so hard she had to sit down. Seeing as she was drunk before noon, I had to help her get back up.

Drunk Italian helper lady told me to sit quietly and not touch anything while she ran off to find dresses, not once asking about my size, preference, or the ever important “wedding theme”. I was thankful for that last part seeing as I was lacking any theme outside of “survival”.

Ten minutes later she comes back with one dress, just one dress, which I immediately hate. She gives me a look that clearly states “When I want your opinion I will give it to you” and finds a mirror to put in the biggest dressing room they have. Then she shoves me and the dress in the room with a stern warning about the repercussions of not putting on the dress.

I hate this dress. I cross my arms and pout while reincarnating the perfect “authority bashing teenager leaning on a wall while intensely staring at a corner”. It was surprisingly good considering I haven’t used it since my mother wouldn’t let me go to HFStival when I was 15. I scowl at the dress and blow raspberries at the door.  Drunk Italian helper lady bangs on the door and repeats her warning. I admit defeat and get into the dress in much the same way a 4 year old puts on a school uniform. Hostile. 

Wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing fits like a glove. And it’s on sale? Oh you’re kidding me. “I told you so” from the other side of the door. Never doubt an Italian woman.  

Once again triumphant, I skip out of the dressing room with my prize as the zombie brides peer over mounds of dresses to catch a glimpse of my glorious dress. Straight to the register where I happily pay an obscenely low amount of money and daydream of all the shoes I can buy with my extra cash while absently signing my receipt. I hug my pretty dress like a carnival prize in its giant white bag while twirling towards the car as bluebirds and bunnies and deer appear from seemingly nowhere to follow me and sing a cheerful little melody in perfect harmony. I take one last peek at home before carefully tucking my prize away in a closet where Jose will never find it. It was the perfect day.

And in fact, Jose never did find the dress. He did however find the pictures of me in the dress on my phone about a month later.

And that was the abrupt end of the glorious and short life of wedding dress number two. 

Who is that behind the curtain? It's mom.

Carol, before her name legally changed to "Mom"

So it’s mother’s day, which means I should be invading my mother’s house right now. For me this just involves getting out of bed, putting my face on, and getting in the car. For mom it means cleaning the house, buying food, cooking the food, playing hostess, and possibly not sitting down for the entire day. This is pretty typical for every mother, and it’s kind of backwards if you ask me. So today my mother is off at some festival, and I’ll meet her later for pizza. It’s her day, that’s what she wants to do, so that’s exactly what she’ll get. 

I’ve learned that every mom has her niche. I know some amazing scout leader-moms, moms that can sew wedding dresses, moms that can bake 50 cupcakes in less than an hour. My mom is none of these. You’d be hard pressed to find her clamoring towards the kitchen to bake for the masses.

My mom is the “I’m going to do something for you and you won’t even know it” mom. I didn’t realize this until a few years ago, when all those magical childhood memories come into focus and you realize that someone was behind the curtain. It was mom.

Here’s how she does it. Many years ago mom heard about a family that was struggling financially, and was hard-pressed to have a Merry Christmas. Mom decides to help. Things mom does not do: she does not ask for donations, make flyers with their names plastered on it, or ask them for a list of toys the children want. In other words, she does not embarrass them. Mom just goes to the store and buys the toys, she discreetly gives them to the family, and she tells no one.

Or a few years later, when she found out a friend had cancer. Mom is a true dog lover, and had trained one of her prized champion herding dogs to function as a therapy dog. Hearing that her friend would spend hours at the hospital receiving chemotherapy, she gave her the dog. Just asked her to stop by the house one day and convinced the friend that she would be doing mom a tremendous favor if she took the dog home.

You don’t just give away a champion show dog, especially one that you love with all your heart. But she had a friend in need- and that friend needed a dog who could sit by her side while in the hospital. In mom’s eyes, it was just a perfect fit.

Cheyenne, our favorite girl.

The best memory I have of mom’s magic was when she bought our house, and I was four years old. Here’s how the story went in my eyes:

Mom says we’re going to look for a new house. We go to many houses until we find the perfect one. There is a yard and a park out back. There is a big basement for all my toys. There is a perfect bedroom with a pretty tree outside the window. This is my room. I must have this house.

I go to school, and I draw pictures of the house. I dream up stories about all the adventures I will have in the park behind the house. I decide that I will have a dog at this house, and she will sleep with me in my bed and we will wake up in the morning and look outside at our tree.

We move- into an apartment. We move out of our townhouse and into an apartment. This sucks. I draw more pictures and tell more stories. I whine excessively. I tell her I want to live in that house and I want a white poster bed with Rainbow Brite sheets and I want a dog and I want that park. I interrogate her about the house- for six months.

My whining pays off. Mom says we can visit the house again and if my poster bed with Rainbow Brite sheets is there, then we can stay.

We go to the house. It’s empty. Completely empty. I sulk my way up the stairs. I go to the bedroom and open the door- and there is my bed. My brand new bed and Rainbow Brite sheets and curtains and a dresser and EVERYTHING. We move in that weekend, and soon after we get a dog.

So here’s what really happened:

Mom puts the townhouse up for sale. As the agent is installing the sign out front, a man drives by and asks to see the house. He buys it that day. Mom frantically looks for a new house, and finds one. It’s a closed bid, which means everyone who wants it submits an envelope with a bid on the house and the owners decide which to take.

The owners take mom’s bid, but they’re new house isn’t ready. They rent the house back from mom for six months. Since our townhouse has sold, we have to move into an apartment until the house is ready.

She lives with a whining and badgering four year old in a tiny apartment for six agonizing months.

Mom gets the keys to the house and orders that damn bed I’ve been screaming about. She asks a friend to help her set it up. They turn the room into the perfect little girl hideaway, and leave the rest of the house empty.

She picks me up from school, takes me to the house, and waits at the bottom of the stairs for me to find my perfect bedroom. She waited six months to stand at those stairs.

I have a million other memories of Mom’s finest moments, but this will always be my favorite. She still lives in that house today, and she still has one of the many pictures I drew of it. It may be just a house, but for me it will always be the house that magically became my home.

So this mother’s day; do not let mom do the dishes, no matter how much she fights you. Maybe get her a cup of coffee. Even better- host dinner at your house. And thank her for all those things she ever did without you ever even realizing it. Because motherhood is said to be a thankless job; but it doesn't have to be.