The countdown to our wedding feels very similar to the countdown to my senior thesis-except now I have a high pressure job in marketing to contend with as well.  All I want to do is eat cheesy garlic bread and sit in my bed watching every series finale of every show ever until I cry myself to sleep.  I want to be at work when I am home, and home when I’m at work, or outside when I’m inside, and inside when I’m outside—I never feel settled or that I am doing what I need to be doing.

Basically I’m like this big raw nerve walking around with spray paint in her hair and glazed over eyes, ready to fall apart at the slightest provocation.  So I did the most logical thing a girl in my position could do: I went by myself to see Perks of being a Wallflower.  It was kind of like willingly holding my hand over a flame.  I knew I had made the right/unconscionably wrong decision to see the movie when I welled up during the Here Comes the Boom trailer and then had to get out a tissue to wipe my eyes during The Breaking Dawn Part Two trailer.

I can’t.

Remember that show Rich Bride, Poor Bride?  It’s this train wreck wedding show where a wedding planner is assigned to a couple who give the planner a list of expectations they have for their wedding—the catch is that the wedding planner doesn’t know whether the couple is rich or poor, so there is this dramatic moment where the wedding planner opens an envelope and reveals their budget.  As you can imagine, all the wedding planners that get stuck with poor brides tend to adopt this body language:

…those who can’t wed…

I’m a poor bride.  Not poor like WAHHH I’M THE 99%.  More like, we made a choice between feeding our guests and getting a DJ.  We chose food.  And an iPod.  So I’ve been tirelessly working on creating a play list for our wedding that I’m sure people will enjoy.  It’s a lot of Celine, 80′s power ballads, Beyonce, Whitney, Elton, Britney and ‘Nsync.  The dance floor is going to be a gay man’s paradise.

As amazing as the playlist is ultimately going to be, I need some help.

Which of these songs are “I have to sing along but can do it from my seat at the dinner table” songs and which are “I have a song in my heart and I just HAVE to dance” songs?

1.  Somebody to Love – Queen
2. Kiss From a Rose – Seal
3. I Will Always Love You – Whitney
4. I Want to Know What Love Is – Foreigner
5. For Once in My Life – Stevie
6. All My Life – K-Ci & Jo-Jo

THANKS

In case you were worried/wondering, yes I am still very much alive but also predictably consumed by wedding planning.  Last year at this time I hated people who said things like that—like oh poor me, I have to plan a big party where I get lots of presents and see everyone I love in one place just because someone loves me enough to commit to me forever. My wallet is too small for my fifties and my diamond shoes are too tight.  WAhhhh.

Honestly, is there anything worse than people complaining about planning their wedding?  On the outside you pretend that it doesn’t bother you—and you’re like:

But inside you’re really like:

Because in their heart they’re all:

Just kidding.  Not really.

Other things:

On Sports: Steve was a sports management major in school—his world used to revolve around sports—now it revolves around me, duh. I’m just kidding! (no, I’m not.) So when he fell in love with a girl who has always hated sports (or just pretended to like them to get a man’s attention) he knew that it would mean making some concessions.  And when I fell in love with Steve I knew that it meant that I would have to come up with a way of avoiding watching sports for as long as possible make some concessions too.  So I took a two year long sabbatical from football and grinned and bared it through baseball season.  I told him that I would start watching football again this year and so far it’s gone really well.  And by really well I mean that I almost was able to sit through 20 minutes of an Eagles game without shouting about how much I hate Michael Vick and Andy Reid.

All I want ALL I WANT is to be from a state that cares more about people than it does about football.  I would also like to be from a state that realizes that we are neither good at being humans or at playing football.

On Work: I decided last night that although I am classically an extrovert and derive a majority of my energy from being around other people, I mostly don’t like rich people and was not blessed with the patience it takes to pander to them work in a service industry.  Maybe I just want a job where I’m around a lot of people but none of them need me for anything.  So like, whatever the exact opposite of being a politician is.

On DIYing your entire wedding: Great idea!  In theory.  Also in practice.  The catch is that you have to be fully aware that planning a full wedding will take a great toll on you—be it financially, or in the case of a DIY wedding, mentally.  You have to be prepared to let DIYs consume all of the free time you have for months leading up to the wedding.  There isn’t anything I love more than crafts, I love making things, particularly paper things so I thought that DIYing my wedding would be delightful.  However, doing everything for the wedding by myself (our venue is a blank canvas and didn’t come with a single vendor/plate/table/centerpiece/linen…) has been as much a mental game as anything else.  After you’ve hand painted your 14^th candle stick and cut 34872375 corners off all your paper products you get a little stabby.

Also for what it’s worth, this morning I was thinking to myself what advice I would give other brides so I was thinking “what would I do differently if I could do it all over again?” and the only thing I could think was: “WHY WOULD I EVER WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN?”  Here is my advice: don’t be poor.

Ugh, i know what I just did.  I know.

Steve and I did about the douchiest thing two twenty-somethings can do Sunday night (besides using the term twenty-something): we checked into a hotel because our electricity had been down due to the world’s smallest storm/world’s worst power company since Saturday evening AND WE CANNOT STAND TO FESTER IN A 90 DEGREE 3^rd FLOOR APARTMENT. I know how spoiled that sounds. Almost as spoiled as all our food would have been had we not dragged it all in garbage bags into our hotel and beg to borrow a fridge.

Alas, the shame of being insufferable will never outweigh my need to be comfortable. Our power was restored sometime early Monday so we had every intention of spending a relaxing Monday night back in our own place.

As you are well aware Monday nights were specifically crafted to house hours and hours of junk TV—and by junk, I clearly mean “all my favorite shows.” So while I was a half an hour deep into what promises to be the best/worst season of the best/worst show on TV, Bachelor Pad, Steve ran through the living room, tossed Owen over his shoulder and ran back to his room muttering something about how they needed to spend some time together. Four minutes later he stumbled back into the living room looking like he had just seen a ghost to tell me that he there was a bat in his room and that Owen wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.

Not shocking.

Steve has killed nearly every animal he’s ever been in contact with so it was in the bat’s best interest that I handle his emancipation.

I’m the type of girl who loves all animals/is naïve/disregards her own welfare/believes in karma so I’ve “rescued” dozens of animals over the last twenty-five years and have a fairly good track record with animals that don’t typically like humans. Like the time that I stopped traffic to pick up a Canadian goose that had been hit on the road and couldn’t get up. Or when I saw a baby bunny on the side of the road struggling to make it up the median so I stopped, picked it up, and drove home one handed with it while it peed on my lap. Or when I picked up a bird out of our fireplace and let it go outside. And of course that time when I saw a little black blur run across the road near my old apartment and I chased it into a bush, coaxed it out with food, and took it home to live with me and Owen forever.

I wasn’t interested in keeping the bat as a pet (apparently, they often carry rabies) but I needed to get it out of the apartment safely so I took a piece of Gladware and a paper plate and scooped the little bugger off its hanging spot on the curtain rod and released it outside. The whole escapade took about three minutes but I milked the “I just saved your life” thing with Steve for about 5 more hours.

Also, I’m Batman.

As with most life changing events, moving in together has brought out the best & worst in me and Steve.

This week’s highlights:

1. “More chocolate?”

2. “If you can fix my car, I’ll clean the whole apartment. You’re better at car stuff and I’m better at cleaning.” –Steve

3. “It’s your turn to clean the litter box.” –Me

4. “I’ll give you money, can you run to Target?” –Steve

5. “Another episode of Castle?”

6. “You went to HomeGoods AGAIN? It’s ok, I guess we needed that.” –Steve

7. “I bought you a gallon and a half of milk, because I know you’ll go through it in a week.” –Steve

8. “I used your drill and installed all new cabinet handles, hung the curtains and installed the water purifier!” –Me

9. “Why didn’t you make me watch Percy Jackson sooner?” –Steve

10. “I’ll be late; I’m picking up flowers for you on my way home!” –Steve

This week’s lowlights:

1. “Where is ________ (insert anything I own)!?” –Me (OCD Steve hides all my things)

2. “DID YOU USE MY TOWEL AGAIN?” –Steve (I have no idea, they’re both white)

3. “Why is the DVR already full of Housewives shows?” –Steve

4. “WHY IS THE DVR FULL OF SPORTS!?” –Me

5. “Stop throwing the cat food on the floor!” –Steve (What? They eat it!)

6. “You’re cranky. I think someone needs to go back on the pill! …Emily?… …Emily?…” –Steve

7. “You have two and a half full closets! I have a half of one!” –Me

8. “Are you going to let me have any of my stuff on display in our apartment?” –Steve

9. “No.” –Me

10. “What’s for dinner?” –Steve (every. night.)

I’m fully convinced that there are parts of your personality that develop in middle school that never fully die. For instance, I was the only girl in my fourth grade class—things that happen at Christian schools—and all the boys in the class made up this club called the Baby Club and you had to be popular to get in it. Be popular, and talk like a baby. Like an actual goo-goo-ga-ga baby.

I can’t even.

My BFF Jac and I were the only people not allowed in the club—because he was fat (it’s ok, he’s skinny and handsome now) and I was a girl. We were both pretty desperate to be in the club so he, at the age of 11 or whatever you are in fourth grade, straight up manipulated the leaders of the club into letting him in the club by convincing them that they needed him to keep track of the comings and goings of the members of the club. Today he works in politics and runs campaigns. Shocking, right. I used a different approach—I went to the teacher and complained that the boys wouldn’t let me in the club because I was a girl and that wasn’t fair. Soon after it was mandated that girls (me) had to be allowed to join the club or the school administration would dismantle the entire Baby Club operation. And today, I’m the feminist who gets in fights with idiots men people over things they write about women in their facebook statuses.

Later in middle school, despite our best efforts, Jac and I were still losers and were dubbed the messengers of the class—constantly being sent back and forth from the popular girls table to the popular boys table carrying messages of who liked who and whatever else. One thing it taught us early on was that knowledge is power—and like the best kind of power, the kind of power that says “You can say whatever you want about me, but just remember that I know what happened behind the swing set.” Maybe it was the power that I craved more than the knowledge. Not sure, either way, I am one of the nosiest people you’ll ever meet. It’s kind of a what came first the chicken or the egg thing—was I nosy before I became the middle school messenger or am I nosy as a result?

Naturally when people move into new spaces I get upset when pictures aren’t splattered all over the internet immediately. Like WHERE do you LIVE? WHO are YOU? WHY don’t I know more about YOU? So in the spirit of a fair exchange of information, here’s our new space (after 5 days of moving in (so, like, not even close to finished)): 

Ok, I showed you mine, now show me yours.  And I promise to not use it against you.

Steve and I are now residents of Cranbury, (which is really East Windsor); it’s like saying you’re a resident of Yardley but secretly knowing that you really live in Morrisville. Friday was our big moving day. It went about as well as it could have considering I packed most of my stuff the night before.

I hauled all of my clothes up in garbage bags, Angelina style, because all my clothes were dirty. I own just enough clothes/underpants to get me through two months of outfits before I am really forced to do laundry. And of course, knowing that I would be moving into a place that has en suite laundry (is that something Americans say, or is that like a Canadian thing? I watch too much HGTV to know what’s what anymore) made me put off doing laundry even longer and led to me washing clothes in my bathroom sink. So by the time we moved, not one piece of clothing was clean. Which didn’t faze me until 11pm Friday night when I hopped out of a well deserved/needed shower and realized that I had nothing to put back on. Then 30 minutes after Steve leant me clothes I remembered that I had no idea where my toothbrush was or my hairbrush. Now, three days later, I still have no idea where my razor is. Lesson learned.

After two nearly sleepless nights I decided to drain my bank account on curtains yesterday. After perusing the isles of Target for the better part of my evening I concluded that there is very little reason that anyone should ever have a horribly decorated house. The big box stores do it all for you, all you have to do is buy coordinating sets of things: pillows to match the curtains, serving ware that goes with the napkins and make sure that every big piece of anything you buy or paint is done in a neutral color.

Clearly, the cats have adjusted to the move better than Steve or me.

Tomorrow is moving day so quite clearly I have been doing everything in my power to not actually pack. Tomorrow being moving day, means that today is officially, for all intents and purposes, the very last day of my life I will live by myself (+2 cats). I’m dealing with it well, obviously.

I know what you’re thinking: what if he dies before you? He won’t. Hutchison’s never last too long and Weans tend to go on living forever. It is what it is, but based on what I’ve seen, I’ve got the better end of the deal.

There are things that no one seems to talk about when it comes to living with someone of the opposite sex. Things like: How I need to buy all new underwear. How I need to stop leaving my cereal bowl for the cats to drink out of every day. How I should probably shower/shave more. How I need to stop leaving a Hansel and Gretel style trail of bobby pins wherever I go.

I have this new theory that whoever thinks they are poor should be made to go through the process of moving to see whether or not they actually have something to gripe about. Apparently I’m a great deal wealthier than I’ve let on. I have. So much. Stuff.

To the point that I am 17 hours away from moving and only 60% done packing.

Yikes.

I will never underestimate my ability to accumulate stuff ever again.

Things I am looking forward to:

Being able to watch things like The Killing and Law and Order SVU (again) because a) I now have a great TV and can afford real cable and 2) because you simply cannot watch those kind of shows when you live by yourself in a first floor apartment with three separate locks and a chain on your front door.

Not having to eat every meal on my coffee table. Ok, that’s a lie. That’s a luxury.

Assuming that we’ll take one car when going to different places together. Are you driving? Pick me up. I’ll drive to your place and then you can drive and I’ll drive home after that.

Having plants. Because heaven knows I can’t keep a plant alive on my own for more than 20 minutes.

Living so close to a train station that actually goes to NY! Where you at tothesquareinch?

Having someone to lug the kitty litter in. Those 35lb boxes are no joke.

Living a bit closer to my parents (selfish!)(true!).

Real couches that I didn’t upholster with drop cloth.

Having Steve be like: Here’s $200, go get stuff we need at Target (no, for real, this happened the other day (best day of my life!)).

Living less than one mile away from said target.

Ugh, ok, I’ll stop blogging and attend to the 40% of things that I-wouldn’t-miss-if-I-lost-them packing I should have done a week ago.

I get concerned when people say things like: “well, look up the biblical definition of ___,” or “the biblical definition of (a word) is ___.” Because unless you’ve found an actual discrepancy while translating the Bible from Hebrew or Greek, if the “biblical definition” of a word is different than the actual definition of a word then you should really use a different word to describe what you’re describing.

God’s pissed at you for putting words in his mouth, by the way.

We went to see Rock of Ages tonight.

There are times when I think I’m such a badass: I’m moving in with Steve. I get HBO now. In my room. And then there are times when I sit in the theater literally imploding into myself while Tom Cruise wears a jewel encrusted cod piece and Bryan Cranston gets tied up with rosary beads.

There was a moment (and by “moment,” I mean an uninterrupted 45 minute period) that I ended up sitting/laying/cowering in the fetal position after Tommy mimicked masturbating on stage to Pour Some Sugar on Me (formally one of my favorite guilty pleasure songs).

There are a lot of things you miss while growing up in Christian Schools—deciphering extremely sexually charged lyrics from songs about sugar addiction is something that doesn’t really click til you’re 25 and terrified as you watch the song be illustrated by a half naked Jerry Mcguire.

I know. You totally knew what that song was about. Joke’s on me.

Personally, I don’t understand how a movie filmed mostly between Malin Akerman’s thighs got a PG-13 rating but I guess the dividing line between PG-13 & R must be as thin as the fabric that divides dry sex and real sex.

I spent a solid 65% of that movie feeling uncomfortable and audibly saying with the strength of one million moms behind me: “SORRY YOU BROUGHT YOUR KIDS” to the couple three rows in front of me who brought their 11 year old son and 6 year old daughter to see the movie.

Because I love shaming people.

One thing I can never be shamed enough for is my love of Tom Cruise. The crazier he gets, the more devoted I get. I was one of six people to find the couch jumping thing endearing and one of one to not judge him based on his religion and/or marriage to Joey Potter.

Anyway, prudishness aside, whatever time I didn’t spend cowering in the theater was spent downloading most of the songs from the soundtrack, marveling at Tom Cruise’s weird body posture (like, does he have scoliosis? I don’t know), being charmed by very nearly everyone in the cast (except Russell Brand, because Russell Brand is like my 4th biggest fear right behind sea lions, Glenn Beck and animals that are bigger than I think they should be… Probably because he looks so much like a strung-out, shifty and toothy version of the Anglo-Saxon Jesus I grew up knowing/loving) and I would gladly sit/crumble through it again.

Because I am a badass. (no I’m not.)

I have a huge issue with blogger bashing sites.  Not because I believe bloggers are above reproach but because almost every blog I read that is popular enough to be sought out by the cat-loving masses has SUFFERED as a direct result.  Not monetarily.  One thing I know for sure is that the more a blog gets bashed on a forum the more likely I am to click over to that blog and hunt around for an hour or so to see what all the fuss is about.

What I mean is that as soon as someone is like: “OMG, they are so full of themselves”

Inevitably, the following post looks like: “…and then I forgot my keys and my makeup and I ran something over, I’m the WORST!”

Or, “She’s so obsessed with being married!” says the internet troll.

And the blogger’s response is always: “Everything I do is rational, down with romance; I’m a feminist, dammit!”

And then the internet troll boards are like “Ew, she doesn’t even like who she’s marrying; everything is so fake, so calculated!”

Or the blogger says: “Then I had a piece of cake”

And the trolls break out in a “she’s being so cryptic!  What’s the cake even for?” chorus.

“It was my friend’s birthday this weekend, I had so much cake, need to start eating well again.”

“OMG can you believe that snide biotch, pretending she’s so fat?!”

And then here I am thinking: “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE?” 

Let me be real real with you: my reader sucks so much right now.

At first there was this huge blogger push back when GOMI stomped through my google reader; every single post was like “OMGinternetbullyingisarealthing” and then everyone suddenly thought that the cool thing to do was respond gracefully (as if that’s EVER the cool thing to do) and take everyone’s criticisms to heart and change to be more palatable.  But all we’ve ended up with is a bunch of weird, robotic, unfeeling, over-thinking complicated and confused bloggers. 

I know it’s super selfish of me to demand that everyone go back to normal and pretend that they still lived in a day and age where they were allowed to do whatever they damn well wanted to do regardless of what yourblogsucks7 or imnotheretomakefriends69 thinks of it, but like, Imma be real selfish. 

Not everyone is going to be a fan of your blog or like what you say, so rather than trying to please everyone, can you all just try to please me and stop playing head games with yourself and just write like you did when you still thought you knew how. 

Please.

I am begging you.