PWS

I haven't had time to post in the past day or so, because I've been having PWS. A while back, I wrote about this on my other blog. Not to share too much information, but when PMS and PWS combine, it's not pretty. One ends up crying over things like cake toppers. On a normal day, I might realize (like any sane person) that the concept of a cake topper is inherently funny, like unitards, or hedgehogs. Or bacon.

However, a primary symptom of PMS and its close cousin (they could marry in Florida), PWS is that inherently funny and trivial things take on a deadly seriousness, without even the faintest trace of irony.

So, much like how on sitcoms they do a clip show centered around a contrived frame story when the writers run out of ideas (e.g. the lights go out in the Drummond mansion, causing Willis and Arnold to frequently say, Remember that time when ... like, Remember that time when that weird older dude took pictures of me and Dudley in our underwear and touched us inappropraitely? )

Today's blog entry is actually a re-run from a few months ago. You don't want to read what I might write today. It would not be pretty. But remember that time when, a few months ago, I made that blog entry about PWS? ...

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I haven't been in the mood to write much lately, because I've been suffering from PWS. It's very much like PMS (just turn over the "M"). The symptoms are strikingly similar, only, instead of a few days, it takes place for a few months directly before a wedding. When combined with actual PMS, the results can be toxic.

The screen ripples. We're back again.

Remember that time Dad sent me an alarmist email about the wedding, and I wrote about it in my blog? Seems like only a few months ago ...

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As I learned the other day, I'm about to crash a Martian space craft. My high-strung, yet very well-intentioned father sent me an email with a full range of bold, italicised, underlined warnings, infused with exclamatory punctuation!!!!

An actual excerpt:

"... always remember the billion dollars that was wasted on the spacecraft to Mars that crashed into the planet instead of going into orbit because somebody didn't check to see exactly what system of measurement was to be used in the programming. As it turned out one group of programmers used English linear calculations to position the spacecraft on the approach to Mars, and another group of programmers used metric calculations to tell it how to go into orbit. Unfortunately, the guidance system only understood the English system, and it took the kilometer instructions it received from the metric programming and translated the Kilometers into the same number of miles. As a result, the spacecraft dug a big hole in Mars instead of going into low orbit."

This was inspired by the fact that, among other things, I have not yet secured a ring bearer pillow. Or a cake cutter. Or an inter-plantetary GPS device, calibrated to the metric system.

About a month ago, P and I decided to have a little experiment - we decided to go a full month without watching T.V.

Cold turkey. Not even the news, or educational programs featuring Alan Alda on PBS. Not even NY1, that strangely hypnotic local news station that repeats the same 10 stories in half-hour loops. On most days, at least one story is about some dude in a studio apartment in Manhattan or Queens who has been arrested because he keeps several large and/or ferocious wild animals as pets - a Bengal tiger or a llama, or a crocodile in the bathtub. This story features the inevitable interview with the neighbors who say that - other than the strange smell - they never noticed anything unusual, except for the zebra carcasses in the trash, but ... Meanwhile, the pet owner insists that his civil rights, and the civil rights of his llama, are being violated. (I'd like to note that New Yorkers often say that Southern folk are crazy ...)

Anyway, our hypothesis was that if we weren't watching the Boob Tube, we would instead devote our free time to more worthwhile pursuits. We'd finally finish Ulysses, visit obscure museums, and learn speak at least one Slavic language. Rather than staring mindlessly at a screen as we eat dinner, we would have deep, meaningful conversations, possibly re: Ulysses, while gazing longingly into one another's eyes.

So far, this hasn't happened exactly the way we planned. We haven't caved, or even particularly wanted to, in part because of Cable Internet and Netflix, which we decided were kosher in the context this experiment. Still, the month before a wedding is probably not the best time to go without the social novacaine of Tee Vee.

As P pointed out yesterday in his blog entry about our fight over Decorative Bunny Towels, there are some very real hazards involved in not watching TV. They should put a sticker on the plug, like the one warning against electric shock if you take your television set into the bathtub with you.

When not watching TV, suddenly, you open your eyes to a whole new world of things that are deeply annoying. Instead of reading the collected works of Thucydides, you spend the hours remembering that annoying thing that Susan McAllister said/did to you in the 5th grade, or studying the (annyoing) cracks in the ceiling that you had not heretofore noticed. The squirrel outside the window is f-ing with you, as are the upstairs neighbors - did they take up clogging? Were they always so loud?

I should have known better. Before last year, I hadn't had a TV for the previous 7 years, and the main difference between me and the TV watchers was that I didn't watch TV. Thus, I could never keep up with who was/was not famous on any given week. Non-TV watchers are kind of like the foreign visitor who speaks English really well, but who doesn't get any of your references, so you'd might as well be speaking another language.

McFoxtrot

People often speculate as to why the thought of getting married is so terrifing to many men. They say it's a fear of committmet, or Peter Pan syndrome. Or the fear of having one's most precious belongings (i.e., that special Corona Light display case he found in a dumpster behind the liquor store)put "into storage" in the dumpster from which it came. The real reason that the word 'wedding' sends soul-crushing chills down the spines of most men can be summarized in two words: dance lessons.

Last night, my fiance Paul and I had our fourth dance lesson at Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio. I'm not sure why the "franchised" part is such an integral part of their marketing scheme; maybe they think it reminds people of hamburgers. If they could figure out how to put in a drive-thru window, I think the concept would really take off. "Yes, uh, I'd like a McFlurry and a Big Mac, and a side of Tango lessons." (Static Fuzz) "Would you like a Foxtrot with that for only an additional ..."

So far, Paul's doing great, and has gone along with the whole thing with relatively few complaints, although I know that he wants to take dance lessons about as much as I want to take lessons in how to play video games. Lucky for me, nobody has thought to have a "First Video Game" at a wedding, although I bet this would be the cover story of Modern Groom magazine, in the weird parallel universe where such a thing exists.

All of the teachers at the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio are from Russia, which contributes to the feeling that the whole scene should be in black and white with English subtitles. It's very much like an outtake from some European arthouse movie that might also feature long close-ups of an old man dressed like a clown and crying. The words "existential tightrope" and "the emotional isolation of the bourgeoisie" would no doubt be featured prominently in the reviews.

In the waiting room of the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio, most the guys look like they're about to go in for a colonoscopy. The majority of men do not come willingly to take dance lessons, although it's possible that some of them are there because they have a genuine interest in getting out of the doghouse. With the middle-aged couples, this seems particularly true ... After being caught in a compromising position with a she-male "massage therapist," Bob's wife gives him an ultimatum: either a nasty divorce where she keeps house in the Hamptons, the midlife-crisis Porsche, and all of his clothing, OR ... a full series of 25 hour-long dance lessons at the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio. Following a good deal of soul-searching, and at the urging of his attorney and financial advisor, Bob decides to do the foxtrot.

I'm sure I'm not the world's easiest dance partner, as I have a terrible tendancy to back-lead, as a result of having taken approximately 15,000 dance lessons. Like many girls, my mother started me in dance classes when I was just a small fetus (but the violin lessons didn't start until shortly after I was born), so I get a bit impatient sometimes.

Still, Paul has been particularly nice about the whole thing, and he's picked up the steps pretty quickly, and doesn't even hold his hands to his throat and make gagging noises when they play the occasional song by Celine Dion. Hopefully, this isn't due to some terrible guilt involving any combination of donkeys, hookers and barbituates following his recent trip to Tiajuana. At any rate, I figure I should make the best of it, because when/if I ever have another opportunity to make him take dance lessons, we might have to get a divorce instead.

To follow up yesterday's post, I found out today that if two people are both out-of-state residents, the 3-day waiting period to get married in Florida does not apply. So, all of you Jacksonville residents who want to 'lope off, just go a few miles up the road to Georgia, where you'll be considered out-of-state and not need to wait 3 days, or even until your buzz wears off and you change your mind.

The only caveat is that I'll have to go get a New York State driver's license to prove that I live out-of-state. This is unfortunate because the only state where I actually drive is Florida, where it behooves one to have a Florida driver's license if you're ever pulled over in towns like Waldo or Starke, which make 100% of their town revenue from speed traps. Waldo and Starke are the kinds of towns that really make the most of the law that lets you marry your first cousin.

On more than one occasion, I've gotten pulled over in one of these Faulknerian little towns, and I was glad I had a driver's license from Duval County. Invariably, the police officer knows someone in Jacksonville whose last name is also Kennedy.

"You any kin to Dwight Kennedy, by chance?" asks a man wearing "CHiPs" style sunglasses and a stern expression. (Do they have a special warehouse full of mirrored sunglasses, somewhere? Is it a dress code regulation that all Florida cops must have thick moustaches?) "Sure!" I say. "Well, distantly ... but, yeah!" (If you go back far enough, everyone's related, right?)

So now I have to go to the NYC DMV within the next 2 weeks. Not looking forward.

Can I legally marry my nephew?

Apparently, the above question is among those frequently asked of the folks at The Duval County (Florida) Clerk of the Circuit and County Courts.

This was brought to my attention earlier this evening when I got a phone call from Jay K., who will be officiating at our wedding. Jay is a family friend who is sort of like an honorary cousin, in that he's the son of one my dad's best friends. He stepped into the role of marrying us when he volunteered to do so, perhaps after one too many wine spritzers, at our engagement party in Jacksonville. In Florida, anybody who's a Notary Public can perform a wedding, which saves a lot of people from having to get ordained at the Church of the Eternal Internet in order to marry their not-so-religious friends.

Anyway, Jay, who is also an attorney (specializing in something called "Maritime Law", which I think means spends half the day on his boat) calls me earlier this evening. I assumed that he was calling to discuss our as-yet-unwritten/unplanned vows, which may or may not reference fair use of the remote control. Instead, he was calling in a more legal advisory capacity.

"You do know that, in Florida, there's a 3-day waiting period after you get your marriage licence before you can get married?" Jay tells me.

Huh? But, but -- Paul isn't coming into town until late Wednesday night before the wedding, which is on Saturday!

I high-tailed it to the Web site of the Clerk of the County. It would seem that the "waiting period" is, in fact, a Florida law. To my equal dismay, I also learned that, if things don't work out with Paul, I cannot marry my nephew, which was my backup plan. If I had a nephew, anyway. But, on the bright side, I learned that I CAN marry my first cousin. Had I known that sooner, hell, I'd have never left Florida. I got me some good lookin' cousins.

However, I can only marry cousins of the opposite sex. Because if I wanted to marry a cousin of the same sex, well, that would just be weird.

Also, what's with the WAITING PERIOD? It's not like we're buying a semi-automatic rifle! Oh, wait - in Florida, there's NO waiting period to buy a gun. Because that's not dangerous to society. But a rashly-entered-into marriage could, let's face it, destroy entire CITIES.

How deeply farked is this logic: gun-toting cousins can marry each other and then go out back and shoot at the dumpster (which, under the circumstances, seems likely), as long as they're NOT of the same sex. It's important to strictly regulate consentual adult relationships, except, of course, the relationship between a man and his gun. Or a woman and her gun. But in either case, the gun in question must be of the opposite gender.

Wedding Milestones

Yesterday I reached that time-honored milestone in preparing for a wedding: I made my mother cry.

Phone rings.

DAD: You made your mother cry.

ME: Huh? (racking brain) What are you -- ? How come?

DAD: I don't know. She's not speaking to me.

ME: (thinking; voice over) Great. I'll have made my mother cry and caused my parents to finally get a divorce. Maybe I could burn down the house while I'm at it?

DAD: (in deep Bama drawl) But I don't want you to feel badly, now, baby.

In the background, I could hear Mom sobbing.

ME: No, of course not.

We're not talking sappy, sentimental long-distance-commerical tears, but more like the kind you might expect from one of those scuba divers accidentally left behind by their tour boat in shark-infested waters. Or, apparently, from mothers whose daughters have not formally picked out a Waterford pattern.

DAD: She just got off the phone with Joanne Parker, who wanted to know where you were registered. At what your patterns are. But it would seem that you haven't decided on a china pattern -- now have you?

The question seemed to echo in the air. My dad can be very Clarence Darrow when he wants to be.

ME: Yes. Well, yes and no.

DAD: Which is it? I am confused.

ME: See, I live in a smallish apartment in New York, and it's not like I do a lot of entertaining, and so there are things I might need more urgently than an a Bernardaud toothpick holder, so -

Mom was saying something in the background.

DAD: Your mother seems to think you're not taking this wedding seriously enough.

ME: I take it seriously. It's serious! DEAD SERIOUS. If it were any more serious, it would have its own telethon -

DAD: You have to remember, now, that to women of a certain time and place, a mother who can't rattle off her daughter's crystal and china patterns to the blue-haired ladies who call her up -- well, that's like a Squadron Commander being asked by the General about his fleet of fighter jets, and the Commander saying, what fighter jets?

(Dad often makes elaborate military analogies. For years, the gophers in the front lawn were alternately been compared to Ghenghis Khan and Stalin. These analogies never really make sense unless you've read an awful lot of those Time-Life books on military history. Or gophers.)

ME: Huh?

Finally, I got on the phone with Mom. I've never heard her so mad since that time I fed pizza to my cats (I was 9) and they barfed all on every square inch of the guest room about an hour before some out-of-town guests were set to arrive.

The thing is, Mom is OCD and I'm ADD, so we're on opposite ends of the whole acronym continuum. Usually, this tends to work out surprizingly well. Some of my best friends are among the Organized Ones. Still, I know I must be a bit frustrating to have to deal with someone as brain-addled as I am if you live in a world where everything absolutely must, at all moments, be "perfect". For me, everything must be "more or less good enough, or not - that's okay too." I know it must drive the Organized Ones absolutely insane. (I'd write a book called "ADD Bride: How I almost forgot to get married", or something like that, but the lack of attention span might present a problem.)

Anyway, that was the milestone for yesterday. I still feel terrible about whatever I did or didn't do, although it's not 100% clear what that was (or even 10% clear, but still). But I spoke to Mom and she seems to be doing much better this evening. And not just because I have finally picked out an exhaustive range of china patterns and crystal, even though all I want is a pair of asparagus tongs.

Coming Soon: P and M inadvertanly cause giant rifts among the members of their extended family!

There are many good reasons to get married: true love, companionship, mutual respect. However, the #1 reason for entering into this sacred and legally binding covenant is obvious: you get lots of household appliances.

Of course, I don't really mean to say that appliances are the best thing about getting married. The best thing is all the china and flatware. Soon, there will come a day when I won't even have to say, "Honey, where's our other fork?" Instead, I'll be able to say things like, "Where are the other asparagus tongs?

Having lived in NYC for 7 years now, and in Paris the years before that, I can't say that in the past decade I've even once owned more than two of any kitchen-related item, and usually the two I have don't even match. Like most New Yorkers, I usually haven't even had a kitchen, just a "bathen" (a convenient kitchen-bathroom combo).

This lack of matching, decorative dinnerware and accessories is something that absolutely horrifies the female members of my Southern family. My aunts actually develop tics when I mention that I don't own a set of monogrammed napkin rings. Or any other kind of napkin-restraining device. So I try to avoid mentioning the fact that sometimes Paul and I fight over who gets to use the "good fork." I was recently tempted to put some napkin rings on the wedding registry, but then I realized a) napkin rings are absurd, and b) I'll be getting tons of napkin rings anyway, as wedding presents. Probably already monogrammed, so no chance of exchanging them for something more useful, like one of those dancing plush hamsters.

However, household appliances are actually very useful (using the term cautiously). As of yesterday, I now own my very first non-hand-me-down deluxe toaster oven, which came in the mail as a gift from Aunt Cecilia and Uncle Ed. In recent years, I've owned several toaster ovens, but they were always the sad orphans of some friend or neighbor who was throwing things overboard during a move, or who had purchased a toaster oven that actually made toast. For a while, I had a toaster oven that only heated up one side of the bread, but I was still too cheap to buy a new one. This is rather absurd, as a toaster would have cost way less than any number of ill-advised clothing purchases (e.g., hooded gold lame tube top; clear plastic skirt) that hang in my closet as grim reminders of why I don't have any savings.

My most recent toaster came to live with me when my friend Stacey moved, last October. In addition to having three (3) table saws in her apartment, she also had at least two extra toasters, of which I ended up with one. (I also ended up with a paraffin hand waxer, a bolt of upholster fabric, several lamps, framed wall art, frying pans, two chairs, wine glasses and a couch; it was a minor fraction of her leftovers, but it pretty much furnished my apartment.) It wasn't a bad toaster oven, but nonetheless, it had been around for several years. And it wasn't originally mine. It's very life-affirming to have a toaster of one's own.

Yesterday, we also got a 20-piece set of Pyrex as a gift. I'm not sure exactly what you do with Pyrex, but I think it's involved in the making of casseroles. I don't know that I've ever made a casserole, or how (or why) one would go about doing so. But nonetheless, I registered for the Pyrex mega-set. Fortunately I can store it in the oven, because my oven doesn't even work. Which will present an obstacle for actually using all this bakeware, but the important thing is just to own it. Like how having a gym membership makes you feel more in shape, owning a set of bakeware makes one feel more ... married. Or something.

The single most important day EVER in the entire history of HUMANITY!

This is what they tell you, pretty much in those exact words (and without even a hint of post-feminist irony) in virtually every bridal magazine. "The most important day of your life!!!" Even if you later win the Pulitzer prize, or find a cure for cancer, or go on Survivor XXVI and become known as "the skanky one."

Nothing you will ever do or accomplish in this lifetime will matter even 1/10 as much as the day you get married. That is, if you're the bride. Our male counterparts seem to be excluded from the idea that their wedding is the absolute pinnacle of their existance. For guys, it's assumed that the whole thing will be much less of a defining moment than, say, when their favorite college hockey team wins the local division finals, or Geico comes out with a new commercial featuring talking armadillos.

To wit, there are about 10,000 magazines devoted to brides, yet only about 0 for the groom. If it were up to straight men, weddings (if they existed at all) would involve a lot of beer, maybe some bacon-wrapped bacon balls, and the ceremonial Playing of Video Games. And more beer.

Not to perpetuate any sterotypes. Of course, over the past year, I've seen myself unexpectedly danced around the borderlands of Bad Bridal Stereotypes, myself. For instance, I never, ever thought I'd be the kind of woman who buys bridal magazines, or cares about things like centerpieces. In fact, I've always found the whole concept of table centerpieces to be, quite frankly, Part of the Problem. Until yesterday. When I saw the invoice from the florist and noticed that the little plots of wheatgrass for the center of the wedding tables were listed as 6 inches and not the agreed-upon 12 ... well, I went a bit Bridezilla.

How could this ... ?!! What the - ?! Don't they know that a small, cubic arrangement will be obscured by the size and shape of the plate chargers, and of course the colors of the napkins won't be picked up by the mauve hues in the ...

It was my voice, but another language - like one of those mystics who falls into a trance and begins speaking some forgotten ancestral language. It was strange and horrifying. Maybe it really is my destiny to become one more in a long line of women who instinctively know how to make "decoupage"? Whatever that is. The kind of woman who only serves vegetables that will pick up the colors of the tablecloth? Who would apologize profusely if the sugar bowl did not match the creamer?

At that point, it occured to me that it was absolutely unconsionable to be thinking about my stupid floral centerpieces in a world where there is so much poverty and despair. I stopped and really thought about this for at least several nanoseconds. Fortunately, the florist is programmed into the speed dial.

Premarital Blogging

Today is March 9, 2005. It occured to me this morning that I'm getting married in exactly one month. I'm not sure why this came as such a shock. Until this morning, the whole wedding idea still seemed vaguely abstract; getting married still seemed like the kind of thing proper adults do - you know, people who drive SUVs and have supplemental life insurance, and are concerned about getting enough niacin.

And yet ...