Signs to Stop the Wedding

Over the years of being a bridesmaid and being friends with other habitual bridesmaids, I have heard horror tales of weddings that are doomed. Therefore, I have compiled a list for my loyal reader of signs that you should not have a wedding (elopement yes, wedding no). If you are suffering from any of these signs, I encourage you to sell your wedding dress for two plane tickets to Las Vegas pronto.

Signs you should not have a wedding:

1. The stress of your wedding gives you IBS

2. The financial stress of the wedding puts your father on anxiety medication/panic attack medication/heart medication. Any medication really.

3. Just mentioning your groom-to-be's name causes you to burst into hives (reconsidering your relationship is a strong possibility)

4. The husband-to-be is a drug dealer (ummm, cancel marriage in general here)

5. Your parents plan on selling their generations old land in Europe on which cork trees grow in order to pay for your wedding.

6. Your parents plan on selling their home and moving into a one-bedroom condo in order to pay for your wedding

7. You are going into debt on top of the $25K student loan, car payment, and mortgage you already owe to pay for your wedding

8. All parents are divorced, some are remarried, all hate each other and your fear that your mother will attack your dad's new wife with the cake knife causes nightmares and an ulcer - this is a pretty good indication that you should not have a wedding

9. The groom's father is dying from a terminal illness but your need to walk down the aisle in a white dress overrides your husband's need to have his father see him get married (perhaps it is time to re-evaluate your priorities)

10. Your two families hate each other Capulet/Montague style and there is a possibility of gang/mafia/Godfatheresque warfare at the reception (how did you even get this far?)

To Have or Not to Have

Do you find that before the big day, the bride is on a quest to make herself as beautiful as possible? That she goes to extra lengths she would never ordinarily go because she is saying some old fashioned vows? Some brides are so ridiculous that they don't even look like themselves on their wedding day; practically scaring their husbands-to-be.

One bride friend grew her hair long, even though she has never had long hair in her life. And the day after the honeymoon she cut it off. True, she looked pretty but not what she looked like everyday. She regretted the hair growth.

I am a bridesmaid next week in Cuba for the loveliest bride ever. She is so sweet that she is terrified of doing what she wants for her big day in the fear she will offend someone. Cuba Bride is naturally very pretty and she doesn't wear much make-up. We did a field trip to MAC to get her a bride palatte that looked natural and yet 'done-up'. I thought this would be the extent of her bridal day beauty routine. But she called me the yesterday to ask if she should get fake nails. I practically screamed at her. Oh wait, maybe I did.

The point is, this girl is NOT a fake nail kind of girl. It would look absurd and she would never have them again. She just needs a nice manicure. Fake nails require ridiculous upkeep and they ruin your nails. My poor friend was a bridesmaid to a terror bride who insisted ALL bridesmaids have matching fake nails. MATCHING FAKE NAILS!!! WTF? She has naturally strong, healthy nails but for the next year she had to repair the damage that was done to them. Not to mention $100 down the toilet.

So why do bride's insist on changing themselves for the big day? I know I know, it's the same reason I am going to the tanning salon and have ended up with a purple bikini line (perhaps that should wait another day): those photos last forever. You want to look your best. I fully intend on shedding 10 pounds and getting my hair done when I get marries. However, usually when I get my hair done I look back at pictures and cringe.

Which brings me right back to my original point . . . to have or not to have fake nails? To cringe or not to cringe later in life?

At the end of the day, and after forty years, are you really going to care? Probably not. Cuba Bride - I'll paint your nails for you!

The Dog-lema

You are either a dog lover or not.  

I fall into the former camp.  I have always loved dogs - well there was a brief cat loving period but it ended when my cat got run over - and have always had dogs.  My first was a sheltie named McTavish who was with me in my early life.  He let me crawl all over him and pull his hair.  

Then there was my grandma's dog, Blackie, a border collie.  He was there for my walks in the wheat fields  and always wanted to be patted, which I would do even though he was a bit smelly and quite matted.  

Finally, there was Molly.  Molly Molly Molly.  I got her for my 11th (or 12th?) birthday and after a long and wonderful life, she passed away a little over a year ago.  

I begged my parents for her.  When they finally relented, I scoured the paper everyday for a dog (this was way before all those designer dog stores were around) and found her for $100.  I called all weekend with no answer.  On Sunday night, when the people finally picked up (after being away for the weekend - the paper ran the ad early) I hung up without saying a word.  I made my mum call back and we arranged to go over right then and there.  

As much as I like to think she was my dog, she was clearly my mother's.  It was mum who walked and fed her, mum who let her sleep with her, mum mum mum.  So Molly ended up being my furry sister.

Since moving to Rainy City, I have long wanted another dog.  But there were so many things stopping me:  I felt like I was cheating on Molly, I was broke, I had a crazy schedule, I travelled.

Well, now things are slightly different.  Molly is gone and I will always miss her, but I am no longer cheating.  Dogs are not that expensive and I am no longer that broke.  My schedule is actually okay, I am at home all the time, or most of the time - and if on set, dogs are welcome in the trailers.  I still travel.  But I don't leave for months at a time like I once did.

I am ready for a dog - but terrified at the same time.  My mother thinks it is too much responsibility, but the idea of a routine is actually exciting.  I should really start getting out of bed at 8 anyways (I need to train it to sleep in).  Dogs are great for depression, I can go off my little pink pills and use the routine and care of a dog to get through tough times.  Dogs can also travel quite well, and New York is a dog friendly city.

The Engineer is not a dog person.  And as much as he wants to be happy for me, he is not.  He is an Engineer after all, and engineers tend to think way more with their heads than their hearts.  They also tend to come up with all of the potential problems rather than the potential greatness.  I suppose that is why they pay him the big bucks.

I have a dog-lema.  I want one, I feel I am ready for one, but the big supporters in my life are not too thrilled about it.  

And then there is the traveling factor.  But I can figure that out can't I?  Besides, they let dogs in England now . . . . .  and every Best Western.

The Bridesmaid Types

There are several types of brides:

1.  Psycho bride

2. Laid-back bride

3.  Indecisive bride

4.  Bride with a wedding planner

5.  Forgetful bride

And just like brides, there are different types of bridesmaids.  I am on wedding #7, so I feel by this time I now know the different types quite well.  Here they are:

1.  Dictator Bridesmaid.  This is the maid who likes to do the job good and fast, with military precision.  She takes on the tasks the bride has given, barks out orders, and reprimands the others when they mess something up (even the grandmother of the groom).  She prefers to work in assembly lines or teams.  This is the girl who gets the job done.  Sometimes this maid may be worse than the bride and turn into a bit of a bridesmaidzilla.  But she'll calm down eventually.

2.  The Organizer Bridesmaid.  Not to be confused with the Dictator.  Although similar, this Organizer is the gal who plans the showers at her home, the stagette, and any other wedding related activities.  She likes to run around town, gathering the perfect little items to make her home wedding-shower-ready and planning menus.  She calls the Dictator often, who in turn will get all the cheese and fruit cut properly.

3.  The Fashionista Bridesmaid.  This is the girl who gives the loudest opinion on dress choice and colour schemes. But this is okay as the other ladies trust her in this department - they will listen to her when she convinces the bride to choose black dresses for a New Year's wedding for the glamour factor.  She is the one to pick out which colour parasols the gals will carry, what shoes look best, and she will apply the false eye-lashes on all the women for the Big Day.

4.  The Happy-Go-Lucky Bridesmaid.  This bridesmaid is just happy to be a bridesmaid.  She'll go along with whatever the bride (and the above bridesmaids) want.  She'll show up to showers and stagettes with ice in tow (or whatever they need her to pick up) and just smile lots.

5.  The Anti-Wedding Bridesmaid.  This is the girl who is a bit of a wild card.  The bride asked her to be in the wedding party because she is a good friend, both are excited in the beginning but it turns out that this girl could care-less about wedding talk/stuff/parties.  She'll be the last one to answer any of the emails or add her two cents.  On the day, she smiles and has a great time, but up until then she doesn't do much for the bride.  She will surprise you when she kicks over the MOG or flower girl to catch the bouquet.

Sometimes these ladies will clash.  They may even end up in different 'camps' and not really mesh well together.  This is what happens when you put females in tight-fitting dresses, you can't expect them all to love each other or be happy at all times.  

You can fall into one or more categories.  Or you may be type 1 for one wedding and type 5 for another, it just depends.

All that really matters is that you make sure you have nice hair on the day and get some cake.

The Tanning Salon

In preparation for my travels to Cuba to be bridesmaid #7, I have decided to forgo the tanning cream and hit the fake 'n bake.  Which is really stupid when you think about it.  I don't want to get a sunburn in Cuba so I am pre-heating myself.  If I was going to start smoking would I hang out with smokers to get my lungs ready?  Actually, maybe I would.

Anyhoo, I trotted off the the tanning salon in which I get my slightly darker-white fix in the stand up beds.  I like these bed because they are (a) fast (b) I can dance in them and (c) I don't feel like I am getting into a coffin.  If you have never been in a stand-up, I think you should try it.  You go in, the fan turns on and blows your hair like a rockstar, the  music is playing and you hold on to these handles to get an even tan - all the while dancing.  Very fun.

The one thing I don't do when tanning is use those tan creams.  I think they are ridiculously expensive for smelly cream and I don't think they do anything.  My friend told me that baby oil works just as well.  But isn't that what they used in the 60's to tan with and now all those ladies look like wrinkled prunes?  Well, I got some anyways.  And let me tell you frankly:  baby oil (I got baby gel actually) and tanning DO NOT MIX.

First, baby oil is oily.  Obviously.  It is heck to get off.  Not only was I sticky/shiney after getting out, but it wouldn't come off.  I rubbed myself with the towel. I showered. I went in the pool for crying out loud.  The stuff stays on!  I am a sticky, oily, baby-smelling mess.  

With a sunburn.

Oil + fake sun = sunburn

I am an itchy lobster skinned, oil slicked girl.

Back to the tanning cream . . . .  

The Skinny on the Skinny Jean

Whoever invented the skinny jean/pant should be shot.  No, not just shot.  But drawn and quartered.  Okay, perhaps that is a bit too much but with the torture those pants have put us women through that person deserves some payback.

I HATE SKINNY JEANS!  Most people (okay women)  hate skinny jeans.  I must admit that I look at those stick-legged girls who look oh so fashionable in the skinny pant and think, "hey, they are pretty nice".  Then make the mistake of trying on a pair for myself and quickly realize that putting skinny pants on my thighs is like putting casing on sausage.

I am not fat, I merely have curves.  And thighs.  My thighs do not like tight denim strangling them.  I look like a deranged hooker in skinny pants.  

The worst is men who wear skinny jeans.  Did we ever think that was sexy?  Even in the 80's?  Because it is not.  Men tend to have skinny chicken legs anyways (assholes) and they should not accentuate them in skinny pants.  It just looks dumb.  They look like girls, bobble head girls.  Boys need to learn that the best fit for them is boot cut, slightly slim but enough baggy to leave the rest up to our imagination.  But not too baggy that the pants hang off their asses like some drugged up hip hop star.  

Anyhoo, that is my rant on skinny pants.  No clothing should ever be called skinny - unless it promises to make you skinny like Spanx - that is okay.

Rich Bride Poor Bride

If you are a faithful reader, you will know of my addiction to reality shows such as 'Trading Spouses' 'Swapping Wives' and my personal favorite, 'Rich Bride Poor Bride'. You will also know that I get insanely angry at said programs and try to call the network to tell them how stupid people are. The Engineer forbids me from watching these programs or at least from talking about them in his presence.

Well, things have changed.

Last weekend I was horribly, ridiculously, painfully ill. Like the double whammy ill - I will spare the pretty details. My lovely Engineer sacrificed his own long weekend (which happened to be hot and sunny) to stay with me so I could whine at him. After buying me Chef Boyardee (which I threw up), Kraft Dinner (which I threw up), and Vietnamese soup (you don't want to know), he kept my pitiful body company while watching television.

Saturday night is a fairly bleak TV night, except for SNL, but we had time to kill. So what did we watch? Rich Bride, Poor Bride!! God, I love that show. If you have never seen it, order cable with Slice NOW and promptly watch as women make themselves appear greedy and grotesque on national TV. I love it.

Anyhoo, as this bride was a particular doozy, demanding EVERYTHING no matter what cost, it was a highly entertaining episode. The Engineer was riveted; just like me. And just like me, he became unbelievably angry. The groom was definitely in the right, especially making the girl sell a diamond ring they won in a contest to put towards their $37 000 wedding. The Engineer was so angered by her spoiled princess act that he started to pace the room and yell at the flat screen. Suddenly he stopped and realized what he was doing. But it was too late, he was hooked. So now we bond together at good/bad reality TV and get angry; always grateful that we are not stupid like those people.

The same weekend I also had two wedding magazines (I bought them on the plane ride to NYC, just out of curiosity) that I would flip through when I could open my eyes. Every time I read something I threw up. I think this made the Engineer happy as that now when we plan our wedding I will be reminded of throwing up and therefore plan a small wedding. Hmmm, maybe a drug should be invented to induce vomiting when talking about weddings, disguised as some sort of penile stimulant so women don't know about it. Men would clear them off the shelves!

Secret Garden

Here is my secret about the garden:  I have no idea how to grow one!  I can barely grow my hair.  

I am fairly certain I have a black thumb.  It is such a shame.  My grandfather had a beautiful garden that he tended to with such precision.  Petunias in a row, red flowers here, yellow flowers there.  It was literally in rows, he was a Taurus so very exact. 

My great-auntie had the most wonderful hodge podge garden that she had continued from her mother.  I used to sit in the back while her and my grandmother drank coffee, picking yellow raspberries in the same spot my great-grandmother used to sit.  Auntie B would walk hunched through her garden, happily chirping about all her flowers, to which she knew the names.  I can remember petunia because that is what my mum calls me (and my dog.  that's right, I share the same pet name as my pet) but that is it.

My grandmother had a vegetable garden full of heavenly treats of fresh carrots, peas, onions and potatoes (that she would make into cream vegetables, totally taking away from any nutritional value but SO FREAKING GOOD!!!).

My mother has a garden with fresh herbs, vegetables and sunflowers. My dad is a farmer for crying out loud.  But me?  My cousin gave me a plant once that lasted about 2 months.  

I have a nice patio in the city and this year I feel the urge to grow things on it.  My own urban oasis.  I went to the garden store to select flowers and herbs.  I got a big orange cart and slyly followed an old lady around the aisles of greenery to get pointers.  All I got from her was a used kleenex she dropped in my cart.  

I noted that there are annuals and perennials.  I think annuals are flowers you grow once a year and perennials are seasonal?  But isn't summer the only time things grow?  I also noted that there are plants that have a full sun sign and others that have a half-sun sign.  I opted for half-sun.  I get lots of sunshine on my patio but then the sun moves in the afternoon - will my flowers die?  But what happens if it is rainy for a while, will the sun sign flowers die?  What if I let them use my S.A.D. lamp?

I picked up some varieties.  Petunias, of course.  A yellow flower.  A pink flower.  Some enticements.  Or something that started with an 'e' or was it impatience?  Anyhoo, I had a cart full.  Then I got some herbs:  chives, rosemary and sweet basil.  Time for the soil.  I picked out a bag of nicely fertilized black stuff (we have to pay for this even though I could go get it free from my farm?). Then I started to look for things to put this all in, like pots.  That is when the panic set in.  Oh god, ummm, how many do I need?  Can all the herbs go in one pot?  Do the sun sign ones need their own taller pot?  How often do I need to water things?  Where are the watering cans?  Is normal water okay?  Or do they need filtered water?  What about the soil?  I once heard you can put pennies in the soil, why do I have to do that?

I paused and looked around me.  Two Home Depot men were joking by the shrubs.  Oh god, should I get a shrub?  The old lady was being led to the cashier by her daughter who scolded her for picking too many things.  Do I have too many things?  Too little?  I couldn't handle this.  I am not Mary Mary quite contrary.  I slowly stepped away from the cart.  I pretended I was looking at seeds as the Home Depot men walked past my abandoned cart.  Then I took a step towards the fountain, the lone cart getting further and further away; blocking the small tree aisle.  Can I grow a small tree on my patio?

It was too much, I ran away.  Well, walked very quickly.  If there is a Home Depot man reading this, I apologize for making you return my discarded flowers but I had no choice.  I think I will just buy bouquets instead.  Or at least wait till my mum comes for a visit, she'll know what to do. 

Home Sweet Home

The best thing about traveling is coming home.  That is what my mother used to tell me, and as I get older I realize how true that is.  Don't get me wrong, I love traveling the world.  When I was 19, I spent a year abroad living in England and Australia.  Since then, I trotted around Asia and Europe truly believing that a vacation had to be longer than a month in order to count as an 'experience'.  I ridiculed those who traveled for only two weeks.  Now I can't wait to get home.

New York was oh so fun.  We laughed, we drank, we shopped for shoes.  It was a bittersweet moment watching the isle of Manhattan disappear from the rear window of the taxi.  The Empire State Building standing tall and proud. The Chrysler Building looking so darn pretty.  I love how the two went up at the same time in a competition to be New York's largest skyscraper.  But I digress.  As I let the warm breeze ruffle my hair, I turned back to the front with a smile on my face:  I was going home.

After a horrific and squished flight home, in which my legs became numb and the girl in the aisle seat polluted the air with her foul farts,  I was happy to arrive back on the Pacific coast.  I forced my eyes open to look at the sparkling lights of rainy city.  Ummm, there were none!  Rainy city is a teeny tiny village compared to New York!  That is okay, the near full moon looked lovely reflected in the ocean as we started our decent.  Nature is where it is at.  Nature and seeing the moon reflected in the sea.  Wow, I had no idea how freaking small this city is.

Stepping into the fresh air, K and I took in the cedar and pine scent, relishing in the beauty of the west coast.  Our cab ride downtown took hardly any time at all.  There was no traffic, no beeping horns, no pedestrians jaywalking.  Neighborhoods full of actual houses (there are no houses in Manhattan) were deep in slumber.  And as we crossed the bridge, we both turned to take in the sight of the glittering city of glass.  Except there was no glitter, a couple of lights dotted around, but no glitter. Oh god, are we really that small town?  Has the rainy city always been this quiet?  Yes.

Then there was my bed.  My soft, cushy, cloud of a bed. Heaven!  And the Engineer sleeping in it waiting for my return.  Before I crawled in next to him, I stared out my window to the mountains and smiled to myself.  The Big Apple may be the city that never sleeps but I was really happy to take a nap.

Broadway Tips

When in the Big Apple, one should take in a show.  We took in two.

Avenue Q - which is like a dirty Sesame Street.  Okay, maybe not dirty but definitely adult.  Be warned:  there is puppet sex!  And my favorite song "Everyone's a little bit racist" because it is true.  My only complaint was that I wish it was longer because it was so good.

Top Girls - a play written by Caryl Churchill in 1982 London.  I have always wanted to see this play.  I don't anymore.  I wish that it had been shorter.  

The audience was so different in each theatre.  At Avenue Q, K and I were surrounded by people much like ourselves. Young professionals who grew up with Bert, Ernie and Telly.  At Top Girls the audience were probably at the height of their careers in 1982.  There were many old men.  Old men who farted throughout the entire show.  Old grumpy men who pushed me out of the bathroom line so they could get by without saying 'excuse me' or 'sorry'!!!

Yes, I know that NYC is not known for its' politeness or chivalry but seriously, you are an old man!! Aren't old men supposed to have manners?  This is where I really don't fit in with this city; I am too polite.  Sue me for apologizing for stepping on your foot or pushing you out of the way.  Unfortunately, as our hotel was situated in toursity Times Square, I started to take on the New York rudeness.  I may or may not have hit gawking tourists with my big purse or told slow walkers to watch out as I plowed through them.  To be fair, if you are going to stop on a busy sidewalk and consult a map, you deserve to be pushed.  Move to the side you retard!!!

Wait, the whole purpose of this entry was not to talk about manners, rather to give you my Broadway tip.  When in NYC, you can go buy half price tickets at the TKTS booth which happened to be situated under our hotel.  Everyday, a three-hour line formed in order to save some money.  Okay fine, lots of money.  But if you are visiting the city for a few days, isn't your time worth more?  I thought so, therefore I was smart and googled 'cheap Broadway tickets' and discovered www.broadwaybox.com. It was here that we got half price tickets - same as TKTS.  I punched in my credit card digits, glossed with my guilt-gloss, and walked past the three-hour line saying 'suckers' under my breath.  Don't people think to google??