The nightmares have started. Twice now, I have woken up soaked in the type of cold sweat that can only be produced by unadulterated panic. Gasping for air and gagging on the remnants of a dream so sinister it almost stopped my heart. The subject of these dreams? My wedding and all the ways it could go wrong.
So far my dream weddings have included relatives that don’t exist, demands that I get married in a bar (Magoo’s specifically for those of you from T-town), and my Fiancé’s grandmother taking my seat at the alter (I know, Freud would have a field day with that one. In said dream I told her she could stay in my seat as long as she needed to.)
In these dreams my reaction to disaster varies. In one, I am calm through disaster after disaster until I finally break down and demand that my sister make me a Cosmo the size of my head which I then poor down my throat and all over my dress. In another, I freak out almost right away but give up in the end a happily decide to elope. In both dreams I have great shoes. In both dreams a marching band escorts me to the ceremony. In one dream all the guests leave. In the other they critique my actions like Olympic judges.
I am thinking that perhaps I am a bit overwhelmed. Last night I went to a wedding workshop and the lady running it told me to elope. At this point I am not planning a wedding so much as I am fighting war against it. I cannot elope because then the wedding would win. The sad thing is, this is like high stakes Vegas poker; the odds are stacked against me. There is no way to really win because the wedding will either get my money or my sanity or both. All I can hope for now is to not lose big. I gotta get me some lucky boxers and a cute blonde to blow on the dice.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Brccoli is a bitch. I am not.
The people at my work are, in general, wildly inappropriate. A sexual harassment lawyer would have a hay-day with my office mates. They tend to keep the banter going all day and usually, one person takes the heat more than the others. This responsibility tends to rotate on an unscheduled basis. Lately the main topic of discussion has been me. Something I usually enjoy but HELLO I just had surgery and I am a bit cranky and GOD DAMN IT why in the world is it your business if I don’t like broccoli?
At first the collective made fun of me for being younger than most other people in the office but I am no fool and I just picked on them for being old. So that is pretty much a dead horse. Now they have moved on to my eating habits. I am a bit picky but I was raised well (Hi Mama!) and I am quiet about it. I usually sit at the table and eat my Lean Cuisine leaving all of the broccoli sitting in a small pile to the side. There are lots of other things I don't really care for but since I bought the food, made the food, and am the only one eating the food, I consider it my right to eat any, all, or none of it as I see fit.
My problem is that a certain individual has decided this means I am “High Maintenance” his main support for this claim is his own assertion that a man taking me on a date would have to carefully consider the restaurant he was taking me to so I could find something to order. Somehow, this really pisses me off.
First of all, I LOVE all types of food. Thai, American, Mexican, Asian Fusion, Indian, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan . . . the list goes on and on. I have never been to a restaurant in which I could not find something appetizing.
Second, I am willing to try new things. My Fiancé took me out to Sushi on one of our first dates. I had never had it before and was a bit trepidations. I tried it that night and LOVE sushi now. I just don’t see the point of eating things you already know you dislike.
Third, I am not High Maintenance. I do not have fake nails. I do not die my hair (I used to but it got to be too much work.) I spend way more money on outdoor gear than I do on shoes (I do like heals but I like Skis more.) I climb mountains and carry my own shit (my pack was 2 lbs HEAVIER than Fiancé’s on the last trip.) I do not expect marathon phone calls or mind reading or daily massages from Fiancé.
So I don’t like broccoli, f-ing sue me.
At first the collective made fun of me for being younger than most other people in the office but I am no fool and I just picked on them for being old. So that is pretty much a dead horse. Now they have moved on to my eating habits. I am a bit picky but I was raised well (Hi Mama!) and I am quiet about it. I usually sit at the table and eat my Lean Cuisine leaving all of the broccoli sitting in a small pile to the side. There are lots of other things I don't really care for but since I bought the food, made the food, and am the only one eating the food, I consider it my right to eat any, all, or none of it as I see fit.
My problem is that a certain individual has decided this means I am “High Maintenance” his main support for this claim is his own assertion that a man taking me on a date would have to carefully consider the restaurant he was taking me to so I could find something to order. Somehow, this really pisses me off.
First of all, I LOVE all types of food. Thai, American, Mexican, Asian Fusion, Indian, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan . . . the list goes on and on. I have never been to a restaurant in which I could not find something appetizing.
Second, I am willing to try new things. My Fiancé took me out to Sushi on one of our first dates. I had never had it before and was a bit trepidations. I tried it that night and LOVE sushi now. I just don’t see the point of eating things you already know you dislike.
Third, I am not High Maintenance. I do not have fake nails. I do not die my hair (I used to but it got to be too much work.) I spend way more money on outdoor gear than I do on shoes (I do like heals but I like Skis more.) I climb mountains and carry my own shit (my pack was 2 lbs HEAVIER than Fiancé’s on the last trip.) I do not expect marathon phone calls or mind reading or daily massages from Fiancé.
So I don’t like broccoli, f-ing sue me.
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