These Little Moments

It hit me yesterday how much I still have to do. We were sitting outside our favorite hole-in-the-wall breakfast joint when I commented that we needed to figure out our plan for Kodiak during the wedding. Months ago we had discussed one option and I just assumed that was what we were going to do.

Michael had a different idea of where the dog would stay in it makes total sense, but it threw me so off track when he mentioned it that I got upset. I know it sounds crazy — getting upset over who will watch the dog — but it wasn’t about that. It was the first sense of overwhelming omigod I have just over 100 days to plan the wedding panic.

There’s still a lot to be done. The invitations are still being worked on. The limo has to be rented. Our wedding bands have to be purchased, as well as suits for all the guys. Wedding party and parents gifts need to be purchased. Hell, they need to be picked out. Favors need to be ordered, centerpieces need to be finalized and I need to figure out where I can rent linens for an affordable price to in order to bring some color into my venue.

I’m sort of panicking.

Not totally, but it took me awhile to fall asleep last night. It’s all just moving so quickly. Wasn’t it just the week we got engaged? How can it be just over three months away? Let’s not even talk about how six weeks before the wedding I will be in Colorado for a week for work. A whole week where nothing can be done. Six weeks out. Jeesh.

It’s all going to work out, this I know. But it’s hard to see that light at the end of the tunnel when I have limo quotes running through my head and fabric swatches taunting me.

Any wedding planners reading? I can’t pay you, but I will rave about you for hours on the blog and recommend you to every single bride-to-be I meet. Fair trade? No? What if I throw in a pair of shoes?

So, dried fruit. Backs you up or gets things moving? I only ask because in the last two days I’ve consumed about three pounds of dried mango and I’d really like to know what I’m up against. Since tomorrow is the fourth and I plan on spending the entire day at the beach, I’d really like to know if I have to dedicate some bathroom time tonight or will be in the clear.

TMI? Sorry, dudes.

Actually, I’ve been living on fruit lately. For weeks. Not just the dried variety. I tend to go fresh as well. Which let me tell you, with ever-increasing food prices I’ve been spending a good chunk of my paycheck on $3.99/pound grapes. Grapes are my favorite summer treat — I freeze them! I get a big bag, split them in half and freeze half at work and half at home. They fill the void when all I want to do is eat and they take longer to eat when they’re frozen. A bride-to-be’s dream.

My dad recently asked me what I did to my diet since he said I looked skinny. (Woot!) Truth me told, I haven’t changed a whole lot. I still eat everything, just a lot less of it. And then there’s the fruit. After breakfast it’s all I consume until dinner, basically.

And up until yesterday things have been going just fine. Going in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.

But now I’m starting to feel a little…stuck. And I’m sure that the six mangoes residing in my stomach is not helping the cause.

If I was a masochist I would make my first visit in 8-ish years to the local Taco Bell. Followed by a giant jug of milk. And a bowl of chili.

Ew. OK, I’ll stop now.

Enjoy your 4th. I’m going to go finish off the last of the mango…

…

What? I can’t just let it go to waste!

I’m still struggling to figure out a way to share my life with you — without sharing too much. Honestly? When I have kids, I don’t think I’m going to be able to join the ranks of Dooce and Amalah and show you my babies growing up. For me, that’s the line in the sand. (Don’t worry, there will be belly shots.)

You may remember my last struggle with this a few months ago. Michael and I had a long conversation about privacy issues on my blog and I was forced to take a step out of this bubble I had created for myself and truly listen to my fiance.

So I made some changes. Photos came down, information was tweaked. I thought it would be horrible, but it wasn’t. I was OK.

Then slowly, little by little, I started sharing the photos again. Because this world has become a community and I feel like I know so many of you personally.

But there’s also many of you I don’t know. The ones that don’t comment, don’t write, don’t — well — anything. And I love you too, because there are many blogs I lurk through, not commenting, just enjoying. And I’m happy to be able to provide that space for you. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t stop and think about the one person that might not read with good intentions. The one person that may cause me or my friends harm if I reveal too much.

I feel conflicted over this wedding because so many of you have been with me through the entire journey. From a antsy girlfriend to an elated fiancee to an almost bride. I feel like I will be cheating YOU by not sharing my wonderful day.

So maybe there will be pictures, but no faces. And maybe pictures of the venue will be revealed AFTER we have long departed it. And one day you’ll see the tiny hands and feet and adorable shoes of my baby, just not the eyes that look like his father’s or the mouth that resembles her mom.

And that’s OK, right?

*Clarification: there will be wedding pictures. I’m just not sure in what capacity yet. You think I would deny you a dress picture after all this time?

The red shoes. Note to future brides: make sure you have at least two people to help you get in them. I had to lean on my aunt while my sister put them on!

Three of the seven bridesmaids in their pre-alterations, currently ill-fitting bridesmaid dresses. They look beautiful in person though and the purple shoes were definitely the right choice to go with them.

Sisterly love slash goofing around in the dress shop. I don’t think the seamstress was amused.

The indecisive bride. I cannot for the life of me choose a necklace. My mom’s pearls, while beautiful, didn’t look right. The few I tried on at the bridal shop were to blingy. Suggestions?

Overall, I wonderful wedding planning weekend. Minus one trip to the hospital (no, not me) (don’t worry, everyone is fine).

I can’t feel my face. My chin, cheek and lips. Numb. Can’t feel my tongue either.

I have a conference call in an hour.

What are the rules about drooling on your boss?

People you will see at a Dave Matthews Band concert:

- The mother-daughter team.

I’m all for going places with my mom. My mom rocks. And we went to a concert together once — the Lilith Fair. Remember that one? It was a good time. But I was a teen then. Not a pre-teen. Apparently this mother had no qualms about bringing her what I assume to be around 12-year old daughter to a concert, then leaving her alone while she went to find a friend. I have to say, though, the daughter was rocking out. It’s apparent DMB is played often in that household.

- The Really? You’re a fan? Fan.

The guy next to me knew every. single. word. to every single song. And he sang it at the top of his lungs. The guy looked like a slab of beef and was wearing a Rhode Island Hockey t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His black hair was precisely messed and spiked in that I-care-but-don’t-want-to-look-like-I-care way. He looked like he could be on an episode of Growing Up Gotti. He kept apologizing to me after every bump from his slam dancing. I couldn’t help but laugh.

- The lone twirler.

You know who I’m talking about. There’s one at every concert in every state across the country. The girl that comes alone, dances in the aisle and thinks twirling is the best invention since Birkenstocks. Ours disappeared after the opening act, but only after flashing the peace sign.

- The overbearing parent.

I really felt for this girl and her friend. They arrived in their matching tie dye tank tops and jean shorts, ready to dance the night away while dad sat quietly three rows behind them. Except  he did not sit quietly. He harassed them to change seats with him — why, I don’t know — and gave our whole section the opportunity to watch the typical “Dad! Stop it! Ugh, you’re embarrassing me!” argument. Eventually, they did switch seats with him, but he only continued to annoy them throughout the night.

- The weird guy with the joint.

Just because you passed it to that pretty girl and she acceptedit with a big smile, does not mean she’s going to sleep with you. Hell, she’s hardly going to look at you again. You had no shot from the beginning. And now you’re out of weed.

- The guy trying really, really hard to get laid.

The couple who was clearly on a second or third date in front of us (not awkward enough for the first day, but definitely not comfortable enough for say, the 20th) was doing everything you would expect people on an early date to do. If they were going to a club, not a DMB concert.

Let’s start with the girl, who chose a silky halter top and the tiniest, tightest white shorts I have ever seen in my life — a strange hybrid of spandex and latex paint that must be applied with two shoe horns and a turkey baster because omigod were they tight. And tiny. And she was, well, not tiny. You can imagine the backside visual we had.

The guy either came straight from work or was trying to impress her with his office duds and over zealous use of his BlackBerry. Seriously, he took the thing out every three minutes to show her how the camera worked. Dude, it’s not that cool.

He refrained from touching the spandexed hiney all night (thank you for that, office dude. I might have lost my dinner otherwise.), but the “casual” bumping into each other during every song left little to the imagination. I wonder how far he got. I mean, he did buy her at least two $8 Bud Lights. What a gentleman.

I’m sure many brides-to-be (and non-brides-to- be, including just about every woman in the United States) would agree with me when I say we think about our weight all the time. A lot. Like, daily. Sometimes twice a day. Or three times.

It’s such a weird phenomenon for me because until mid-college I really never thought about it. Maybe for Friday I’ll do a Molly Through the Ages post complete with pictures (I may regret this later — as I’m pretty sure there are some unfortunate wardrobe choices caught on film) to show you that as a youth, I was long and lanky. While some kids battled with their baby fat during their awkward years, my limbs grew faster than I knew what to do with and I was flat as a pancake.

Eight grade was particularly hard. I remember one conversation where a good friend of mine told me I’d be really pretty, if only I had boobs. I could taste the venom in my mouth, but refrained from saying she’d be really pretty if she wasn’t fat. Girls can be so mean.

The other stand-out incident was a French trip to Quebec where some rumor began that I was anorexic (I WAS NOT) and my entire group of friends refused to talk to me for the first two days. Nice, huh?

My point is, weight was not what used to make me uncomfortable, but the lack of weight.

Don’t worry. That’s not the issue anymore. Look, I know I’m not what you would describe as overweight, but as I get older, I find I myself the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my own skin. Weight-wise. And I know it’s because I’m going to be the center of attention at a mega event in four short months.

I have stopped losing weight. Completely plateaued. I’ve reached the number my body apparently wants to be and I know it’s an achievement. It’s 12 pounds lighter than I was a year ago and all my past summer clothes are big now. I’m trying to focus on this milestone and continue to work on my toning — especially on my arms that will be exposed on the big day — but deep in my brain I voice still whispers — it’s not enough.

Recently my mom commented that I’ll never be slim. I know what she meant — she meant that no matter how many hours I spend in the gym, I’m never going to be a petite, small-boned girl that can walk on the treadmill for 25 minutes, not break a sweat and lose 15 pounds. She wasn’t calling me fat. She just meant that my Russian bones will always be my Russian bones and I’m not fat. I’m in shape.

And then there’s the woman at the dress shop. When I called to book my appointment for a fitting she scolded me that it was probably too early. “Most brides come in six weeks before the wedding,” she said. I explained to her that since I reside in Rhode Island and the dress shop is alllll the way in New York, it would be best to schedule fittings when I knew I’d be able to come into town.

Plus, you get more than one fitting anyway. I’ll be in again closer to the wedding.

“Well, fine,” she agreed. “But when you lose weight the seamstress will have to start all over again.”

When I lose weight. Not if. When.

So maybe she was just speaking from experience. Because it’s true, most brides ARE trying to lose weight. I certainly was. But the assumption, the almost demand that you will — you must — lose weight made me want to crawl through he phone and strangle her with her measuring tape.

Is this ever something that goes away, or am I doomed to repeat this the rest of my life? Will women ever stop measuring their self worth by the size of their jeans?

In a month and a day I have a party to go to. A wedding, actually. Whose wedding, you ask? My dear friend Clink. That’s right! The girl is getting married in four weeks omigod. My undying love for her is clear to any of you who have read in the past and the fact that her pre-wedding gift is sitting on my desk has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a bad friend and everything to do with the fact that I need a box to fit it in. Check the mail early next week, darling!

So, that being said. I need a dress. Now I know I enlisted all your help last time I was going to a wedding and then never made good on it, but I had my reasons. Mostly because the government is MEAN and made me pay a lot in taxes. But since I got my stimulus check and essentially broke even and it’s summer and I seriously have nothing to wear to this wedding, you must help me again.

#1: A simple little black dress, kicked up with some ruffle. Basic, safe, but pretty, no?

#2: I really like this one. The black and white pattern make it unique and I think the portrait collar would be really flattering. Or would it?

#3: I love the color, but I’m not sure about the neckline. Or the waist. Or the bust. Hmmm.

#4: Now it IS a New York wedding in the evening, but am I going to melt in sleeves in July? And brown isn’t really a summer color, is it. But the silhouette is so pretty.

#5: You might remember I was looking at this one in navy last time. Well the navy is no longer available, but I think the purple is really rich and beautiful. Plus, I like the wrap waist.

#6: Love the color, but if the chest doesn’t fit right it might stick out.

#7: I love it because it’s fun and different. But is it TOO fun and different? Do you see playful dress…or circus tent?

All dresses are from Nodrstrom.

7:15 a.m.

I hear a voice calling me far off in the distance. “Molly, wake uuuup.” No, no I will fight the voice. I will not wake up. “Moooolllly!” Grrrrrr. Open eyes. See Michael hovering over me grinning. Look at clock. 7:15? No. I will not wake up. I don’t have to wake up until 8! What are you doing to me? Go away. Go. Shoo! Michael, really. Shoo. Thank you!

7:31 a.m.

Grrrr the blender is SO LOUD. Why does he have to make a smoothie right this very minute? Doesn’t he know I have 29 more minutes of blissful sleep? Shhhh.

7:33 a.m.

I dream that I’m taking a shower in a public bathroom (ew) wearing a bathing suit (odd) when a woman starts yelling that I cut her in line. I tell her there was no line, but she can form one now because I’m not done. Suddenly there’s a group of angry mothers complaining that their kids need a shower and I ignore them and continue to wash my armpits and feet, which are really the only things I end up washing since I’m wearing a bathing suit.

OK then.

7:55 a.m.

“Moooolllly. Good morning!” OK! I’m up, I’m up. I’m moving. Am I moving? Just put one foot out of the blanket. A little more…a little more…OK! Now the other foot. Almost there…but the pillow is so soft and UP!

7:57 a.m.

Puppy love!  Hi! Hi, hi,  hi, hi! Good morning! Can I pee please? I can barely open my eyes and you’ve had a full day already. Silly dog. Hi Michael, good morning to you too. Boy are you chipper for 8 a.m. Lunch? Yeah, sure. I can make you lunch. No, Kodiak. You may not have any turkey. Go sit down. Go on. Sit. Sit down! Good boy. Here’s some cheese. Oh, you love cheese!

Michael probably wants chips. Ew, salt and vinegar. I hate salt and vinegar. Can I get them in the sandwich bag without touching them? I think I can, I think I can, I think I…yes!

8:15 a.m.

Shower time. Jeesh, showering is such a process sometimes. I wish I could just be magically ready. Oh I should try that new deodorant today. It claims to be super strong and have no white residue which YEAH RIGHT, but I’ll try it. It has the same amount of active ingredients as all those clinical ones but is half the price. I’m nothing if not a bargain hunter. Yes, even with deodorant.

Did I ever tell the bloggies about the last deodorant? I dont’ think so. I’ll have to tell them it’s OK but not as good as my old one. I should also tell them that the Shoeru hasn’t died, she’s just behind and yes, they can still submit questions and I’ll add it to the list. Wow, I miss buying shoes. A lot. I think that will be my first purchase after the wedding. Wedding. Cupcake. Dessert. Ice cream. Gelato. Sugar. Cereal. Breakfast.

I should get out of the shower.

At work.

Huh, this deodorant does work (Mitchum). And no residue. We’ll see how it is at the end of the day.

George Carlin died? How did I miss that? And that means there’s one more, right? First Tim Russert, now Carlin…who’s next? I hate how death comes in threes. Mostly with famous people. Does it happen with non-famous people too? Probably. I don’t really want to find out.

I’m still hungry. The English muffin didn’t cut it. Oooh I have my frozen grapes downstairs! I forgot I left some at work. Mmm grapes are good.  

It’s only 9:30? How is it only 9:30? Oh, Monday. You strike again.

Today was supposed to be a good day. I woke up refreshed, happy that it was Friday and the weekend (and a martini) where only eight hours away. The temperature was perfect and I’m wearing yoga pants and who in their right mind isn’t happy while wearing yoga pants?

So there I was, all happy and naive because the work gods or the universe or someone thought it would be funny to have a work project I worked so hard on for DAYS basically get thrown down the toilet with one bad review. Fun.

So, as I prepare to do damage control, and seeing as how a martini is still seven hours away, I thought the one thing that could brighten my day at this very moment was some good old wedding mocking.

Join me, won’t you, as I describe for you just how to have the Cinderella Wedding Of Your Dreams.

You must start with the dress. The bigger, the better because Cinderella would wear nothing short of a ball gown. Now let’s be clear, I’m not mocking the ball gown. The day I bought my dress there was an itty bitty thing trying one on and she looked fabulous in it. I would look like a cream puff. Now that we’re clear I’m not mocking the ball gown, let it be understood that I will be mocking everything else.

(OK, maybe I’m mocking that train just a little bit. I mean, how are you going to dance in that thing?)

Moving on…

The cake should be the centerpiece of your reception. Be sure to showcase it with its very own carriage.

“Love…let me count the ways” calculators. What every guest wants to throw in the trash will cherish forever.

Nothing will make your fairytale come true like a castle backdrop. Stroll through the cardboard arches with your new husband. Stop to marvel at the sky-like drapery and pause to admire the foam swans.

Candlelight provides ambiance. Make sure your tea lights are tucked firmly in your crown holders.

A Cinderella bride would not be complete without her glass slippers. Promise me you’ll wear flats and not the stripper variety. Cinderella would never approve.

People. I saved the best for last. Did you forget the mice? Gus Gus? COME ON. A Cinderella wedding must showcase the best of the best and the best would not be complete without chocolate mice favors.

Yes. They look like turds. Mice turds. On your wedding tables. Immortalized forever in photographs and seared onto the brains of your guests for eternity.

You’re welcome.