I know. We're bums.
It's not like we've even been out of town or anything. We've been right here, not blogging, all this time. I really don't know what to say. I guess the feeling is, when we're knee-deep in important decisions like which color of pink looks right with our save-the-dates, you guys are better off not knowing.
But after thinking about it for a while, I thought to myself, Hey, this is a wedding blog, for pete's sake. Time for some wedding talk. Suck it up, people.
First: the Gown. After an insane amount of stressing, I bought one. Being a lover of bargains, I bought it on eBay, so there was none of the typical 10- to 12-week waiting period nonsense. It's hanging in my closet, waiting to be shortened and calling out to be tried on every 20 minutes or so: "Kelly, try me on! Try me on while you drink red wine and eat pomegranates!" It's a real troublemaker, that dress. I will probably wear it tonight while I'm watching the Dancing With the Stars, Anna's new favorite show.
Next: the save-the-dates. These are coming, and they will have a website on them. You will go to the website, and it will explain the mysteries of transporation to Hayward, Wisconsin. That is, if Josh has built the website by then. If he hasn't, then the wedding's off anyway, so don't sweat it.
And last: the registry. Yesterday I went to a store and they gave me a Palm Pilot attached to a stun gun and told me to get going because they wanted the gun back in an hour. It was kind of a fancy store, so I was expecting a mimosa and a pedicure while I pointed to gilded soup tureens and said, "I want ten of those." Instead I wandered around aimlessly in a very crowded store full of people who think about chargers a lot (not the Harding Chargers, but the things you put around your plate but do not use so your plate isn't lonely), scanned enough plates for us to break a few and still serve all of Eileen's friends, and then lost interest. I think if I do any more registering, it will be for yarn and Huskers tickets, or maybe a kitten.
Speaking of kittens, don't you guys think it's time for a new "Ask a Cat"?
Monday, October 15, 2007
OMG! It's been more than a month! WTF!
Here's some filler content while we get our bidness together:
An article about my Alma Mater (I think--I read this twice and I don't think it says anything about anything, but the words "Gustavus" and "Swedish" do appear in the same sentence)
Bizarro Josh terrorizes New York City while real Josh naps (thanks Tony)
A shining example of a higher love from Kelly McConnor
Filler Art:
This is the oft-mentioned Ned's Cabin, as viewed from a kayak.
And here is a picture of a (slightly) larger-than-lifesize bass much like the kind you can catch in Clear Lake if you stay at Ned's Cabin. I took this picture at the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame in Hayward so you could start to get a feel for all of the many cultural attractions in the area.
And I'll leave you for now with an idea of the best time for bass fishing:
An article about my Alma Mater (I think--I read this twice and I don't think it says anything about anything, but the words "Gustavus" and "Swedish" do appear in the same sentence)
Bizarro Josh terrorizes New York City while real Josh naps (thanks Tony)
A shining example of a higher love from Kelly McConnor
Filler Art:
This is the oft-mentioned Ned's Cabin, as viewed from a kayak.
And here is a picture of a (slightly) larger-than-lifesize bass much like the kind you can catch in Clear Lake if you stay at Ned's Cabin. I took this picture at the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame in Hayward so you could start to get a feel for all of the many cultural attractions in the area.
And I'll leave you for now with an idea of the best time for bass fishing:
Friday, September 7, 2007
Attention WEDDING PARTY and people who share beds with members of the WEDDING PARTY and people who are willing to sleep with Pat:
Josh teased a bit to Ned’s Cabin yesterday. He said, and I quote, “blah blah blah Ned’s Cabin.”
You might ask yourself, who is this Ned, and why do I have to stay in his cabin?
I’ll tell you who Ned is. Ned is NOT IMPORTANT and stop asking, you nosy so-and-sos. Ned is a man, just a man with a cabin, and we are renting that cabin, and you are staying in that cabin, and that is the end of the discussion.
If you must have more information, our parents have rented this cabin called Clear Lake Point which we call Ned’s Cabin, right across Clear Lake from where the wedding ceremony will be held. The house sleeps fifty people comfortably, or 19 in beds. It’s enormous, and it has often been called “The Graceland of the Upper Midwest” because of its numerous bowling alleys and the solid gold chandelier that hangs in the Honeymoon suite above the revolving bed.
Some of you may not know this, but being in our wedding party is a Huge Pain in the Ass*, (and splendidly large hats are NOT cheap) so we thought, what better way to say thank you than to treat you to a big cabin in the woods with kayaks and paddleboats and canoes and warm water and loons so that if you have the time, you can have a little mini-vacation before you have to stand there in your mint green tuxes before God and everyone and commit to being our friends forever. Josh and I hope this will tempt some of you to come out as early as Wednesday before the wedding to enjoy Hayward and all that it has to offer, namely, loons. There are enough real beds to sleep everyone comfortably and a huge kitchen and satellite tv and pizza delivery options available. There is a pool table and a fire pit and even a piano for sing-a-longs of “We’re in Business.” It is ten minutes from the original Famous Daves. Frankly, I would go there right now if I didn’t think my bosses would frown upon it.
Please come join us at Ned's, oh party of ours. We hope it will in some way offset the choreographed number you’ll be doing to “We’ve Got Tonight” after the ceremony. We hope.
*See: What do you think of this dress? Really? You don't think it's too slutty? Do I look fat in it? You'd tell me if I looked fat in it, right? Maybe we should try on some more dresses. What are you doing this weekend?
You might ask yourself, who is this Ned, and why do I have to stay in his cabin?
I’ll tell you who Ned is. Ned is NOT IMPORTANT and stop asking, you nosy so-and-sos. Ned is a man, just a man with a cabin, and we are renting that cabin, and you are staying in that cabin, and that is the end of the discussion.
If you must have more information, our parents have rented this cabin called Clear Lake Point which we call Ned’s Cabin, right across Clear Lake from where the wedding ceremony will be held. The house sleeps fifty people comfortably, or 19 in beds. It’s enormous, and it has often been called “The Graceland of the Upper Midwest” because of its numerous bowling alleys and the solid gold chandelier that hangs in the Honeymoon suite above the revolving bed.
Some of you may not know this, but being in our wedding party is a Huge Pain in the Ass*, (and splendidly large hats are NOT cheap) so we thought, what better way to say thank you than to treat you to a big cabin in the woods with kayaks and paddleboats and canoes and warm water and loons so that if you have the time, you can have a little mini-vacation before you have to stand there in your mint green tuxes before God and everyone and commit to being our friends forever. Josh and I hope this will tempt some of you to come out as early as Wednesday before the wedding to enjoy Hayward and all that it has to offer, namely, loons. There are enough real beds to sleep everyone comfortably and a huge kitchen and satellite tv and pizza delivery options available. There is a pool table and a fire pit and even a piano for sing-a-longs of “We’re in Business.” It is ten minutes from the original Famous Daves. Frankly, I would go there right now if I didn’t think my bosses would frown upon it.
Please come join us at Ned's, oh party of ours. We hope it will in some way offset the choreographed number you’ll be doing to “We’ve Got Tonight” after the ceremony. We hope.
*See: What do you think of this dress? Really? You don't think it's too slutty? Do I look fat in it? You'd tell me if I looked fat in it, right? Maybe we should try on some more dresses. What are you doing this weekend?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wayward in Hayward
This blogging thing is complicated. For one thing, you are supposed to do it more than once a month, apparently, so that people don't forget about your blog! But who has the time? Some of us have jobs, people!
Also, our URL isn't accurate anymore, as She-Bear pointed out in our last post. That renders the counter on the left inaccurate as well! Gah! Our wedding date is now moved up a week, to July 12, 2008. See, we called to book hotel blocks and discovered that apparently there is a monthlong sleepaway camp going on near Hayward, and that the campers' moms and dads had already reserved all the rooms in town for parents' weekend on the 19th. That created a huge problem, because we knew that some of our guests (my friend Pat, my brother Gabe) would want to try to meet girls at the sleepaway camp, and who needs parents interfering with yo' game, playa? Too, we figured that some of you nellie-nellies would want hotel rooms. Come on!
So, the lady and I are going to have a talk about this blog. In the meantime, though, I will tell you about OUR FABULOUS WEDDING-PLANNING TRIP, from which we have just returned.
For starters, how apropos that we should make the journey over the Labor Day weekend, because wedding planning is a lot of work. To the casual observer, this may not be apparent, because it just looks like a bunch of flipping through magazines and pointing at the things inside of them, but the casual observer doesn't understand just how many things there are to point at. Also, you are not just pointing! Some of the things in the magazines must be admired, some must be mocked, and some must be torn out and put into a binder! I am really glad I'm not in charge of that last bit, because whenever I tear something out to store in a binder, I end up with a binder full of stuff that I never look at again, which ends up getting stored in a cardboard box with a bunch of other binders full of stuff I've never looked at again. The box keeps getting bigger and bigger, and frankly, it's getting too heavy and real old at this point. When I started this system back in college, I was pretty sure I'd have an attic soon where I could leave the box until I died, after which my kids would go through it, thinking it was all really important to me. That was so long ago. I am 31 now, and there is still no goddamn attic in my future. We don't have attics in New York. That would be preposterous. Please, please, let this wedding happen soon and then let me write a best-selling novel and then let us move back to the Midwest or somewhere with attics. PLEASE.
Anyway. Here are some highlights of the trip:
Ned's cabin. Our wedding party will be staying here next summer, and man, are you guys in for a treat. This place is enormous and has a pool table, a boating area, and, yes, a hot chicks room. Perfect for those of our friends who are into "the lifestyle," which is all of them.
The McCormick House. This is where the reception will be, and this joint is so stylin' that when you see it, you are not going to believe you're in Hayward, Wisconsin. You will probably think it's Eau Claire, perhaps Madison. One word, people: topiary. And one more word: reflecting pool.
Dragonfly! No joke, we were out on the dock and this dragonfly came and sat on my shirt for, like, an hour, until I had to forcibly remove him. We're pretty sure he was ancient and about to die, and just wanted to spend his last few minutes with a man society press has dubbed "god of the dragonflies—and the kitchen." He got me instead, but I don't think he knew the difference.
There is more, but I can already tell that this is going to be one of those posts that Kelly just shakes her head at. I will be back tomorrow, with a more composed manner, better things to say, and entirely better ways of saying them. Thanks for understanding—this wedding stuff just wipes you out.
Also, our URL isn't accurate anymore, as She-Bear pointed out in our last post. That renders the counter on the left inaccurate as well! Gah! Our wedding date is now moved up a week, to July 12, 2008. See, we called to book hotel blocks and discovered that apparently there is a monthlong sleepaway camp going on near Hayward, and that the campers' moms and dads had already reserved all the rooms in town for parents' weekend on the 19th. That created a huge problem, because we knew that some of our guests (my friend Pat, my brother Gabe) would want to try to meet girls at the sleepaway camp, and who needs parents interfering with yo' game, playa? Too, we figured that some of you nellie-nellies would want hotel rooms. Come on!
So, the lady and I are going to have a talk about this blog. In the meantime, though, I will tell you about OUR FABULOUS WEDDING-PLANNING TRIP, from which we have just returned.
For starters, how apropos that we should make the journey over the Labor Day weekend, because wedding planning is a lot of work. To the casual observer, this may not be apparent, because it just looks like a bunch of flipping through magazines and pointing at the things inside of them, but the casual observer doesn't understand just how many things there are to point at. Also, you are not just pointing! Some of the things in the magazines must be admired, some must be mocked, and some must be torn out and put into a binder! I am really glad I'm not in charge of that last bit, because whenever I tear something out to store in a binder, I end up with a binder full of stuff that I never look at again, which ends up getting stored in a cardboard box with a bunch of other binders full of stuff I've never looked at again. The box keeps getting bigger and bigger, and frankly, it's getting too heavy and real old at this point. When I started this system back in college, I was pretty sure I'd have an attic soon where I could leave the box until I died, after which my kids would go through it, thinking it was all really important to me. That was so long ago. I am 31 now, and there is still no goddamn attic in my future. We don't have attics in New York. That would be preposterous. Please, please, let this wedding happen soon and then let me write a best-selling novel and then let us move back to the Midwest or somewhere with attics. PLEASE.
Anyway. Here are some highlights of the trip:
Ned's cabin. Our wedding party will be staying here next summer, and man, are you guys in for a treat. This place is enormous and has a pool table, a boating area, and, yes, a hot chicks room. Perfect for those of our friends who are into "the lifestyle," which is all of them.
The McCormick House. This is where the reception will be, and this joint is so stylin' that when you see it, you are not going to believe you're in Hayward, Wisconsin. You will probably think it's Eau Claire, perhaps Madison. One word, people: topiary. And one more word: reflecting pool.
Dragonfly! No joke, we were out on the dock and this dragonfly came and sat on my shirt for, like, an hour, until I had to forcibly remove him. We're pretty sure he was ancient and about to die, and just wanted to spend his last few minutes with a man society press has dubbed "god of the dragonflies—and the kitchen." He got me instead, but I don't think he knew the difference.
There is more, but I can already tell that this is going to be one of those posts that Kelly just shakes her head at. I will be back tomorrow, with a more composed manner, better things to say, and entirely better ways of saying them. Thanks for understanding—this wedding stuff just wipes you out.
Monday, August 13, 2007
It's Not That We Haven't Been Blogging
It's just that we've been blogging on the NEW site. The correct site. You know, july122008.blogspot.com*? I can't believe you haven't heard of it. It's very popular. So popular, we're currently in negotiations for a book deal. We're not much into writing, but don't worry--I hear Karl Rove has plenty of free time to ghost a book for us these days.
Wait, why the confused look on your face? Hadn't you heard? We changed the date of the wedding, making this website completely irrelevant. (And irreverent!) July 19th, 2008 seemed like a good day for a while, but we thought better of it. The thing about July 19th, 2008, is that besides being the original date of our intended nuptials, it also happens to be the one day that a crack opens up between this world and the next letting out all the mystic wolf-spirits so they can feed on our fragile tendons while we cower in fear. I don't know how we forgot about that. It happens every Leap Year, and yet somehow it still sneaks right up on you.
Anyway, once we realized that, and also after we heard about Hayward, Wisconsin's famous Summer Solstice Tantra-athon, we knew June 21st was the perfect new date for our wedding. Everyone involved hustled to change our plans and renegotiate with our vendors for the new date. It all came off without a hitch. There were hotel rooms, there were available caterers, there were plenty of free members of Cirque de Soleil. It was a Christmas miracle, right in the middle of summer! It was too good to be true.
Who could have known that while our wedding team (also known as Team My Mom) scrambled to make the necessary changes, the guys at “Nampfh” (or National Association of Musky Fishermen) were also making a major schedule change. While they had originally hoped to hold the Hayward Lakes Annual Musky Fest on June 28th next year, those annoying dopes in Rice Lake had moved the date of their Musky fishing contest, making conflict unavoidable. No one wanted to see Rice Lake and Hayward go toe to toe for the greatest Musky fishing talent in the Northwoods, least of all this bride and groom. So we changed our wedding date again. A big sacrifice, but for a worthy cause.
So, in conclusion: July 12, 2008
Go ahead and mark your calendars in pen. This is the date we're sticking to. I'll be damned if I'm going to see another event get scheduled over our wedding, be it otherworldly or just plain supernatural. That is why I am starting a petition to get the Hayward Area Chamber of Congress to put my wedding on their official "Events" calendar for all to see (sign up in comments section). If someone wants to schedule something else on July 12, 2008, may God help their souls.
Just to be on the safe side, though, you probably should all keep the entire summer free for now.
*Obviously there is no such blog. You’ll have to keep coming to this inaccurately-named site for the latest wedding updates. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to show up for the ceremony a week late, Gabe.
Wait, why the confused look on your face? Hadn't you heard? We changed the date of the wedding, making this website completely irrelevant. (And irreverent!) July 19th, 2008 seemed like a good day for a while, but we thought better of it. The thing about July 19th, 2008, is that besides being the original date of our intended nuptials, it also happens to be the one day that a crack opens up between this world and the next letting out all the mystic wolf-spirits so they can feed on our fragile tendons while we cower in fear. I don't know how we forgot about that. It happens every Leap Year, and yet somehow it still sneaks right up on you.
Anyway, once we realized that, and also after we heard about Hayward, Wisconsin's famous Summer Solstice Tantra-athon, we knew June 21st was the perfect new date for our wedding. Everyone involved hustled to change our plans and renegotiate with our vendors for the new date. It all came off without a hitch. There were hotel rooms, there were available caterers, there were plenty of free members of Cirque de Soleil. It was a Christmas miracle, right in the middle of summer! It was too good to be true.
Who could have known that while our wedding team (also known as Team My Mom) scrambled to make the necessary changes, the guys at “Nampfh” (or National Association of Musky Fishermen) were also making a major schedule change. While they had originally hoped to hold the Hayward Lakes Annual Musky Fest on June 28th next year, those annoying dopes in Rice Lake had moved the date of their Musky fishing contest, making conflict unavoidable. No one wanted to see Rice Lake and Hayward go toe to toe for the greatest Musky fishing talent in the Northwoods, least of all this bride and groom. So we changed our wedding date again. A big sacrifice, but for a worthy cause.
So, in conclusion: July 12, 2008
Go ahead and mark your calendars in pen. This is the date we're sticking to. I'll be damned if I'm going to see another event get scheduled over our wedding, be it otherworldly or just plain supernatural. That is why I am starting a petition to get the Hayward Area Chamber of Congress to put my wedding on their official "Events" calendar for all to see (sign up in comments section). If someone wants to schedule something else on July 12, 2008, may God help their souls.
Just to be on the safe side, though, you probably should all keep the entire summer free for now.
*Obviously there is no such blog. You’ll have to keep coming to this inaccurately-named site for the latest wedding updates. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to show up for the ceremony a week late, Gabe.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
LISTEN UP, PEOPLE.
Josh and I have picked a WEDDING LOCATION. If that's not reason to shout, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS.
I'm not going to lie to you: We didn't do it without a couple of stiff drinks. But we did it. I can't imagine how hard it would have been if we would have had more than three places to chose from, two of which were VFWs. Yet another reason not to get hitched in NYC.
Here is the location: The McCormick House Inn and Repository of North Woods Style. Shh! We haven't put down a deposit yet. The McCormick House is in Hayward, Wisconsin, home of the cheese curd. (This is not actually true. The true home of the cheese curd is in my belly.) It is the only B&B in the Midwest that notes their sheets' thread count on their website. Also, and of much greater interest to me, they have two porches and plenty of parking.
Here are some things to do in Hayward, Wisconsin, because let's face it, you're coming.
See the WORLD'S LARGEST MUSKIE. Again, I feel the shouting is called for.
Race the Birkie. This does not look hard at all. If I were you, I wouldn't train; just show up and go for it.
Saw in the Lumberjack World Championships. Assuming you qualify for the finals, of course.
Attend the Crappie-A-Thon. Really. I regret to inform you that we won't be getting married during the Crappie-A-Thon, so if you yearn for all things crappie, you'll need to make separate arrangements.
If you need bait while you're here (you'll need bait), just swing by the Happy Hooker. The Happy Hooker is also where you'll want to go if you need anything else, such as Q-tips. Pat, we are arranging for them to stock extra condoms, so don't worry.
If you're hungry, why not drop in on the Norske Nook? You will not be surprised to learn that the Norske Nook is a chain. If I find out that you go to Hayward, Wisconsin, but do not visit the Norske Nook (and I WILL find out), you are in big trouble. You will go there, and you will get the strawberry rhubarb pie, and that is the end of the matter.
And finally, I know we'll all be hanging out at the Wild River, where the menu features "Deep Fried Delights and Mexican" and the party rocks All Night Long (or until 1 AM, whichever comes first). Go, Tony! Go, Tony! Break it down, Tony!
I'm not going to lie to you: We didn't do it without a couple of stiff drinks. But we did it. I can't imagine how hard it would have been if we would have had more than three places to chose from, two of which were VFWs. Yet another reason not to get hitched in NYC.
Here is the location: The McCormick House Inn and Repository of North Woods Style. Shh! We haven't put down a deposit yet. The McCormick House is in Hayward, Wisconsin, home of the cheese curd. (This is not actually true. The true home of the cheese curd is in my belly.) It is the only B&B in the Midwest that notes their sheets' thread count on their website. Also, and of much greater interest to me, they have two porches and plenty of parking.
Here are some things to do in Hayward, Wisconsin, because let's face it, you're coming.
See the WORLD'S LARGEST MUSKIE. Again, I feel the shouting is called for.
Race the Birkie. This does not look hard at all. If I were you, I wouldn't train; just show up and go for it.
Saw in the Lumberjack World Championships. Assuming you qualify for the finals, of course.
Attend the Crappie-A-Thon. Really. I regret to inform you that we won't be getting married during the Crappie-A-Thon, so if you yearn for all things crappie, you'll need to make separate arrangements.
If you need bait while you're here (you'll need bait), just swing by the Happy Hooker. The Happy Hooker is also where you'll want to go if you need anything else, such as Q-tips. Pat, we are arranging for them to stock extra condoms, so don't worry.
If you're hungry, why not drop in on the Norske Nook? You will not be surprised to learn that the Norske Nook is a chain. If I find out that you go to Hayward, Wisconsin, but do not visit the Norske Nook (and I WILL find out), you are in big trouble. You will go there, and you will get the strawberry rhubarb pie, and that is the end of the matter.
And finally, I know we'll all be hanging out at the Wild River, where the menu features "Deep Fried Delights and Mexican" and the party rocks All Night Long (or until 1 AM, whichever comes first). Go, Tony! Go, Tony! Break it down, Tony!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Ask A Cat!
Ever had a burning question that you wished you could ask a cat, but found you were too embarrassed to do so? You should not be embarrassed! And was it really burning? Because there is a cream for that, although it is not the kind that you lap from a dish.
Q: How come there are no formally announced positions for cats in weddings?
A: That is a very good question! In fact there are two very formal positions for cats in weddings: Cats can be on the floor, or cats can be on a chair! Cats should not be on the table, or someone will squirt them with the spray bottle!
Q: But what about being a bridesmaid or groomsman? I'd like to honor my cat at the wedding, but I don't know the right way to do it.
A: Cats are neither maids nor men, so they cannot be bridesmaids or groomsmen. Some couples choose to have a best cat or a cat of honor, but I will be honest with you: Cats do not plan the best bachelor or bachelorette parties—usually, they schedule a trip to a fishmonger's. Also, many countries do not recognize cats as legal witnesses to a marriage. One option is to have the cat be your ring bearer, but you will probably have to shake a can of Pounce™ treats to make sure the cat brings the ring to the front of the church. Cats do not make good flower girls, because they often eat the flowers.
If you have a question for ASK A CAT, please leave it in the comments! ASK A CAT welcomes questions from everyone and about everything, but specific areas of expertise include etiquette, napping, interpersonal relations, and tuna fish.
Q: How come there are no formally announced positions for cats in weddings?
A: That is a very good question! In fact there are two very formal positions for cats in weddings: Cats can be on the floor, or cats can be on a chair! Cats should not be on the table, or someone will squirt them with the spray bottle!
Q: But what about being a bridesmaid or groomsman? I'd like to honor my cat at the wedding, but I don't know the right way to do it.
A: Cats are neither maids nor men, so they cannot be bridesmaids or groomsmen. Some couples choose to have a best cat or a cat of honor, but I will be honest with you: Cats do not plan the best bachelor or bachelorette parties—usually, they schedule a trip to a fishmonger's. Also, many countries do not recognize cats as legal witnesses to a marriage. One option is to have the cat be your ring bearer, but you will probably have to shake a can of Pounce™ treats to make sure the cat brings the ring to the front of the church. Cats do not make good flower girls, because they often eat the flowers.
If you have a question for ASK A CAT, please leave it in the comments! ASK A CAT welcomes questions from everyone and about everything, but specific areas of expertise include etiquette, napping, interpersonal relations, and tuna fish.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Never Trust Rhode-Bots
I apologize for totally forgetting the BEST PART OF THE MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, and that is when Dr. Bob showed us this video:
We are well aware that it's been around since last November. Are we getting to the party late? Fashionably late, if anything. We don't spend all our time goofing off on the Internet, people. OUR LOVE keeps us busy, as do our jobs. So don't hate. And thank you, Dr. B!
We are well aware that it's been around since last November. Are we getting to the party late? Fashionably late, if anything. We don't spend all our time goofing off on the Internet, people. OUR LOVE keeps us busy, as do our jobs. So don't hate. And thank you, Dr. B!
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Divine Providence
Hey, amigos. It's been a long time since I rapped at ya, and I know you are wondering: How did Kelly and Josh and THEIR LOVE spend Memorial Day weekend?
The answer is: We spent it in Rhode Island. But we cannot prove it, because nobody took any pictures.
Yes, we went up to see our friends Bob and Kelly—better known, to eliminate confusion, as Dr. Bob the Astrophysicist and Kelly 2/Kelly Austero—and basically, our weekend consisted of drinking, watching TV shows on DVD, drinking, drinking, running to the liquor store (and by "running," I mean "driving"—but safely), and drinking. We did some eating, too, and went to an arts-and-crafts fair (the ladies protested, but Bob and I were adamant about going).
And yes, we did have to tell Bob and Kelly 2 to stop trying to swing with us, too. I don't know, man. Maybe we need to stop showering, stop working out, stop just lookin' so damn good. Maybe we're just friends with a lot of open-minded people. I don't know, man.
So on Saturday we woke up and hopped on the train. Super busy, so that we couldn't sit down for the first 45 minutes of the ride or so. The conductor said, "Should clear out by Stamford," and then, lo and behold, it cleared out by Stamford and we could sit and read and listen to our musics. Bob and Kelly 2 picked us up in New Haven, and after the obligatory jokes about people who go to Yale (except for Rory, bless her heart), we headed in the direction of Providence.
Every time we go to visit Bob and Kelly 2, they tell us what terrible, terrible drivers the native Rhode Islandese are, but this was the first time we had a chance to see the terribleness in all its full-blown glory. On the way to their house from the train station alone, we saw three deer get hit, two trucks flip over, and four familes die fiery, fiery deaths. Also, a bus full of nuns exploded. (At one point Kelly 2 said, "Bob, maybe you should pull over and Kelly and Josh can take off their clothes and use them to wrap up some of the injured people. We could all take off our clothes and use them to wrap up some of the injured people!" Subtle, K2, subtle.)
Once we'd arrived in Providence (actually it was Cranston—seriously, though: Chill, people) and put our bags away, we hustled down to the arts-and-crafts fair, where Kelly would not let me buy a comforter and pillow set with Yoda on it. I should have gone over her head on that one, but between that and the candy rocks, I just sort of got lost in a reverie. Yes, a lady was selling candy rocks. They looked just like gravel (kind of like the rocks you put on the bottom of your fish tank), but they tasted like delicious candy. Oh, and then, at a booth selling posters and other pop culture matériel, I overheard the greatest, most mind-bogglingest conversation ever:
20-year-old Girl: They have AC/DC posters. You like them, right?
20-year-old Boyfriend: No. They're to heavy metal what the Ramones were to punk. They suck.
Wow.
That night we dined at Lobstermania. On the one hand, it was awesome, because we didn't have to wait for an hour like the other rubes, thanks to Kelly 2's extraordinary reservation-getting foresight, and because we got to sit by the water, looking over the harbor; on the other hand, they only had two kinds of dessert: Grape-Nut pudding and mud pie, which our waiter described as—well, I can't remember what he said verbatim, but he used the words "cow shit." We chalked it up to his thinking that we were a "cool" table, probably because of our young good looks. Anyhoo, we passed on both and went to a café for cake and coffee. Then we went home, had some wine, and the ladies talked about physics while Bob and I talked about knitting. (It was very confusing; we were pretty drunk.)
The next day, Sunday, we went to breakfast at Mr. Peabody's. If for some reason, you ever find yourself in the Providence area, there are only two things you must do: #1. Eat at Mr. Peabody's. The food is delicious, and the folks there are the only friendly people in the entire tiny state. You think I'm making a sweeping generalization about Rhode Island, but Bob and Kelly Austero told us that everyone there was rude, and they weren't kidding. It's hard to put into words, but go there sometime and see for yourself. I think the rudeness is either because the state is so small and has an inferiority complex, or because of the dark forces lurking in the waters just off the shore. Which brings me to: #2. Sacrifice something or someone to Cthulhu. Not because H.P. Lovecraft grew up in Providence, but just because it's polite. Respecting your elders means the Great Old Ones, too, people.
After breakfast we went back to Bob and Kelly 2's and drank homemade sangria. Lots of homemade sangria. We kept making it and drinking it all and making more. We watched Arrested Development and drank some more sangria. Honestly, Sunday is kind of a blur. I mean, it was a blur when it was happening, and it hasn't become any more clear. All I remember is finally falling into bed with Kelly, telling her how glad I was that we were going to make it home safely the next day, that we hadn't gotten so intoxicated as to be tricked into swinging...feeling her strong arms wrapped around me and the stubble on her cheek grazing against my skin as she whispered sweet astrophysical nothings in my ear in her deep, deep voice...OMG. Nothing. Never mind.
The answer is: We spent it in Rhode Island. But we cannot prove it, because nobody took any pictures.
Yes, we went up to see our friends Bob and Kelly—better known, to eliminate confusion, as Dr. Bob the Astrophysicist and Kelly 2/Kelly Austero—and basically, our weekend consisted of drinking, watching TV shows on DVD, drinking, drinking, running to the liquor store (and by "running," I mean "driving"—but safely), and drinking. We did some eating, too, and went to an arts-and-crafts fair (the ladies protested, but Bob and I were adamant about going).
And yes, we did have to tell Bob and Kelly 2 to stop trying to swing with us, too. I don't know, man. Maybe we need to stop showering, stop working out, stop just lookin' so damn good. Maybe we're just friends with a lot of open-minded people. I don't know, man.
So on Saturday we woke up and hopped on the train. Super busy, so that we couldn't sit down for the first 45 minutes of the ride or so. The conductor said, "Should clear out by Stamford," and then, lo and behold, it cleared out by Stamford and we could sit and read and listen to our musics. Bob and Kelly 2 picked us up in New Haven, and after the obligatory jokes about people who go to Yale (except for Rory, bless her heart), we headed in the direction of Providence.
Every time we go to visit Bob and Kelly 2, they tell us what terrible, terrible drivers the native Rhode Islandese are, but this was the first time we had a chance to see the terribleness in all its full-blown glory. On the way to their house from the train station alone, we saw three deer get hit, two trucks flip over, and four familes die fiery, fiery deaths. Also, a bus full of nuns exploded. (At one point Kelly 2 said, "Bob, maybe you should pull over and Kelly and Josh can take off their clothes and use them to wrap up some of the injured people. We could all take off our clothes and use them to wrap up some of the injured people!" Subtle, K2, subtle.)
Once we'd arrived in Providence (actually it was Cranston—seriously, though: Chill, people) and put our bags away, we hustled down to the arts-and-crafts fair, where Kelly would not let me buy a comforter and pillow set with Yoda on it. I should have gone over her head on that one, but between that and the candy rocks, I just sort of got lost in a reverie. Yes, a lady was selling candy rocks. They looked just like gravel (kind of like the rocks you put on the bottom of your fish tank), but they tasted like delicious candy. Oh, and then, at a booth selling posters and other pop culture matériel, I overheard the greatest, most mind-bogglingest conversation ever:
20-year-old Girl: They have AC/DC posters. You like them, right?
20-year-old Boyfriend: No. They're to heavy metal what the Ramones were to punk. They suck.
Wow.
That night we dined at Lobstermania. On the one hand, it was awesome, because we didn't have to wait for an hour like the other rubes, thanks to Kelly 2's extraordinary reservation-getting foresight, and because we got to sit by the water, looking over the harbor; on the other hand, they only had two kinds of dessert: Grape-Nut pudding and mud pie, which our waiter described as—well, I can't remember what he said verbatim, but he used the words "cow shit." We chalked it up to his thinking that we were a "cool" table, probably because of our young good looks. Anyhoo, we passed on both and went to a café for cake and coffee. Then we went home, had some wine, and the ladies talked about physics while Bob and I talked about knitting. (It was very confusing; we were pretty drunk.)
The next day, Sunday, we went to breakfast at Mr. Peabody's. If for some reason, you ever find yourself in the Providence area, there are only two things you must do: #1. Eat at Mr. Peabody's. The food is delicious, and the folks there are the only friendly people in the entire tiny state. You think I'm making a sweeping generalization about Rhode Island, but Bob and Kelly Austero told us that everyone there was rude, and they weren't kidding. It's hard to put into words, but go there sometime and see for yourself. I think the rudeness is either because the state is so small and has an inferiority complex, or because of the dark forces lurking in the waters just off the shore. Which brings me to: #2. Sacrifice something or someone to Cthulhu. Not because H.P. Lovecraft grew up in Providence, but just because it's polite. Respecting your elders means the Great Old Ones, too, people.
After breakfast we went back to Bob and Kelly 2's and drank homemade sangria. Lots of homemade sangria. We kept making it and drinking it all and making more. We watched Arrested Development and drank some more sangria. Honestly, Sunday is kind of a blur. I mean, it was a blur when it was happening, and it hasn't become any more clear. All I remember is finally falling into bed with Kelly, telling her how glad I was that we were going to make it home safely the next day, that we hadn't gotten so intoxicated as to be tricked into swinging...feeling her strong arms wrapped around me and the stubble on her cheek grazing against my skin as she whispered sweet astrophysical nothings in my ear in her deep, deep voice...OMG. Nothing. Never mind.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Quiz Answers Posted!
Just wanted everyone to know that I have posted my answers to the wedding style quiz, not as a new post, but, for the sake of orderliness (next to goshliness, which is next to Joshliness), in the comments of the relevant post.
That is all.
That is all.
About Tony and Michelle.
Ever since Josh posted on this blog about our trip to see Tony and Michelle in Denver, a flood of mail has been coming in asking us to clarify something. So let us clarify: Tony and Michelle are NOT REALLY swingers. It's important that we make that clear, for the sake of public record and not just because of this intimidating cease-and-desist letter we got from attorneys representing the Adult Swingers Society of Denver (ASS'D).
We formally apologize for any misunderstanding our blog might have caused and hope the misleading intimation that Tony and Michelle were among the group will not permanently discourage anyone interested in joining the "Swinging Tigers," as they are known to friends. Swing on, Tigers, swing on.
Now, in other Tony and Michelle news, I was distressed to discover that they have exposed us to the BUBONIC PLAGUE. Rude, no? According to the Wall Street Journal (this is a local newspaper in New York), Spanky, a capuchin monkey at the Denver Zoo—the VERY ZOO Tony and Michelle insisted we visit while in Denver—has shuffled off her mortal coil due to a nasty case of the Black Death. Apparently she came by her untimely demise by eating an infected squirrel just THREE DAYS after we saw Spanky frolicking with her mates on Monkey Island, and since her death, several other squirrels and a rabbit have also died of the same disease. Zoo officials recommend holding off on any meals of braised squirrel, monkey brains, or hassenpfeffer until the plague subsides, but otherwise see no reason to worry about the spread of bubonic plague to humans.
But that doesn't explain this persistent cough I've had since we got back from Denver.
We formally apologize for any misunderstanding our blog might have caused and hope the misleading intimation that Tony and Michelle were among the group will not permanently discourage anyone interested in joining the "Swinging Tigers," as they are known to friends. Swing on, Tigers, swing on.
Now, in other Tony and Michelle news, I was distressed to discover that they have exposed us to the BUBONIC PLAGUE. Rude, no? According to the Wall Street Journal (this is a local newspaper in New York), Spanky, a capuchin monkey at the Denver Zoo—the VERY ZOO Tony and Michelle insisted we visit while in Denver—has shuffled off her mortal coil due to a nasty case of the Black Death. Apparently she came by her untimely demise by eating an infected squirrel just THREE DAYS after we saw Spanky frolicking with her mates on Monkey Island, and since her death, several other squirrels and a rabbit have also died of the same disease. Zoo officials recommend holding off on any meals of braised squirrel, monkey brains, or hassenpfeffer until the plague subsides, but otherwise see no reason to worry about the spread of bubonic plague to humans.
But that doesn't explain this persistent cough I've had since we got back from Denver.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
What Color is Your Chuppa?
Perhaps some of you in the audience have read or know someone who has read What Color Is Your Parachute? If you have read it, you've probably asked yourself, Hey, where was that kind of helpful, down-to-earth advice for me when I was trying to plan my wedding? But never fear. After the divorce comes through and you meet a new Mr. or Mrs. Right, you can use this fantastic quiz designed by an actual wedding planner* to get a feel for what sort of wedding you're dreaming of, and make that dream come true! Just follow the simple instructions:
1. Take quiz
2. Plan wedding
Ready? Here you go!
The Highly Effective, Somewhat Entertaining Wedding Style Quiz (Results Ensured)
My first priority for the wedding is:
A. To share a special moment with those closest to me.
B. To allow people from different parts of our lives to meet and celebrate.
C. Having a superfantastic fun time.
D. Other: ___________________________________________________
List 5 adjectives that you would like to describe your ceremony and reception (note: "monkeylicious" is not an acceptable adjective).
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
At my wedding, I most want guests to be:
A. A part of a meaningful tradition.
B. Surrounded by luxury, beauty and elegance.
C. Relaxed and happy.
D. Entertained.
List 3 things about the wedding preparation that you are most looking forward to:
1.
2.
3.
List 3 things about the wedding celebration itself that you are most looking forward to.
1.
2.
3.
Fill in the blank with at least 3 examples: "When people hear I'm getting married, they expect _______, but it's just not what I want."
1.
2.
3.
My thoughts on wedding etiquette are:
A. I want to know the rules; I want to follow the rules.
B. I'm interested in getting the full story, but some modern twists are fine.
C. It's barely spellable and barely relevant.
If you had to guess at the 5 things that are most important to your affianced re: the wedding, what would you say? List in order, with 1 being the most important to said future life partner.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
Imagine your ideal wedding. Identify 3 specific images that come to mind.
1.
2.
3.
As a bride, I want to look:
A. Elegant.
B. Sexy.
C. Like a pretty pretty princess.
D. I don't care or haven't thought much about it.
Who is the most stressful to deal with re: wedding planning?
A. The to-be in-laws
B. The parentes
C. Fiancé/fiancée
D. Other: ______________________________
List 5 people who have been most supportive of your engagement and wedding planning. Exclude anyone who has used their lunch hour to draft you a wedding style quiz, as they will mentally add themselves to the list.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
In the words of the late, great Rachael Ray, how easy is that? Now that I've filled out this quiz, I know that I want a wedding with an open bar, a Ferrari cake, and a performance by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. Believe me, that's a lot more than I knew before I took the quiz. Thanks, actual wedding planner*!
*No actual wedding planners were involved in making this quiz. A few lawyers were harmed, though.
1. Take quiz
2. Plan wedding
Ready? Here you go!
The Highly Effective, Somewhat Entertaining Wedding Style Quiz (Results Ensured)
My first priority for the wedding is:
A. To share a special moment with those closest to me.
B. To allow people from different parts of our lives to meet and celebrate.
C. Having a superfantastic fun time.
D. Other: ___________________________________________________
List 5 adjectives that you would like to describe your ceremony and reception (note: "monkeylicious" is not an acceptable adjective).
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
At my wedding, I most want guests to be:
A. A part of a meaningful tradition.
B. Surrounded by luxury, beauty and elegance.
C. Relaxed and happy.
D. Entertained.
List 3 things about the wedding preparation that you are most looking forward to:
1.
2.
3.
List 3 things about the wedding celebration itself that you are most looking forward to.
1.
2.
3.
Fill in the blank with at least 3 examples: "When people hear I'm getting married, they expect _______, but it's just not what I want."
1.
2.
3.
My thoughts on wedding etiquette are:
A. I want to know the rules; I want to follow the rules.
B. I'm interested in getting the full story, but some modern twists are fine.
C. It's barely spellable and barely relevant.
If you had to guess at the 5 things that are most important to your affianced re: the wedding, what would you say? List in order, with 1 being the most important to said future life partner.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
Imagine your ideal wedding. Identify 3 specific images that come to mind.
1.
2.
3.
As a bride, I want to look:
A. Elegant.
B. Sexy.
C. Like a pretty pretty princess.
D. I don't care or haven't thought much about it.
Who is the most stressful to deal with re: wedding planning?
A. The to-be in-laws
B. The parentes
C. Fiancé/fiancée
D. Other: ______________________________
List 5 people who have been most supportive of your engagement and wedding planning. Exclude anyone who has used their lunch hour to draft you a wedding style quiz, as they will mentally add themselves to the list.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
In the words of the late, great Rachael Ray, how easy is that? Now that I've filled out this quiz, I know that I want a wedding with an open bar, a Ferrari cake, and a performance by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. Believe me, that's a lot more than I knew before I took the quiz. Thanks, actual wedding planner*!
*No actual wedding planners were involved in making this quiz. A few lawyers were harmed, though.
Friday, May 18, 2007
An Aside About Wedding Planning
Now that you know how we met, I feel comfortable telling you that I've been having some trouble planning my wedding. Note that I didn't say "our" wedding, because that's not how I fly. As one of my b'maids said: "You are the CEO of this wedding, and Josh is the VP."
In our case VP is a mostly symbolic title. He started with some responsibilities, but I've had to strip them away, one by one. Hey, it's better than getting fired.
At the beginning of this whole process, Josh told me he had only one desire for his wedding: tiny sandwiches. You know, those little buns they set out at graduation parties along with a tray of lunch meats and cheeses and a bowl of butter. I said I didn't want tiny sandwiches at my wedding, and how about "Tiny Dancer" instead? He said, and I quote*: "No tiny sandwiches, no wedding. To you or anyone else."
So I caved on the tiny sandwiches. I thought that when the time came, we could hide the tiny sandwiches under a picnic table during the wedding and then feed them to the Cat Guards the next day. I thought I could handle one insane request from the groom.
That was before I had heard about his lifelong dream of an Acura cake. Or of his rhythmic dance routine to "Lady" by Styx.
So, now I'm taking a little more of the ownership of this wedding, and when you arrive at our reception and find a cake shaped like an Acura (the Legend, not some ugly RDX—I have my standards) and think about how much crazier things could have been, you'll thank me. But as CEO of WedPower Inc., I'm finding that Goethe was right: With great power comes great responsibility. And I'm not really sure I'm up to this. To wit, when the heat was on to pick our theme colors, I picked twelve. They're all lovely, but having twelve colors does complicate matters, especially since I only have three b'maids. (They will each have to wear four colors—two on the dress, one on the shoes, and the last color on splendidly large hats. It's okay, because I'm told that bridesmaids are supposed to look ridiculous.) Other bad decisions being considered: crashing the wedding so we can get hitched sooner, having the wedding on a dirigible, letting Josh sing a ballad during the cocktail hour. Also, I am 100 percent sure that I want to make the cake myself and buy the flowers from Costco.
Clearly, I am out of my league. So far my response has been to lie very still and hope that if I don't bring up the wedding, no one else will notice I haven't planned anything. It's not working at all. It's time for me to start envisioning the wedding of my dreams (only with Josh as the groom). So I called in the maids and got the Mostly Conclusive, Sometimes Accurate Wedding Style Test which I will be sharing with you in a coming post. Stay tuned!
*I never actually quote, because I don't have the kind of memory that remembers things accurately, per se.
In our case VP is a mostly symbolic title. He started with some responsibilities, but I've had to strip them away, one by one. Hey, it's better than getting fired.
At the beginning of this whole process, Josh told me he had only one desire for his wedding: tiny sandwiches. You know, those little buns they set out at graduation parties along with a tray of lunch meats and cheeses and a bowl of butter. I said I didn't want tiny sandwiches at my wedding, and how about "Tiny Dancer" instead? He said, and I quote*: "No tiny sandwiches, no wedding. To you or anyone else."
So I caved on the tiny sandwiches. I thought that when the time came, we could hide the tiny sandwiches under a picnic table during the wedding and then feed them to the Cat Guards the next day. I thought I could handle one insane request from the groom.
That was before I had heard about his lifelong dream of an Acura cake. Or of his rhythmic dance routine to "Lady" by Styx.
So, now I'm taking a little more of the ownership of this wedding, and when you arrive at our reception and find a cake shaped like an Acura (the Legend, not some ugly RDX—I have my standards) and think about how much crazier things could have been, you'll thank me. But as CEO of WedPower Inc., I'm finding that Goethe was right: With great power comes great responsibility. And I'm not really sure I'm up to this. To wit, when the heat was on to pick our theme colors, I picked twelve. They're all lovely, but having twelve colors does complicate matters, especially since I only have three b'maids. (They will each have to wear four colors—two on the dress, one on the shoes, and the last color on splendidly large hats. It's okay, because I'm told that bridesmaids are supposed to look ridiculous.) Other bad decisions being considered: crashing the wedding so we can get hitched sooner, having the wedding on a dirigible, letting Josh sing a ballad during the cocktail hour. Also, I am 100 percent sure that I want to make the cake myself and buy the flowers from Costco.
Clearly, I am out of my league. So far my response has been to lie very still and hope that if I don't bring up the wedding, no one else will notice I haven't planned anything. It's not working at all. It's time for me to start envisioning the wedding of my dreams (only with Josh as the groom). So I called in the maids and got the Mostly Conclusive, Sometimes Accurate Wedding Style Test which I will be sharing with you in a coming post. Stay tuned!
*I never actually quote, because I don't have the kind of memory that remembers things accurately, per se.
On Vacation With the Mile-High Club
So Kelly and I flew to Denver last weekend, and I will let you know now that despite the title of this post, we did not join the "Mile-High Club." For one thing, our departing and returning flights were both very crowded, and while I say that merely adds a certain frisson to lavatory love, Kelly says it's bad manners, because there could be people who need to go. Plus, she wasn't allowed to use the restroom on the first leg of our trip after she stole a flight attendant's Oprah magazine and he shrieked at her for it. And it's a moot point anyway, because we're saving our secret flowers for each other until we're married.
But tell that to our friends Tony and Michelle, whom we went to visit. Back when they lived in Nebraska, Tony and Michelle were pretty conservative, but I guess the liberal mountain air (you can smell the weed smoke blowing in from Fort Collins) does something to you, because pretty much the whole trip went like this:
Tony or Michelle: You guys wanna watch this HBO Real Sex program about swinging/this DVD box set of the Red Shoe Diaries/this video we made in our bedroom the other night?
Us: No, we will not make out with you!
They've been into "the lifestyle" for a couple of years now, ever since they were introduced to it at some mutual friends' wedding. Hey, whatever, it's no big thing to Kelly and me—we just want to be left out of it, is all. To reiterate: We both have a special gift from God that we're waiting to share only with the right person.
When we weren't fending off advances, though, we did get some real vacationing done. On Friday afternoon, we tromped through Denver Zoo, which gave the ladies a chance to oooh and aaah over fuzzy things while Tony and I concocted the kind of awesome make-believe schemes for which we are not famous, but should be. Basically what happens is that we see a bunch of signs that say "Do Not Feed the Animals" and immediately imagine entering the zoo with giant bags of food around our necks, and indignantly telling any staff member who questions us that That is ridiculous and Obviously, these oats and slabs of raw meat and varieties of birdseed are just, like, snacks for us, because the concessions are too expensive, and shouldn't they be doing something about that instead of harassing us? Also, mixed in with the food are chunks of chocolate and, like, cheese dips that contain a lot of high-fructose corn syrup and other things that are totally harmful to animals. Also, we actually are planning to feed the animals. That's a pretty good example of the rich fantasy life Tony and I enjoy. Our other great idea involved dressing up in full safari outfits (with pith helmets and monocles) and strolling in with blunderbusses on our shoulders; and, just as a staff member was saying something like, "There are fewer than 3,000 of these rhinoceroses left on Earth, and we have two here at the zoo," shooting one of the rhinoceroses. "Big bloody boy!" we'd say. "Went down like a rock, he did!"
Those two plans were pretty much the highlight of the afternoon, although Michelle was strangely enthralled by a gorilla that was eating a large piece of its own poop. It was shortly after leaving the Primate Panorama that she told us we were having an egg casserole and "monkey bread" for breakfast the following morning.
Me [whispering]: I don't know what monkey bread is, but if she tries to serve it to me, I will fling it at her.
Kelly [also whispering]: Relax. I'll sabotage the oven, and we can go to Perkins like normal people.
Me [still whispering]: Don't let me forget to lock the bedroom door tonight.
We finished with the zoo, and then it was time to head for dinner with my friend Brandi from high school at a Denver mainstay, Casa Bonita. In the seventh season of South Park, Kyle gets to go there for his birthday, and that totally made us want to go, too. Brandi—the only one of us who'd actually been there before—described the food as "of slightly lower quality than Taco Bell," but since in high school we'd eaten at Taco Bell literally every day, that didn't sound so bad to me.
Actually, the food was the least of our problems at Casa Bonita. The restaurant itself is awesome: It is enormous, and they have, like, cliff jumpers and Black Bart's Cave and all kinds of stuff. More sopapillas, please!
But they seated us not in the main part of the restaurant, where you could actually watch the cliff jumpers and hear the mariachi band while you dined, but in this bullshit room that looked exactly like a room in any other restaurant, except more run-down. Quite a bit more run-down, really. We assumed it was because the rest of the place was full (it was Friday night), but on further inspection, vast swaths of tables lay open and unseated in the main room. I mean, honestly, easily fifty tables. We should have asked to move, but Kelly had knifed me in the foot the night before to fix an ingrown toenail, and you had to carry your own food, so I voted to stay where we were and make the best of it. (After thirty years, you'd think I'd have learned how worthless making the best of it is.)
We did drink a lot of margaritas and watched the cliff divers after dinner, and we went through Black Bart's Cave (except for Brandi, who got her boobs honked by an adolescent boy the last time she'd been in there). Then we parted ways with Brandi, and Kelly and I were left to repel our would-be seducers. Kelly feigned an allergic reaction, pretending that she couldn't breathe, and went to bed. I ended up slipping a roofie in Tony's scotch so that I could watch the U2 Zoomerang DVD in peace. It was too bad, I thought as I sipped my own drink, that he and I couldn't stay up until 4 A.M. having the sort of great, meaningful conversation that we used to, before his new hobby.
(We drank a lot of scotch. We love scotch....scotchy-scotch-scotch...)
On Saturday morning, "disaster" struck when Michelle couldn't get the oven open to get the monkey bread out. Kelly did a great job of acting like she had nothing to do with it, and I was relieved—until I learned that in spite of the name, monkey bread is just soft, doughy bread cooked in sticky butter and sugar. Then I wanted some, and having learned from the night before that making the best of it was not going to help anything, I explained in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get some goddamn monkey bread for breakfast, my vacation was ruined. Finally Michelle pretty much kicked the oven open, breaking it completely, but it was worth it. Trust me.
We enjoyed our breakfast and orange beers (which are beers mixed with orange juice—basically, Tony and Michelle figured it would improve their chances of scoring if they fed us drinks all the time), and then we drove up to the mountains to hike. I suppose I should tell you how beautiful it was, but you and I both know that it was just a bunch of trees and sunshine and breathtaking views of the Rockies; if that's important to you, I guess you should go buy a Successories poster. We sat by a rushing creek for a while.
The drive home was more exciting, because Tony got carsick and Michelle helpfully took the twistiest, windiest, swerviest, bumpiest shortcut in the history of roads, saving us, like, five minutes. Kelly sang an impromptu inspirational song called "Tony, We're All Pullin' for Ya." Totally beautiful.
Kelly and I wanted either Thai or Italian food for dinner, but Tony and Michelle demanded that we order pizza, I think because they were frustrated by the lack of making out with us and wanted more time at home for their sexy machinations. I don't remember much about dinner except suddenly not being able to move and someone dragging me up the stairs to the master bedroom and my mouth tasting funny when I woke up. Like, really funny. Not only that, but I must have misplaced my roofies after using them the night before, because they weren't in my bag anymore. Annoying.
Michelle had to work on Sunday, so the remaining three of us watched Tivo and then picked up lunch to bring to her at the art center where she works. Tony parked in a spot that was clearly marked "15 Minutes or Less," but he said it was fine, because he's a "luxe member" at Banana Republic. There was a high school art show going on at the center, so we checked out some high school art (and some high school students—Kelly is like my little Mary Kay Letourneau); and then Michelle made us talk to an old person, so we smiled a lot and pretended to have manners—but as soon we left, we vowed to be cool when we were old, like Dumbledore.
After that, we got to the airport and flew home, and our taxi driver rolled down the window to make fun of some drunken-driving college boys from Virginia who proceeded to call him a terrorist and tell him he should be driving a camel instead of a cab. So we knew were back in New York, which was kind of melancholy, but at least our purity was still intact.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Cute Story, Josh.
But here's how it really happened.
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, humming Belle and Sebastian to myself on a warm fall night back in oh-five. Out of nowhere, a fire engine starting screaming up the avenue behind me, and then another, and then another. I saw them take a sharp turn about a hundred feet ahead, onto a side street where a slight trail of smoke billowed through the air. Without even stopping to think, I dropped my manuscript bag and broke into a run in the direction of the trucks. I didn't know how I could be of any help, I only knew that I had to try.
When I took the corner, the sight that met my eyes was astounding—and terrifying. An apartment complex of twelve, maybe thirteen stories was completely engulfed in flame up to the ninth floor (I counted windows). Fire poured from the sides of the building and the haze of thick smoke choked the air.* Residents cowered, afraid to get too close to the blazing building, but unwilling to turn away.
I ran up to the fire chief. "Chief!" I shouted. "Is there anyone still up there?" The thought made me choke back something awful. Something like fear.**
"I think everyone is safe and accounted for." Before he'd even finished his sentence I felt my entire body slump with relief. "The only question mark is—"
"My baby!" The cry cut through the smoke and chaos like floss through a cheesecake. "Somebody save my baby!"
"Where is she, ma'am?" the fire chief asked of the woman who had made the cries. She was not an old woman, but she wore the face of someone who had seen too much pain in her short life, worry etched into her brow, care burnt into her frown. One look at that face and I knew I had to do something.
"She's in the well behind the building!" she cried. "We were trying to get out and she fell down the well!"
"Then I'm afraid she's gone, ma'am," the fire chief said quickly, far too quickly. "The only way back there is through the burning building—and even then it would take a slender young twentysomething woman to fit into the opening of the well and lift your baby out. It's hopeless."
The woman's cries only increased in volume and desperation. It was all too much.
Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself grabbing a discarded fireman's jacket and bundling it around my shoulders as I made for the building. "Wait!" said the fire chief. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there! That's suicide!"
But I didn't care. I thought only of the baby down the well. Leading with my shoulder, I burst into the building and waved smoke away from my eyes. I could see only ten feet away the door to the courtyard where the fateful well had to be. I dashed for the door, and burst into the clean air with a gasp, suddenly realizing how long it had been since I'd taken a breath. Then, on the exhale, I heard the baby crying.
Her screams led me to the well, nestled behind a large patch of shrubbery, and once I found it, I knew what I had to do. I tied a length of garden hose around my own waist, knotted it as tightly as I knew how from my Cub Scout days. Then I lowered my body into the body of the well, using my hands and feet for purchase, and inch by precious inch, lowered myself down until I was low enough to see the baby. She lay there, dazed, tearful, and looked up at me with these great innocent eyes, eyes that seemed to beg me for answers: Why was this happening? What would become of us? How come I fell down this deep well and didn't break every bone in my body or at the very least pass out?
But for answers, I had none. I could only use my feet as giant chopsticks, and lift her from the bottom of the well. And with her pinned between my ankles, I hefted myself up the hose and out of the well. We were safe. For a moment.
But the building had been burning steadily this whole time, and there was no way out but back into the steaming inferno. The baby and I looked at each other, and then I shrugged—what's the difference? Or was it more like, what's the point?—and wrapped her in the fire-retardant jacket. Taking an enormous breath, I slammed into the door leading to the lobby and was immediately pushed to the ground by the force of the backdraft. On all fours I tried to look ahead, but there was only smoke and fire. To my left, a slight opening, a break in the flames. I pushed left, carrying the swaddled babe like a football. Forward, forward, I told myself. Just a little farther.
But the smoke overtook me. "Lie down," it seemed to say as it whistled around my head. "Take a break." I tried not to obey but suddenly helpless, I felt my body slide to the floor. I felt the air leave me. My last breath was spent in a scream—for help, for God, for what I don't know. I only know that I screamed, and then it all went blank.
***
The next thing I knew, I was lying in an airy hospital, breathing into a plastic bag, coughing, spurting, alive. I tried to sit up, but a kindly blond male nurse pushed me back to the bed. "Hey, take it easy," he said. "You're a hero. You should get to take a break."
With his words I knew. I knew the fire chief had rushed in with his state-of-the-art breathing equipment and saved my life, and the life of the poor wellbaby. I knew I had done the right thing. I had saved one life. It was all I knew, and it was enough.
But then with another look at the male nurse, I needed something more. "What's your name?" I found myself saying around the mask.
He smiled at me, pushed back my singed hair with a soft hand. "Josh. My name's Josh."
"And I'm Kelly," was all I could say before sleep took me again.
FIN
*Please note that smoke is always choking the air in novels, because air is a big pansy that never learned to fight back.
**Fear, another big choker.
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, humming Belle and Sebastian to myself on a warm fall night back in oh-five. Out of nowhere, a fire engine starting screaming up the avenue behind me, and then another, and then another. I saw them take a sharp turn about a hundred feet ahead, onto a side street where a slight trail of smoke billowed through the air. Without even stopping to think, I dropped my manuscript bag and broke into a run in the direction of the trucks. I didn't know how I could be of any help, I only knew that I had to try.
When I took the corner, the sight that met my eyes was astounding—and terrifying. An apartment complex of twelve, maybe thirteen stories was completely engulfed in flame up to the ninth floor (I counted windows). Fire poured from the sides of the building and the haze of thick smoke choked the air.* Residents cowered, afraid to get too close to the blazing building, but unwilling to turn away.
I ran up to the fire chief. "Chief!" I shouted. "Is there anyone still up there?" The thought made me choke back something awful. Something like fear.**
"I think everyone is safe and accounted for." Before he'd even finished his sentence I felt my entire body slump with relief. "The only question mark is—"
"My baby!" The cry cut through the smoke and chaos like floss through a cheesecake. "Somebody save my baby!"
"Where is she, ma'am?" the fire chief asked of the woman who had made the cries. She was not an old woman, but she wore the face of someone who had seen too much pain in her short life, worry etched into her brow, care burnt into her frown. One look at that face and I knew I had to do something.
"She's in the well behind the building!" she cried. "We were trying to get out and she fell down the well!"
"Then I'm afraid she's gone, ma'am," the fire chief said quickly, far too quickly. "The only way back there is through the burning building—and even then it would take a slender young twentysomething woman to fit into the opening of the well and lift your baby out. It's hopeless."
The woman's cries only increased in volume and desperation. It was all too much.
Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself grabbing a discarded fireman's jacket and bundling it around my shoulders as I made for the building. "Wait!" said the fire chief. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there! That's suicide!"
But I didn't care. I thought only of the baby down the well. Leading with my shoulder, I burst into the building and waved smoke away from my eyes. I could see only ten feet away the door to the courtyard where the fateful well had to be. I dashed for the door, and burst into the clean air with a gasp, suddenly realizing how long it had been since I'd taken a breath. Then, on the exhale, I heard the baby crying.
Her screams led me to the well, nestled behind a large patch of shrubbery, and once I found it, I knew what I had to do. I tied a length of garden hose around my own waist, knotted it as tightly as I knew how from my Cub Scout days. Then I lowered my body into the body of the well, using my hands and feet for purchase, and inch by precious inch, lowered myself down until I was low enough to see the baby. She lay there, dazed, tearful, and looked up at me with these great innocent eyes, eyes that seemed to beg me for answers: Why was this happening? What would become of us? How come I fell down this deep well and didn't break every bone in my body or at the very least pass out?
But for answers, I had none. I could only use my feet as giant chopsticks, and lift her from the bottom of the well. And with her pinned between my ankles, I hefted myself up the hose and out of the well. We were safe. For a moment.
But the building had been burning steadily this whole time, and there was no way out but back into the steaming inferno. The baby and I looked at each other, and then I shrugged—what's the difference? Or was it more like, what's the point?—and wrapped her in the fire-retardant jacket. Taking an enormous breath, I slammed into the door leading to the lobby and was immediately pushed to the ground by the force of the backdraft. On all fours I tried to look ahead, but there was only smoke and fire. To my left, a slight opening, a break in the flames. I pushed left, carrying the swaddled babe like a football. Forward, forward, I told myself. Just a little farther.
But the smoke overtook me. "Lie down," it seemed to say as it whistled around my head. "Take a break." I tried not to obey but suddenly helpless, I felt my body slide to the floor. I felt the air leave me. My last breath was spent in a scream—for help, for God, for what I don't know. I only know that I screamed, and then it all went blank.
***
The next thing I knew, I was lying in an airy hospital, breathing into a plastic bag, coughing, spurting, alive. I tried to sit up, but a kindly blond male nurse pushed me back to the bed. "Hey, take it easy," he said. "You're a hero. You should get to take a break."
With his words I knew. I knew the fire chief had rushed in with his state-of-the-art breathing equipment and saved my life, and the life of the poor wellbaby. I knew I had done the right thing. I had saved one life. It was all I knew, and it was enough.
But then with another look at the male nurse, I needed something more. "What's your name?" I found myself saying around the mask.
He smiled at me, pushed back my singed hair with a soft hand. "Josh. My name's Josh."
"And I'm Kelly," was all I could say before sleep took me again.
FIN
*Please note that smoke is always choking the air in novels, because air is a big pansy that never learned to fight back.
**Fear, another big choker.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
The Story So Far...
So here is how it all happened:
On Tuesday, October 4, 2005, thanks to a mutual friend, we agreed to meet at the Dead Poet, a short walk from Kelly's apartment on the Upper West Side. There was some concern about missing the new episode of Gilmore Girls, but Kelly assured me that she would let me get home in time to watch my stories. Several pints of Brooklyn Lager later, though, we were still sitting there. I never did find out what happened on the show that night, and frankly, I've been a little resentful ever since.
But not resentful enough that I didn't ask her out again, mostly because she was a pretty good kisser. Yes, undaunted by that old Sex and the City maxim that says a woman should never kiss until the third date (but MUST kiss, then), Kelly—in all other respects a proper Iowan lady, of breeding and decorum—verily mauled me at the end of our first evening together, if we can expand the definition of "mauled" so that it also means "turned to me outside the door of her building and said, 'Now is the part where you kiss me goodnight.'"
Everything was a whirlwind after that—a whirlwind with kissing. There were suitors besides me who had fixed their sights on Kelly's heart and hand, but I trumped them all with the old "rent a car for the day and take her up to the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck" gambit. We saw a goat with devil eyes there, and yarn was purchased. And I knew I had finally won her over—that all the times we'd spent together had become integral to her very being—some weeks later, when we walked past the Dead Poet and she said to me, "That's my local bar. I take a lot of first dates there. We should go sometime."
Fast-forward to January 2007. We were still together, had only argued once the entire time (after which we promised to never fight again), and I had just gotten her a beautiful pair of pink tourmaline and diamond earrings for Christmas, to match the pink tourmaline pendant I'd given her the year before. I had no idea what I was going to do for Valentine's Day. But I'd met her parents over the holidays, and had liked them, and they had seemed to like me; and my parents already liked Kelly, and she had survived a few days with them and my brother and me in Fargo, in the winter, even after intensive knee surgery, and still wanted to be with me; and we weren't getting any younger; so I thought, "Maybe I could get her an engagement ring for Valentine's Day." I had a feeling she would like that, and I suspected there would be more kissing.
On February 10, we attended a wedding in Indiana with Kelly's parents, Allan and Sally. During the reception, while Kelly was otherwise occupied, I fortified myself with a stiff drink, pulled up a chair next to them, and asked for their blessing. They told me they'd need to see some paperwork and asked for my Social Security number and a copy of my credit report. They took my fingerprints. They subjected me to a rigorous series of tests not unlike the physical fitness component of the President's Challenge. But ultimately, they gave me the green light.
So on Valentine's Day, after dinner and Frozen Hot Chocolates at my former place of employment, Serendipity 3, the exchange of gifts (including literature and other diversions), and a glass of wine or two at Fred's, I surprised Kelly by getting down on my knees in the slush just outside her apartment building—at the same spot where she had mauled me only a year and a half before, desperately hoping for kisses—and singing a song that went something like this:
Ladybear, Ladybear, give me your kisses
Ladybear, Ladybear, will you be my missus?
It was not a great song, but my world-renowned mellifluous voice, as well as the Hearts on Fire Dream diamond in the ring I was holding (I have an excellent jeweler), made up for whatever lyrical flair was missing.
We rushed inside, partly to phone our respective families and partly because it was really pretty cold out there. I called my grandma in California and said, "Grandma! Happy Valentine's Day! I just got engaged!" And her response, naturally, was: "Have I told you that goddamn brother of mine died?"
And so here we are: Kelly and I are scheduled to be wed next summer, we still go to the Dead Poet, and my Great-Uncle Dominic is still dead. We are really excited (I mean, not about Uncle Dominic, but it was his time), and our love continues to grow, and to permeate the very air around us, with every passing day. (We know it is our love, because we just cleaned out Kelly's fridge last week, so it's not the leftover taco meat.) We couldn't have done it without our family and friends (well, we probably could have done it without Tony, but whatever), and we love you all very much and invite you to join us for our COUNTDOWN TO BLISS.
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