The Pretty Vintage Wedding

Well, it happened.

We got married!

It was not an elaborate April Fool's prank.  It was not a joke.  It was 100% real and 110% stressful and even, just maybe, 100% worth it.

It's been a long time coming and a very short time planned for.  Even though we got engaged back in July, we really didn't plan any of the actual wedding until the last three months.  While moving.  And buying a house.

No sweat, right?

But it came off beautifully.

The weather (which I had stressed about for weeks) was perfect.  The decorations were set.  The cupcakes (and slightly crooked cake) were made.  My bouquet (which I crocheted myself, because why not?) was finally finished and arranged rearranged to my perfectionist likings.  I had delegated away all the tasks I couldn't handle myself and scheduled my friends to arrive early to keep me calm.

I lost track of how many times I'd said or wished that we'd just eloped.

And yet, at just about 11:00 on Saturday morning, I stood (in full hair, makeup, and wedding dress) holding hands with Mark, and we walked down the "aisle" in my parents' front yard to "Have You Met Miss Jones?".

Now, I can't quite say that the ceremony went off without a hitch.  Because as soon as we got up to the podium and Terry started the ceremony, I had a terrible realization.

... I had forgotten the rings inside.

But, after a brief pause where Mark ran off to fetch the rings and everyone enjoyed a good laugh, we got back underway and the rest proceeded exactly as planned, up to and including us walking out to the Imperial March.

Really, in a wedding where I had put in the extra effort to be sure it was personalized just for us (the crochet bouquet, my custom "Happily Ever After" book pin, the music, and the readings (Pablo Neruda, Neil Gaiman, and a quote from "Serenity"), the fact that I forgot something so important was actually entirely fitting.  I am horrendously forgetful (usually at all the worst times), so I'm far from shocked that in such a carefully planned-out event I forgot something as important as wedding rings.

And now we're married.

And I'm so very happy.

It's not that anything is different.  Our lives haven't suddenly changed.  We're not different (even though we both find it very strange to use the words "husband" and "wife."  We're still the same people, just a bit more legally bound than before.

But I finally had a wedding that I enjoyed, a wedding that I truly wanted to a man who I truly love and who truly loves me.


And that is very nice indeed.  It even makes all the stress and worry and work worth it.

Because I never, ever have to do this again.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I have a confession.  Maybe more of a disclaimer.

I've never actually seen My Best Friend's Wedding.

I started to watch it ages ago.  I was at some sleepover, possibly for Girl Scouts, and I can just vaguely remember the opening sequence.  But that's it.  I don't remember who gets the guy or who gets married or doesn't get married or anything.  My strongest memory from the night is dancing around with the other girls there and being told that I "spin too much" when I dance.  (Well, years later, my nickname in pole dance class was The Spin Queen, so take that, bitches.)

Obviously, this post is not going to be about that movie.  Or about spinning.

It is, however, kindof about pole dancing.

Or at least it's about one of my best friends, who I would never have known if it weren't for pole dancing.

I've known Jessica for around seven years now.  I've been friends with her and Sandi since I impulsively decided to take a pole dancing class after seeing Michelle Mynx perform at a burlesque show (which I also went to rather impulsively).  You can read more about pole dancing in this previous post.

We've traveled together, partied together, performed together, and supported each other like friends are supposed to do.

And, last Friday, Jessica got married.

I'm not going to lie, it was the best wedding I've ever been to.

This is not to say that all the other weddings I've been to have sucked.  They haven't.  But this one managed to surpass them all, in spite of the two reception venue changes and all the regularly scheduled wedding stress.

What made it so great?  Well, it wasn't just because I got to hear one of my poems actually read aloud to an actual audience (even though that was truly incredible and I didn't once tackle the officiant to read it myself).  And it wasn't just because I got to go on a tour of The Fox Theatre and be a complete theatre geek and fangirl about being allowed both onstage and backstage. 

And it wasn't just because the bride wore black and a lesbian burlesque performer married them in the lobby of The Fox (though that probably helped some).

Gorgeous photo courtesy of Carrie Meyer at Insomniac Studios.

It wasn't even because she had two photobooths at her reception (or that I ran one).

Instead, it might be because I've rarely seen two people so well-suited to each other.

And it might be because I'm finally coming more fully around again to the idea of love and marriage, particularly of love and marriage between two best friends.  And that's exactly what Chris and Jessica are.  They are best friends as well as lovers.  They cosplay together.  They're crazy cat people together.  They enjoy each other's company, while fully realizing that neither one of them is perfect.  They are geeks and nerds of the highest and most excellent level.  And they have the creepiest bathroom I've ever been in.

(And they let me come over and watch Game of Thrones.)

I may be cynical and judgmental about many things, but I can't be about Chris and Jessica.  They are one of the most genuine couples I know, and I'm so very glad that I got to be a part of their amazing day.

And that I got to be able to make a zombie wedding cross-stitch.  You know, priorities.

 

To be honest, it's been a long time since I've been able to actually enjoy other people's weddings.  Back when I was unhappily married, I always felt a strange sense of loss when my friends would get married.  I think I subconsciously knew that they were about to experience something I never had, and I was jealous of how happy they looked.  I didn't know how to be a part of that, even though, in theory, we were all part of the same "club."

But Friday?  Friday was different.  I'm not the cynical, unhappy person I once was.  Or, at the very least, not as cynical.  I'm not jealous anymore, not looking for anything missing.  It's a nice feeling, really, to be more fully part of someone else's happiness instead of envious of it.

Mark and I have decided that there's little point in anyone else ever getting married after Chris and Jessica.  There's no real way to top it, in my opinion.  Mark has declared that he's not even bothering to wear a suit for our wedding, just a T-shirt with a tux printed on the front.  (I think we all know that's not actually happening, but I can understand his sentiments.)

So, our wedding won't be like Chris and Jessica's.  And that's fine.  Because it's not a contest for me anymore.  And for that I'm so incredibly grateful.

We're Having a Heat Wave

It's hot.

It's really, really hot.

St. Louis is in the middle of a heat advisory, and I've used that as a excuse to not feel so bad when I don't take Thunder on a walk in the mornings.

It's not just the heat.  Being St. Louis, it's the humidity.  It makes for a disgusting, oppressive stew that sucks the will to live from you in the time it takes to walk from the parking lot into a building.  My hair doesn't stand a chance unless I wear it up, which I have been for probably a week straight, in a variety of experimental updos.  

In spite of the heat, I haven't stayed home nearly as much as I imagined I would.  Usually, my summers are spent daydreaming about lounging in front of a fan with the air conditioning turned up.  But this summer?  This summer I've barely been home long enough to do much lounging at all.

Obviously, I have to leave the house for work.  During the week, this means a short drive to and from the office and day spent in blissful air conditioning.  But when I work on the weekends, manual labor and sweating outside is involved, at least to load and unload a vehicle. 

But I've also ventured out in the heat to sweat on my own free will and for, allegedly, enjoyment.

On Saturday, I was up and suggesting brunch to Alexis by 9:30.  That night, Mark and I went to the Muny to see Young Frankenstein from the free seats with his daughter and niece.

On Monday (my day off), I invited myself along to the Science Center to hang out with Casey and her two kids (after Audrey, my biggest fan, expressed her disappointment that I wouldn't see her pigtails), and still managed to go grocery shopping and make dinner.

Tonight we're going out to eat with Mark's sister.

And, somehow, we still might go to the Muny this upcoming weekend, if the heat breaks enough.  And are having dinner at my parents' on Monday.

I feel like ever since I started getting divorced, my life went into overdrive.  Before, time seemed to drag out into the all-too-certain future.  I knew what to expect from each day, each week.  And now, when I have no idea what will happen next?  Time flies.  I'm still trying to figure out what to make for dinner three Mondays ago and, for all I know, tomorrow is Christmas.  

I don't know how it got to be July.  I don't even know how it's already 5:00 on a Wednesday again. 

All I know is that time spent with Mark goes far too quickly.  We never seem to have enough time together, even when we spend three solid weeks in each other's company.  We've been together for three years now, and yet it can't possibly have been that long.  Or that short.  Something strange happens to time with us, something as hazy as heat coming off asphalt.  

And something strange has happened to me, in that I've become something resembling "good with kids."  For being the girl who never wanted kids and was never comfortable around them, I spend an awful lot of time hanging around them lately, and all of it by choice.

As I mentioned, it's been a very kid-centric weekend, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable or strange to be the one waiting for a five year old to go to the bathroom so I can help her wash her hands, or to put her shoes on, or to carry a toddler to the car when she's sad about leaving the Science Center.  What's strange is that it all feels... normal.  

It could be the heat wave, but I don't really mind being a stepmom-in-training, or spending my days off with little kids.  In fact, I usually end up enjoying it.

Definitely the heat wave.

The Pretty Vintage Girl Anniversary Blog

I've hit two milestones in blog-dom, all in the same week!

First: last week's engagement blog was the most well-and-widely read to date, topping out at just shy of 420 views!  I am, quite frankly, a little flabbergasted.  And pretty convinced it will be hard to ever reach similar numbers.  It's not every day I get engaged, after all.  (So far, just twice, and I hope to keep it that way.)

Second: I've been blogging for a year! July 10th marked my one-year blog-iversary.  That baby of a blog was written as I was coming off celebrating a year since my ex-husband moved out and as I was still decidedly new at working full-time for Fish Eye Fun.  It was short and hesitant and I obviously had no idea what I was doing.  It was the literary equivalent of me sticking a toe in the water to see how cold it was.  I had no idea what this blog would be.

And really, I still don't.

Because I don't think I ever would have dreamed that I would write about what I have in this past year.  My original vision for my blog was something much more frivolous and superficial because I didn't think I could possibly talk about the truth.  Talking about shopping and clothes and books would be much easier, and surely more accessible.  After all, who would want to hear about my life week after week?  I'm not that exciting.  I'm a divorced introvert who still carries far too much baggage for her own liking.  I work all the time and spend the rest of the time with my boyfriend.  What's readable about that?

I never thought I'd be able to keep up with blogging every week (well, almost every week).  I definitely didn't think my boyfriend (fiancé, whatever) would be going around passing out my blog address to everyone on his route!  I didn't think people I knew in passing would comment or reach out to me after something I wrote.

So.  One year later.

What's changed?

Obviously, I'm engaged.

And obviously I've been gainfully employed for over a year.

But also, it's been two years since my ex moved out.

I've destroyed my wedding dress.

I got a new furnace, bought a washer and dryer, bought a mattress, and fixed my car.

I went to Mexico.

I turned 31.

I've been spending my free weekends playing step-mommy. And enjoying it more than I ever thought I would, to be honest.

I've eaten a lot of nachos.  I've read not-enough books.  I've gained new friends and lost some who were apparently never really friends to begin with.  I've traveled back and forth across the Midwest, both for work and for fun.  I've gone to a few shows, and tried to be as social as I can.  I've been unapologetic about my life and what I want to do or not do.

A lot happens in a year.  I'm not the person I was a year ago, in many ways.  I'm snarkier, happier, friendlier, and more honestly... me.  I'm less willing to put up with bullshit.  I like the person I am, and I like where this year has led.

Where things are going from here?  I have absolutely no idea.

As I said, I'm still not entirely certain where this blog is going.  I rarely know what I'm going to blog about from one week to the next, much less what I'll be talking about in another year.

As for me?  There are obviously a lot of changes on the horizon.  Right now I'm still getting used to this sharp, shiny ring on my finger and we're not even remotely discussing an actual date.  I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, but I know that I'm definitely looking forward to whatever it is!

I'll be sure to write about it, naturally.  And you're welcome to read along, if you like!

On the Road... Again?

I've never traveled quite so much as I have in the past two and a half years, not even back when I went to college in Chicago or when I had in-laws in a different state.

At first, it was all about traveling for fun.  (You know, not just to visit people.)  

There was my girls-only trip to House on the Rock/Wisconsin Dells, followed by a week-long cruise with my parents, and several trips to Alexis' dad's house  out in Carthage for Passover and summer pool fun.  Then there was my Mexico trip this past January.

Lately, however, I haven't been traveling as much for fun.  More for... Fish Eye Fun.

I've been to Kansas City, Chicago, and now to Lake of the Ozarks and Springfield, MO for the past two weekends.  (The greatest hits of the Midwest, as it were.)

I even drug Mark along with me the past two weekends.  Poor guy.  

It wasn't all work and no play, at least.  We managed to stop in at Lambert's Cafe (Home of the Throwed Rolls) on Sunday morning, since Mark had never been there, and made our first trip to Uranus Fudge Factory on the way home.  Honestly, I was pretty disappointed in Uranus.  (Pun so very definitely intended.)  For a place that's a self-titled "fudge factory," both Ozarkland and Meramac Caverns both have a wider selection of fudge. But at least I can say I've officially been to Uranus.

And now?  Now I'm back to traveling for fun, at least for a little bit.  Mark and I have our first official "vacation" together this weekend and are headed to Chicago for a long weekend.  

The thought of going out of town again after two weekends on the road has actually been more than a little daunting.  It's not that I don't want to go.  But we are both, after all, very much homebodies who like our alone time and like working on our own projects.  When we originally planned this trip, my out-of-town jobs weren't scheduled, so it didn't seem like such an ordeal back then.

I'm not used to being on the road so much, away from my own place so much.  And there's really nothing like a hotel room to make you realize how much you really, really like your own stuff.  As nice as it is to spread out on a cushy king-sized bed, I love my own bed.  I love the new mattress we bought.  I love my pillow and our smart lights that help me wake up and go to sleep.  And as great as water pressure can be in a hotel, I love my own towels, my Doctor Who shower curtain, my bathmats, and my mirror covered with notes that Mark and I write each other.

I'm obviously not used to traveling as much as I have been.  I still can hardly believe all the places I've gone in the past few years after how little I traveled through most of my twenties.  Hell, I'm barely used to being as busy as I am in St. Louis, much less the rest of the world.  It seems like not so long ago when I would spend almost every night sitting at home by myself, watching movies, reading, and drinking too much.  Now I feel like Mark and I are coming and going constantly, and I find myself almost missing my lonely nights of nothing better to do than sit at home.

Don't get me wrong, there's no way I'm trading my current freedom just for some quality time with my messy apartment, but I still think that Dorothy said it best when she said, "There's no place like home."

However, as nice as my stuff is and as many projects as Mark and I might like to work on right now, our train tickets have been bought and we leave bright and early on Friday! After spending over 16 hours in the work van the past two weekends, I'm so very glad we're not driving.  Instead, we have at least 10 hours round trip to relax, read, and hang out.

And so, after a momentary freakout, we're both back to looking forward to the trip.  I want to show Mark the places I used to frequent.  I want him to meet my friends I haven't seen in years.  I want to be shameless tourists for a bit.  

And I really, really want to eat Giordano's pizza.

Hazards of Love

As it turns out, love isn't always all it's cracked up to be.

Wait a minute.  Are you reading the right blog?  Me? Saying love isn't always amazing and wonderful and hearts and rainbows and puppy dogs?  What?

That's right, ladies and gentlemen.  I said it.  Why?  Because I've realized that there are unforeseen consequences to not being single.  Sure, it's wonderful to have someone around to spend time with, to share your day with, blah, blah blah.  But sometimes?  Sometimes, it's fairly inconvenient, for entirely unexpected reasons.

This past Sunday was a kindof a Bring Your Boyfriend to Work Day.  The wedding I worked had an onsite scrapbook, which requires an additional assistant.  Mark had worked with me on New Year's Eve for another wedding with a scrapbook, so I brought him along again and thought nothing of it.

Some background first. In the almost two years I've worked for Fish Eye Fun, I've become very accustomed to loading into venues and being offered help of one kind or another.  Furthermore, I fully realize that this help is usually offered because I'm a girl.  Valets offer to help me load or unload my car, or to push the cart, or to even take the cart from me entirely.  I usually decline the offer, since I have a particular order for loading and unloading my car, and am stubborn enough that I'm used to doing things myself.

While I've blogged before about the bad things that have happened or been said to me because I'm a woman, there are a lot of upsides to my gender.  These offers of help are one benefit, in spite of how many times I say, "No, thanks."  I appreciate that someone is more likely to hold the door for me or try to help, even if it's just because I'm a girl.  I really do.  Being nice and helpful is something I will almost always appreciate, regardless of the reason.  And rarely have I appreciated past so-called chivalry more so than this last weekend.

I was loading into a venue that I've loaded into several times before, always with absolutely no issue.  I've always been met at the entrance, accompanied to where I'm setting up, and escorted back at the end of the night.  I even told Mark that this was one of my favorite places to load into.

Well.

That night, nothing much went right in general (outside of having a fantastic picture night).  I wasn't helpfully accompanied to where I needed to go, and I definitely wasn't escorted back out at the end of the night like usual.  Which lead to several increasingly ridiculous elevator issues and just being frustrated in general.

I didn't understand.  What had happened?  Where was my usual lovely experience?  Where were the usually helpful people?  I told Mark I just didn't know why everything was so different, and he gave me a look and stated the obvious reason: I had a man with me.

And he was right.

I had brought my boyfriend, essentially bringing along my own help in the eyes of everyone else.  Men don't usually offer to help women who already have a man with them.  Even though I recognize that I get offers of help because I'm a girl, I never stopped to consider what would happen if and when I wasn't just a girl by myself.

Well, now I know.

It wasn't malicious treatment by any means.  I'm sure it wasn't even a conscious decision.  I don't need to complain to a manager, and, honestly, I can't really say I'm that shocked.  To a girl who prefers doing it all herself if possible, it's just all the more reason to continue doing it all myself and not to fall into the ease of being a damsel in distress.

So it's not like I'll never bring my boyfriend along to an event ever again.  But at least next time I'll know what to expect.  (Or, as the case may be, what not to expect.)

If these are the consequences of not being single, well... I guess I can handle it if I have to.

My Kind of Town?

This past weekend, Alexis and I took a truly whirlwind trip to Chicago.  The reason?  Fish Eye Fun, of course!  I had a wedding to work and dragged Alexis along to keep me company on the 5 hour drive.

Now, it's been possibly five years since the last time I was in Chicago.  If there's been a more recent trip, I can't remember it.  Five years with no Giordano's.  No Gene and Jude's.  No Portillo's.  No Sub-T's.  And even though Mark and I will be going for a whole weekend in July, I wanted to take advantage of my brief time there and get some food.  I was, needless to say, excited about the prospect.

We drove up Saturday morning, leaving time to spare for dinner.  I decided that we should go to Mickey's Gyros, so that I could hit up one of my favorite Chicago food places.  It would be perfect.  We'd have at least an hour to get food.

Or so we thought.

We were cruising along down Harlem when disaster struck.  Well, maybe not disaster.  Maybe more like a train.  And it didn't strike anything.  Instead, it just... stopped.  We stuck around for 20 minutes before I decided to try to find a way around it.  Because surely that wouldn't be so hard.

Right?

...

Right?

Alas, we were wrong once again.  We headed off to try to find an underpass or overpass or any kind of pass at all.  What we found was the front of the train, stopped a few hundred feet before a road.

A road!  It was right there, tantalizingly close.  I could almost smell the gyros.  There were just a few cars between us and a straight shot to dinner.

And then?  Then the train started to move.

And we started screaming profanities.

(Honestly, I wish there was video of this.  Never underestimate the fury of two hungry girls who have been in a car for five hours straight and suddenly had their chance for delicious, hot food run over by a goddamned train.)

By the time we found an actual underpass, we were so far away from where we needed to be that we gave up and just headed towards the venue.  Through Chicago traffic.  So.  Much.  Chicago.  Traffic.

At this point, I'm not just hungry.  I'm full out hangry.  I hate that train.  I hate all the people in all the traffic.  I hate the person trying to merge in front of me even though the merge lane ended a good while back.  At this point, I hate Chicago.

As I said, it's been five years since I was in Chicago.  I really had nothing but fond memories of the city.  I loved the skyline, the food, the sights, the people, the food...

Not anymore.  At that moment, I was regretting the fact that I already had tickets bought for our July Chicago trip.  Why would I want to come back to this god-forsaken place with no food and toll roads and too many trains and ridiculous traffic?  This whole experience was surely some kind of sign, like Mufasa whispering to Simba, "Go away never come back."  Chicago had it out for me.

Or I was just really hungry.

One of those.

Anyway.  We got to the venue, unloaded, set up, and Alexis went to find food before I strangled a bridesmaid or something.  We were in such a ritzy neighborhood that the McDonald's didn't even have a drive-through.  I know this because that's what we ate for our big Chicago dinner.  McDonald's.

It wasn't what I had in mind, but it was food and it kept me from murder.

And, overall, it was a great Fish Eye Fun event, in spite of all the reasons it might not have been.  Any wedding where I manage to get the bride and all the bridesmaids in one place for pictures can be considered a success.  For this wedding?  Nine bridesmaids.  And I got them all.

Bam.

And, at the end of the night?  A food truck came to the venue and I got myself a Chicago-style hot dog.

So all was not lost.

We stayed the night with Anne and Jeff and in the morning they graciously made us brunch.  And Anne let me steal some of her books.  Add to this the fact that she let us in her house at 1 in the morning the night before and it's obvious that she's a wonderful human being and a great friend to boot.

In the end, was it a bad trip?  No.  It wasn't the best, naturally, but anything that ends with a homemade brunch and mimosas can't be all bad.  And, thanks to Chubby Wieners (yes, that's the name of the food truck), I got to eat Chicago food after all.

I guess I'll go back for another attempt in July.  I mean, I already bought the train tickets after all.

Do You Love Me?

Popularity in the social media age is a strange thing.  At least, it's strange to me.

Last night I had a Fish Eye Fun bride-to-be follow me on Instagram.  This is actually a first for me (at least that I've noticed).  My followers are mostly people I know as friends or at the very least people in the St. Louis wedding industry.

Does this make me popular?  I don't know.

I've been writing this blog for almost a year now.  I have over 40 posts, with almost 3000 views overall.  One post has over 200 views, which absolutely amazes me.  People (not just my boyfriend and best friends) are actually reading this, for better or for worse.  They don't just scroll by on their way through their Facebook feed.  

That's incredible to me.  Does it mean I'm somehow popular, that I have a social media "presence"?

And speaking of Facebook, there's the ubiquitous "likes" that my endless posts and selfies and shared memes receive.

Does that make me popular?  Do people like me?  Do they?  

Do you?

I'm all-too-guilty of reading into what it means when certain people "like" what I post on Facebook, by who likes my blog, by who comments about what.  Do we all do this?  Probably, at least to an extent.

Overall, though, I'm not great at self-promotion.  I never have been.  I don't want to seem needy or pushy or, worst of all, desperate.  I don't have thousands of Facebook friends.  In fact, I generally don't make friend requests and don't accept requests from anyone I don't actually know.  I don't have many strangers who know who I am (though that is changing, thanks to my job at Fish Eye Fun).  I'm not famous by a long shot.

I don't think I know how to be popular, really.  I still wonder at how many people genuinely want me to hang out with them.  Hell, I'm still in shock that my own boyfriend hasn't gotten sick of me yet.

So, the question is, am I writing this blog to be popular?  Do I post on Facebook to be popular, to get that little boost to my self-esteem?

I like to think not.  I can't lie and say that I'm not pleased every time someone likes my blog.  And I certainly can't say that I'm not vain.  But I don't write specifically for those likes, for the comments, or even for the blog views.  I write because I need to write, because I need the practice, because I need the weekly deadline, and because it helps.

It helps me, and I hope it helps others.

Fame and fortune and a weekly paid column wouldn't hurt, and I certainly wouldn't turn them down (hint, hint), but they're not what I'm doing this for.

I'm doing this for myself.  (And because Mark insists that I do it.)

I'm doing this because I think it's important to be honest about my life on the off-chance that someone needs to hear it.  When I was married, I didn't know anything narcissists, about gaslighting, or about emotional manipulation.  I didn't know that he had the ability to lie so smoothly that I questioned my own memories.  I didn't know that I didn't deserve to be treated like a servant, that I didn't deserve to be blamed for everything that was wrong with his life. 

I didn't know.

Now I do.  And I don't want to keep it a shameful secret anymore.  I want to talk about it, whether it makes me popular or unpopular, as the case may be.

So... do you love me now?

Bad Attitude, No Waiting?

It might be time to spring clean my attitude.

(Not to mention my apartment.)

I've been in a mostly-self-induced funk for what feels like a week.  Part of it is being tired and busy and having too-little down time.  Part of it is Mark is also in a understandable funk over the loss of his family dog, and since we're apparently psychically linked, it's tough to be in a good mood when he isn't.  Part of it is being a Benedryl zombie for part of the week.  Part of it is I'm stressing about Thunder getting (hopefully) adopted this weekend.  Part of it is... I don't know what.  General malaise?  Not enough introverting? A pathetic lapse in my yoga practice?  Not eating well? Not getting a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator at Comic Con this year?

It all adds up. (Particularly that last one.)

"Blah" accurately describes the way I feel right now.

So.  Cleaning is needed.  There are cobwebs hanging around, keeping the light from getting in.  All the things I should be excited about seem duller than they should be.  And it sucks.  Because there's a lot of really exciting things going on, or potentially going to be going on.  There's been a lot of good news and big decisions and things to look forward to.

There's so much more than this drab week.

The very thought that Thunder has gotten far enough along in the adoption process to be going on a trial adoption this weekend should be nothing less than amazing.  This is the dog I've had for over a year.  The dog who I often wondered would ever get to the point of being adoptable.  The dog who truly earned the nickname "fuzzy asshole." The dog who has become so much better of a dog than I thought possible.  The dog who always insists on being my co-pilot.  The dog who I'll miss in spite of myself.

And, even though I tragically didn't get a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator, I did get to return to Comic Con as the Girl Wonder (and work with Mark, who is better than any Jack Sparrow, real or otherwise).  We got to spend 4 hours Sunday wrangling nerds (my favorite people) into the Fish Eye Fun White Screen booth, and then wander around the convention and gaze upon Daredevil and Foggy from afar.

Another really awesome thing that I should be pretty damn excited about?  I've officially been the Fish Eye Fun project manager for a whole year, as of yesterday!  (I knew I wasn't done celebrating anniversaries.)  It actually seems hard to believe that I've been doing this for so long.  I guess time flies when you're ridiculously busy and generally like what you do.

So yes.  This week kindof blows.  But it happens.  It's not the end of the world.

Besides, with any luck, by the time next week I'll be living in a temporarily dog-free apartment for the first time in over a year.  Weird.

Maybe then I actually will get some cleaning done.

Pretty Vintage Selfies

I have a clothing problem.

This is something you probably already all knew.

To be fair, it hasn't always been the same clothing problem.

Ever since I realized that what I wore could effectively set me apart from the rest of the unpopular crowd in high school, I've been a bit of a clothes horse.  I went from wearing oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans (sorry not sorry, there is very little photographic documentation from this period) to... shall we say, experimenting with fashion.  There's very little other way of putting it.  My style was eclectic at best, confusing at worst.  I wore what was commonly referred to as "Ashley pants," which were basically the most unique jeans I could get my hands on.  I had jeans splattered with paint, covered with sequins, inset with wide flares of contrasting patterns.  I wore socks with heels.

I had a perm (maybe two).

It was a dark (yet colorful) time.

In college, I refined my style (somewhat).  I grew up a little, and you can see the beginnings of my love of the more classic look.  Then again, you can also see where I wore legwarmers and heels.

Needless to say, I've been getting attention for what I wear for quite some time.

I started leaning more and more towards the vintage style around 2009.  I had gone through a few hair styles by then: chopping my hair off in an attempt at Sarah Jessica Parker's curly short hair, followed quickly by the Katie Holmes bob.

By then, I was bored with the mixture of eclectic/boho-chic I had established.  I was looking for a new style, and found it on Project: Runway when one of the contestants had a distinctly pin-up style.

I latched on, and the rest is history.

Well, there were a few hair colors in between.

I've been settled into my style (and my red hair) for a while now, and don't see any signs of change.  Quite the contrary: I just seem to be accumulating more and more clothes.  And, now that I've actually organized all my accessories and clothes, my outfit options are even more unlimited.

My boyfriend doesn't help.  He is, in fact, nothing but an enabler.  He combs through resale shops with me.  He fixes accessories I break so that I can keep using them instead of throwing them away. He helps me decide what shoes to wear.  And, to make maters worse, he says incredibly unhelpful things like, "You have a lot of earrings that would match that shirt," and "You'd rock that, babe."  

We were at Goodwill two weeks ago (his idea, not mine).  We went in looking for a women's skirt suit he'd seen the last time we were there (to turn into speaker covers, because the man couldn't stop coming up with projects if you put a gun to his head).  The suit was gone, but I walked out with two pairs of shoes, a dress, a shirt, and a jumpsuit.

Whoops.

But what am I supposed to do when I try a dress on, open the door, and get two thumbs up from the love of my life?  Put it back on the rack?  I think not.

Mark is probably my biggest fashion fan, and has been the constant recipient of my selfies for years now.  He is my partner in crime and in clothing, and he is one of the reasons I don't just live in leggings through most of winter.  I wouldn't be the pretty (vain) vintage girl I am today without him.

And, as if my vanity weren't bad enough, my job just makes matters worse.

There are currently two Fish Eye Fun rigs set up in the office, and, well...

The Missing Minute Hand, and Other Little Things

My boyfriend told me today that life is what happens in the minutia.

He's right.  He usually is. (He'll disagree with me on that one, but don't listen to him.)

Life has many big moments, of course.  There is birth and death, marriage and divorce, hirings and firings.  There are magnificent highs and horrifying lows.

But, honestly, I've always been more fond of the little things.  I've talked before about the little things in relationships and how important they are.  But the little things aren't just reserved for love and friendship.  They're everywhere.

And even though I sometimes get hung up on the big moments, on the milestones and exciting news, I've actually always been a girl with an eye for details.  I notice things.  I notice people.  And I have way too many accessories for my own good.  I should know, I just reorganized half of them.

So it's fitting that this week has been almost exclusively about little things, about the seemingly unimportant things.

It's been about tearing up at the groom's speech at the Valentine's Day wedding I worked.  He was adorable and gushing and kept telling his bride that he would never take her for granted, which hit me harder than I expected.  I hope that his promise means that he will appreciate the minutia of married life and will take time to do the small, not-at-all unimportant things that end up meaning so much in the days and years to come.

It's been about trying to improve the little things.  Now that I've got overall happiness, working appliances, a healthy love and social life, it's time to fill in the details.  I don't just mean going to the gym and to pole class, but trying to get my life organized.  Trying to be functional both at home and at the office, and to make both a little more aesthetically pleasing.  All of which lead to an impromptu IKEA trip on Tuesday to buy a few little things to get started on making my work space more me, or to start "classing up the place," as Ben said.  (Naturally, and in the spirit of being the resident vintage girl at Fish Eye Fun, I'm going for as 1960s Mad Men as possible with my office space.)

This week has also been about buying a pocket calendar to keep track of the days I write.  Another little thing.  Mark has his own to keep track of the days he works on projects, and I fully admit that I stole the idea from him.  So far, I think it's helped me.  For one thing, I love a challenge.  For another, the thought of all the things we both want to do and accomplish is overwhelming if I don't do something to make it less daunting.

I keep saying that I want to "get back to writing," which is as overwhelmingly vague as it gets.  It's terrifying, really, to think about writing a book, or even a short story, or (sometimes) even a poem.  Or making a work of art, or a work bench.  None of this is going to happen in a day.  It's far better, far more digestible, to think about the individual pieces.  Write something.  Anything.  Even if I hate it and throw it away the next day.  Or even if it's this blog.  It's better than nothing.  It's the little things, again.  It's nailing on one board, writing one paragraph, drawing one rough sketch.  It's the only way progress can ever be made, and I forget that all too often amongst all the big tumultuous things that have happened recently.

Finally, this week has been about the minute hand on my living room clock repeatedly falling off.  That really doesn't mean a damn thing except that it needs to be fixed, but it does tie in nicely to the theme of the week.  I suppose I could make some poetic comparison about that missing minute hand being subtle reminder to pay attention to the minute things, but Lord, that's going a bit far, don't you think?

On Turning 31

Well.  I turned 31 last week.

I suppose this now makes me an old maid.  Certainly past my prime.  Or some kind of bullshit like that.

31 isn't that exciting of a number, really.  It's not sweet 16, or 21, or even 30 (that somehow dreaded societal milestone of being "old").  It is, if anything, just another step closer to the more-dreaded 40, when you might as well just give up and die.  Or something.

It doesn't seem that dire to me.  Sure, I'm 31 and divorced.  But it could be worse.  (I could still be married!)

Maybe I'm just lucky in that I've always had friends who were older than me.  I'm currently the youngest person in my close friend group.  Most of my friends are 40 or close to it.  And, shockingly, they haven't all become hunched-over crones and cranky old men.  They're all still awesome and gorgeous and amazing.  My boyfriend is 13 years older than me.  It doesn't seem to matter in the least, except when I haven't seen a major 80s cult classic and his jaw drops.

Getting older isn't a bad thing at all, in my opinion.  If anything, I like to think think I've improved with age (or at least gotten more full of myself).

Sure, I have more aches and pains when I don't get enough sleep.  I'm more susceptible to hangovers.  I can no longer sleep solidly for 12 hours at a stretch.  My metabolism isn't what it used to be.  Late-night events are the bane of my existence.  There may be the beginning of wrinkles.  Smile lines.  Whatever.

But my life has certainly improved.  I'm more comfortable with who I am.  My birthdays have gotten better, if less elaborate and more chill.

This year, I essentially threw together a birthday party in a few days.  It was low-key.  I made cake.  People wore onesies.  We colored.  It was awesome.

And I had Fish Eye Fun. Of course.

I spent my actual birthday with Mark, for the second year in a row.  We both took the day off, had lunch, did some shopping on Delmar, went to the Mid-Century Modern exhibit at the Art Museum, browsed my favorite vintage store, and finished the day off with tacos.  It wasn't much, but it was perfect nonetheless.

I still have a childlike love of my birthday, in spite of all my old-maid-ness.  Do I care that I'm 31 and should therefore resign myself the the drudgery of middle-age adulthood?  Hell, no.  I still want to take the day off work and do fun things.  I want to have a party and wear a tiara make myself cake and have total jerks put trick candles on said cake (I'm looking at you, Sandi).

I want to be continually thrilled at life and all it's brought me.  And I certainly don't think that's a bad thing.

Bonus 10-year-old footage of me on my 21st birthday.  Some things never change.
Except my hair color.

New Year, New... Everything?

So, 2016 started out great.  I worked a gorgeous New Year's Eve wedding at the History Museum, kissed the love of my life at midnight for the second year in a row, and had a really lovely and lazy first two days of the year.  I actually had the thought driving around on Sunday that it had been a wonderful two days.  I joined a gym (more on that later), I relaxed, I had dinner with my parents.  I read and knit and watched Netflix.

Clearly, I jinxed myself.  Because then January 3rd came. And everything fell apart.  Literally.

It was Sunday night, and Mark and I were sitting on the couch watching Netflix after dinner when he asks why it's so cold in the apartment.  Not-so-surprising answer?  Because the furnace isn't working.  It kicks on but the gas never lights.  So we break out all the space heaters and blankets for the night.

We also discovered that my upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking, both into my bathroom and into the basement.

On top of that, here's some more backstory: my dishwasher crapped out a while ago, possibly thanks to a minor mouse problem.  This hasn't really bothered me, because I hand wash most dishes unless I've done a full day of baking.  But the rental company scheduled the new dishwasher to be put in on Monday.  "First thing in the morning." Ha. Ha. Ha.

So on Monday morning I call and tell the constantly-beleaguered maintenance request woman that a) I have no heat and b) the upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking.  Then I put on my Eeyore onesie and sit by one of the space heaters to wait for my new dishwasher to arrive.

And I wait.

And wait.

And then I get annoyed with waiting, because it is now noon, three hours after a repairman was supposed to be here.  I've gotten no calls about him arriving.  So I get dressed and leave to start running the errands I need to do.

And as soon as I get to my first stop, the repairman calls to say he's on the way with my dishwasher.

Of course.

Long story short, Monday version: this guy spends four hours trying unsuccessfully to fix the furnace, does not install dishwasher, does not look at leak.

Long story short, Tuesday version: repairman returns, "fixes" furnace, installs dishwasher and leaves a note saying it doesn't work and someone will be back tomorrow, does not look at leak. Furnace works until 5:30, when it stops working again.

(In the meantime on Monday, my dryer breaks.  Unfortunately, that's all on me.  Mark attempts to fix it but is, thus far, unsuccessful.)

Moving forward to this morning.

I call the rental company again to tell them the furnace is still broken and that I'm now on my third day of no heat. They finally do the smart thing and arrange for an actual furnace repairman to come out (which won't, of course, happen until tomorrow morning).  Meanwhile, a second repairman comes to look at the dishwasher and informs me that it does work, but the first repairman just didn't know how to turn it on.

I'm just... done.  I'm done.  I'm ready for my vacation this weekend.  I'm ready to not worry about what all is broken in my apartment and when it will all be fixed and when I need to buy a new dryer.  I'm ready to be somewhere warm for a few days.

Those short first blissful two days of 2016 seem like a long time ago, as everything has gone downhill from there.  I'm trying to be my usual positive self, but right now I'm just frustrated.  I'm frustrated with my rental company, with the apparently incompetent repairmen they send out, and with appliances in general.

(We actually got to the point last night of wondering what I'd done to deserve this.  And then we stopped wondering that, because the list would be appallingly long.)

In other, un-appliance-related news, Mark is convinced that it's my New Year's resolution to get in shape.

Except he's wrong.  Really.  Totally.  It has nothing to do with being a New Year's resolution. He doesn't believe me, and I guess I can't blame him, seeing as how it all started right around New Year's.  I joined a gym on January 2nd.  I started doing yoga.  I went back to pole class for the first time in ages last night.

The evidence is pretty damning, really.  I admit it.

But it wasn't a New Year's resolution.  It's just me being finally fed up with feeling fat and out-of-shape and missing the way I used to feel and look, and missing being able to do cool things like flip upside down on a pole.  And after the craziness of December, I actually have time to do things like go to the gym, go to pole class, and do yoga.

Plus, I'm 30 (almost 31), and my ex-husband told me a few years ago that I was past my prime.  And I really, really love proving him wrong as much as humanly possible.

So yes.  It's the beginning of January and I'm starting to exercise.  Judge me if you will.  But if all goes well, I'll totally be able to kick your ass in a few months.  If I don't freeze to death from a broken furnace first.

So there.

December Status Update

December is officially half over.  And how am I doing, you ask?

Well.

I joked with Mark back in November that I could give myself gold stars for all the days in December when I didn't cry. Luckily I didn't follow through on this, because I would have fewer gold stars than I would like.  Between holiday stress, too-litle sleep, and my continuing efforts to deal with past emotional damage, there have been more tears this month than intended.

Operation: Drinking through December, on the other hand, is going much better.  I should probably have decided to give myself gold stars for that instead.  I would have way more stars.  Hindsight, right?

I actually have accomplished a decent amount, though not nearly as much as intended.  I successfully acquired/finished birthday present for both of my parents, who have the nerve to both have birthdays in December.  I crossed Missouri two times in as many days this past weekend for a Fish Eye Fun job in Kansas City.  (On that same trip, I spent my very first night ever alone in a hotel.) I only have four books left to read to hit my goal of 50 books, and I'm halfway through both a book and an audiobook. I managed to get my new passport in time to go to Mexico at the beginning of January.  I've attended a few family events and even socialized with several friends, including making it to the Garden Glow at the Missouri Botanical Gardens.

On the other hand, I still have several presents to acquire/finish in about a week.  There's one more big weekend of holiday parties to get through, and then the night of 7 New Year's Eve parties.  I haven't done nearly the writing I should have for my Project: Sketchbook.  And I have four books to finish reading in 15 days (notice how that one made the good and bad list?).

I think I need another drink.

I'm not sure if it's just the hectic pace of the past few months, but I'm having a harder time getting into the "holiday spirit."  I know I talked a lot previously about how I'm traditionally more of a Scrooge, but I do generally get a bit more into the Christmas spirit midway through December.  To be fair, I suppose it's not that I'm dreading Christmas itself.  I'm dreading everything that needs to be done.  I don't have the hours.  I don't have the budget.  I don't have the expedited shipping option.  Like the Grinch, I want to keep Christmas from coming.  But at least only until I can find a few more gifts.

I know that Christmas isn't about the gifts.  I know this, even though one of my stronger love languages is gifts and I love finding or making the perfect present for someone.  I know my parents don't even want me to spend money on them.  I know my boyfriend doesn't want me to buy him too much.  I know that I don't want him to buy me too much.  I know my friends will still love me if I don't get their presents done by the 25th (sorry, guys).

So yes. I know Christmas isn't about the gifts.

I know Christmas isn't about the gifts.

I think.

So what is it about?

Is it about winning decorating contests, or getting plastered at company holiday parties, or looking at Christmas lights?  Is it about ugly sweaters?  Holiday cards?  Elves on shelves?  Whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie? (It is, by the way.)  Endless renditions of "Santa Baby"? Whether or not Love, Actually is a terrible movie? (Debatable, but I love it anyway.)

It's a hard question.

For someone who's struggled with her faith and with Christians in general the past two years, I can't say that Christmas is strictly about religious faith for me right now.  Not that it ever was, really.  I'm a girl whose parents let her believe in Santa Claus for an embarrassingly long time, so obviously Christmas was never explicitly religious in my family.  I will go to church at some point with my parents, and I do still love hymns and still have the Christmas story in John memorized.  I've been a Lutheran for a long time and there is still a special meaning in Christmas that is spiritual for me, about keeping all these things and pondering them in my heart.

But I think these days that The Muppets best sum up my feelings about Christmas spirit.  "Wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."  Maybe that's a bit touchy-feely, everyone hold hands-y, but it covers a lot of bases for a lot of people: Christian, Jewish, agnostic, and otherwise.  And, at the very least, it takes away from the commercialization of Christmas.

So, for me, Christmas is about spending time with the people I love.  It's about making them happy and being grateful for a truly wonderful 2015 and for all the family, friends, and blessings I have in life.  It's about feeling love, be it romantic, platonic, spiritual, or otherwise.  It's about traditions.  It's about cookies and pies and hams.  Or it's about latkes and Chinese food and a Die Hard marathon.  It's about figuring out how to do two Christmases in one day because there are that many people that want you around for the holidays.  It's about having a Charlie Brown Christmas tree on your console.  Or it's about having a Christmas tree in every room.  It's about whatever you want it to be.

The Grinch figured it out.  I guess I can too.

I'm a Mean One...

Oh, Lord.  I missed a week.

I'm comforting myself with the knowledge that it was Thanksgiving week and I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off.  And you didn't really need me to post a "things I'm thankful for" blog, did you?  I'm pretty sure most of my blogs already spill over with that a bit too much sometimes.  So let's go for the opposite: things I hate about Christmas!

I have a long-standing history of being a bit of a Scrooge. Possibly slightly Grinchy.  I mean, I've never set out to actually ruin Christmas, but I have been known to say "Bah, humbug!" and grumble about putting up a Christmas tree.

It's not Christmas itself.  I don't mind Christmas, especially when it's actually the week of Christmas.  It's the ever-expanding season of Christmas.  It's the fact that Christmas decorations are on sale before Halloween.  It's the fact that syrupy-sweet, overly vibratto-ed, drippingly sentimental Christmas music blasts inescapably from every store, restaurant, and radio station from the beginning of November on.

And it's the fact that I'm an introvert (this is getting to be a common theme, isn't it?).  Which combines poorly with the fact that everyone wants to get together all the time (mainly my parents).  And it's also the fact that we have over 40 Fish Eye Fun events in December.

Don't get me wrong: that's AMAZING and is absolutely not the problem.  I'm so beyond excited that we're busy and popular and even forced to turn away business because we're booked up solid for at least four days this month!

The problem is that some people (take a guess) don't seem to get that I'm busy and socially a bit overwhelmed, and that I probably don't want to come over every week from now until Christmas.  I may or may not have had a meltdown before Thanksgiving over all the social obligations that were suddenly presented to me, and may or may not have decided on my plan for surviving the holidays.  I call it "Drinking Through December." What could possibly go wrong?  (I've also decided that I get a gold star for every day in December that I don't stress cry.)

To be fair, this is the first year I can use the "I'm really busy" excuse as part of why I'm a Scrooge.  Before this year, Christmas was much easier in that aspect.  It was the dead-season at my old job.  I had at least a week and a half off of work most years.  But, I still grew to dread it.

Unintentionally or not, I felt overwhelming pressure from my ex to "compete" at Christmas presents.  If I didn't get his as many or as big or as expensive of presents as he got me, or if his Christmas stocking wasn't as full as mine was, I heard about it.  There would be hints about how much what he got me cost.  Or casual remarks asking if there would be more for him under the tree by Christmas.

Right now? My biggest problem is keeping my presents a secret from Mark until Christmas actually gets here.  We both have a terrible habit of buying each other things and just giving them to each other all year long.  So by the time the holidays/birthdays/etc roll around, we tend to realize that we've already given each other everything we thought the other person would like.  Whoops.

If I'm being honest (and apparently that's what I do now), I have to admit that I might be getting a bit less Scrooge-y in the past two years.  I still hate all the things I complained about above.  And I'm still panicked about getting everything done in time.  My ongoing mantra is that I'll have time in January (which is probably a lie, sure, but it's my current lifeline to sanity, so just let me have my delusions.)

But the intensity of my dislike seems to be abating with time (so long as it's actually the month of December).  Mark and I were running errands this week at stores where, of course, Christmas music was playing, and I didn't grumble and bitch about it.  I might even admit that I danced a little too it, but let's not get crazy.  And I want to go to the Garden Glow (though I contend that the Garden Glow is more of a winter festival than specifically Christmas - again, give me my delusions).

Also?  I have a confession: I kindof want to put up a tree and am a little disappointed that I really don't have space for one.  But don't tell anyone that, ok?