September 10th

I hope there are LOTS of tennis balls in Heaven

My parents bought me a black dog one year for Christmas. A few weeks after the holiday, my father and I drove out to a breeder in Cherry Valley where two labs were looking for a home. I chose the black one because he was beautiful, shy, interesting, sweet. And I named him Jet. Yesterday morning, somebody driving a car on a road near my parents' home didn't stop. Jet had been out all night - only the second time in six years he had strayed for longer than an hour - and my understanding is that he was dead upon impact. And that's all there was to it. My baby, my sillygoosedog, was gone.

I never realized how lost I would feel without Jet until I heard the telephone message that there had been an accident and all the neighbors had was his collar. So now I worry about how lost he felt without me when he was trying to find home. And Jetboy? I'm really sorry I wasn't there. We loved you and we miss you.

Being Institutionalized is Only a Matter of Time

Something I said last night in complete earnesty:
     "It's really good luck that the cat puked on our sheets."

Praying the New Hairstyle Will Get Him Laid

Sometime shortly after Fiance and I began to live in sin, we went to dinner with my parents. This isn't exactly a rare occurence and most people would probably not be very keen on how un-rare it is, but Fiance doesn't mind it one little bit. In fact, he likes my folks. They like him, too - probably more than they like me considering how many brilliant examples of adolescent stupidity I provided them with between the ages of, oh, 12 and 19. It's a miracle that my parents survived my teenage years and moreover did not end up paying millions of dollars in therapy for the things I put them through.

At the time of this particular dinner outing, Fiance and I were still in the process of unpacking my belongings and breaking down boxes and spending every penny we had between us on bookcases in which to store my approximately ten billion paperbacks. Naturally, the conversation tended to limp towards that ever-sensitive topic of The Move and it's evil twin: Change. Change from sleeping on the right-hand side of the bed to sleeping on the left-hand side. Change from eating mayonnaise on sandwiches to not purchasing mayonnaise because it has vinegar in it and DUH vinegar is a demon creation. Change from living 6500 miles away from your sweetheart to waking up less than 6.5 inches away from someone who takes snoring Very Seriously.

At some point in the conversation, my mother stood up on a soapbox and preached to us all of her opinions related to Change and the beast it could be. Specifically, she does not like the idea of women who enter into relationships determined to change a man into something he is not. This means that WOMEN, you are not to attempt to pry the remote control from the death-grip of a man - he was made that way and the detachment will not go well so BE YE WARNED. Also, it meant that I was not to try to convince Fiance that now that he's all growed up he maybe doesn't need to spike his hair anymore. As such, one of Fiance's favorite phrases this past year has been "Remember what your mother says about changing a man?!" He tends to follow this by telling me how beautiful I am and how I am certainly not made less stunning by standing next to an oaf who spikes his hair despite thirty years of life experience screaming at him to cut it out already.

Do you hear that sucking sound, Internet? That is the cosmos realigning because Fiance has realized that flattery? It will get him nowhere.

As an Old Man He Will Park in Well-Lit Areas, Twitch and Mumble Under His Breath

As I've mentioned previously, Fiance and I have been struggling to keep the number of potential wedding guests to a minimum. This has been a constant uphill battle, like trying to keep clothes on a stripper, and on more than one occasion we have wished that Elvis, Cher, or Bullwinkle were marrying us in a drive-through chapel in Vegas. Just a few days ago, however, we managed to nix three people.

Relative One. Relative Two. And Relative Three.

If that had been the end of the story, I would probably be asking you all to take a deep breath content in the knowledge that Fiance and I would be headed to the bottom circle of Hell. After all, it seems safe to assume that the darkest corner of Creation be reserved for people like us who knowingly exclude relatives from mourning the end of Fiance's bachelorhood. And what defense could I possibly offer Satan? Yeah, Lucifer, about that...

Then we consulted with an older and much-wiser relative about the potential deletion of Relatives One, Two, and Three from our invitation spreadsheet. And before you could say HOT DIGGITY DAMN - before Britney Spears could annul a marriage - we found ourselves glued to one of those relative's Myspace page. Although I absolutely will not divulge details, it did turn out that we were entirely justified in giving them the axe: They.Cannot.Be.Trusted.

Seeing the Myspace page jumpstarted a Very Serious discussion between Fiance and I about the ethics of Internet picture-posting. I know it's hard to believe but I do have a sliver of morals (which amounts to a little more than, say, that crazy astronaut who tried to kidnap the other woman in her deranged love triangle) and some of those apply to which pictures do and do not make the blog - or any web profile I may have, for that matter. There are five people whose permission is not obtained when I post pictures: my parents, my sisters, and Fiance. I know that they trust my discretion (fools) and I trust theirs. I also assume that if they have any problems with any photograph or post, they will inform me of such. Everyone else ranging from my best friends to my half-sister, from my future in-laws to other peoples' children, gives their express permission before I post anything.

- So let me get this straight; you ask everyone else for permission?
- Yes, Fiance. And if I wasn't positive that a picture would be acceptable, then I would even ask Sisters for their permission.
- You would ask your Sisters but not me?
- Well, I figure you trust my discretion and have 24 hours of daily intervention opportunities. Besides, Internet freaks are much less likely to hunt you down.
- And rape me in a parking lot? THANK G-D.

Dear Me of Yesterday,

Hey there, little Miss September. That was a big Easter celebration; I'm so proud of you remembering everyone's name! In fact, since you did such a fantastic job maneuvering between fifty people and introducing your in-laws-to-be to those crazy folks you call your family, I'll almost overlook your HUGE social faux pas. Almost... Next time when a large group of people is toasting your engagement, pay attention, okay? They don't want to raise their glasses and look over to see you in a tiff with your sister.

She didn't mean to pour champagne all down your shirt and pants and camera, after all. So if it ever happens again, just let it slide and take it with grace. Trust me that you will not remember the flurry of words that happens when you're trying to figure out what the hell was going on with your sister's champagne. But you will always regret that you denied yourself the opportunity to enjoy, to experience, and to remember your family and your friends joined together in one happy moment. You will always remember that you missed what was potentially one of the most heartwarming moments of your life thus far. So many people came together to congratulate you, to wish you and Fiance well, and to show the two of you their love and support and you? Sarah, you let that moment pass you by in favor of fighting with your sister. You will always wish that you had been paying enough attention to thank them for such a thoughtful toast and you will never forget that you acted unreasonably and immaturely in front of several dozen people who love and care about you. And yes, you will cry because afterwards you will find that champage spilled all over costs most people a change of clothes, but you? Your foolishness cost you a memory. One of the memories you had been waiting for your entire life, one of the memories you had been looking forward to, and one of the memories you will never have a chance to make again.

It also cost you a photograph. But that's beside the point.

The point is that you should live your life as if each day were your last and when you missed that toast, you failed that mission in a split second. Because they may forgive you for missing that memory, Sarah, but you will never forgive yourself. So if you ever have that chance again, do me one big favor:
Don't. Blow. It.

Oh, and also? Don't wait until the next day to apologize to your parents. But if you do, you know what? They still love you, even if you do play the part of jacka** rather well.

Love,
Me of Today

Mes Dames d'Honneur

On Friday after work, my sisters and I went shopping for bridesmaids' dresses. We arrived with a catalog of fashions to select from and went straight to rifling through the racks of endless gowns. Unfortunately, my sisters and I are all itty bitty teensy weensy people, so the shop clerk was forced to use clips the size of my fist to keep the dresses from falling off.

This was not the case with me. My bridal gown was ordered as a size 2 and when I tried it on, my sister laced up the back as tight as she could to keep it from sliding down. All the sudden, I found myself standing on a shop platform surrounded by mirrors and wondering if the wedding dress was intended to inhibit respiration. The clerk raced over to loosen the laces and, giggling, made some comment about my sisters practicing lacing me up before the actual wedding day. And all I could think was that practicing meant I'm supposed to wear a garment that outweighs me MORE THAN ONCE.

Which is why I'm taking all the deep breaths I can possibly muster over the next four months.