September 10th

Misplaced Confidence

A few days ago, Husband agreed to pick up an evening shift at his second job. When he came home after his day job, he made a beeline for the bedroom to change clothes. By the time I made it back to the bedroom, he'd nearly entirely stripped.

- I should go to work like this, huh?

- Um. In your boxers? No.

- No? I guess you're right.

- Yeah, Husband. I think I'm right.

- It wouldn't really be fair to the female customers, after all.

- What do you mean?

- Well, if I went to work in my boxers it would be as if I were cooking a juicy steak and when someone mentioned that it looked delicious, I said "here, come closer, I'll let you smell it, but no tasting."

- Oh, I see. So you'd show up to work in your underwear and the women would be clawing at you and you'd have to say "Ladies, ladies, I'm taken."

- Precisely.

I Love Backrubs and He Knows It

- My back hurts.

Fiance turns around and looks at me.

- Right here, on the lefthand side.

Fiance raises his eyebrows.

- Why are you looking at me like I'm totally milking this?
- No I'm not.
- Yes you are.
- No. I'm looking at you like it's quite unfortunate that your back hurts, but I think it's all a ploy.

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.

So the Resemblance Isn't a Fluke After All

On Friday night, Fiance came home from work with that look of a self-proclaimed genius. The talk that followed began well enough ("Sweetie, I was talking to Coworker and...") and went downhill from there. Apparently, when Coworker got married in December he only paid a fraction of the typical cost for invitations. Fiance was sold before their conversation was finished. Running the idea by me was really just a courtesy; we both knew I had no say in the matter.

Then he dropped the big "BUT" into our discussion. You know the one I'm talking about. I would love to go out to dinner with you tonight BUT I promised my goldfish a backrub. You look good BUT you've also got a booger hanging from your nose. Yes, that is the "BUT" I mean. In this case it went something like: "This guy makes amazing invitations BUT his English isn't that spectacular. He speaks Vietnamese." I'll admit that I wasn't stoked about ordering my wedding invitations from someone whose command of the English language wasn't commendable. So Fiance volunteered Coworker, who is Vietnamese, to translate should we need any help whatsoever.

Saturday morning, we visited the reception site with my parents and had breakfast together. Of course I had to tell them the story of how Fiance had dropped the InvitationManDoesn'tSpeakAFreakingWordOfEnglishDamnit bomb. My mother looked across the table and shook her head at Fiance. "You went about that whole thing wrong," she started out. "What you should have done is told her you'd heard about someone who sold reputable good-quality invitations for a reasonable price and potentially spoke French. She would have gone for that." And of course, Fiance and I both knew from that very moment that there was no denying she had given birth to me.

Four Little Words and One Big Answer

In a very small corner of the world on Friday night, one man proposed to one woman.

And she said yes!

When Did Choosing a Church Become Choosing a Stalker?

Boyfriend hates evangelism. He has no appreciation for other people telling him what to believe, how to feel, and which of his thoughts are going to send him to burn in eternal damnation. In Boyfriend's eyes the evangelists are akin to Lucifer himself. The face he pulls when the local Jehovah's Witnesses stop by to distribute their bilingual "Do you know Jesus?" pamphlets is evidence enough of this. I, on the other hand, am a big fan of religion. If it were up to me, we'd be in Shabbos service half the weekend and taking Mass the other half. There is nowhere that radiates a community more to me than a group of people with faith (common or otherwise) engaged in worship. One of my favorite feelings is stepping into the sunlight after devoting a morning to prayer and reflection.

That Boyfriend and I still get along despite this MAJOR difference in our faith and our perception of faith is testament to just how tolerant he really is. Now imagine two so different people looking for a home church. And if that's not enough, imagine when we start looking for our home synagogue. Luckily, we found a church last Sunday that is trying to make the whole selection process easy.

On Monday, an elderly gentleman stopped by to deliver us a loaf of bread. "It's our practice in the church to bake a loaf of bread for newcomers. We hope to see you again next week!" On Tuesday, one of the pastors left a personal message on our answerphone. It pretty much declared that they miss us already and can't wait to see us in a few more days. On Wednesday, we received a letter that thanked us for our attendance and encouraged us to return. A letter, Internet! A LETTER! With our names all typed up looking spiffy and the whole nine yards.

It's like we're being stalked. I'm starting to wonder if Boyfriend has a point with all his evangelism-hating. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if the bread did contain what he thinks it may: brain-washing chemicals.

Conversation Overheard Between Two People Seriously Considering Investing in Dentures

- The other day, I wrote about Valentine's Day on my blog. I wrote about how I screwed it up.
- Yeah?
- Yeah, and I mentioned that I would have semi-redeemed myself with a cute story about how we met each other, except that we met at work. I said you were up to your elbows in bike grease. So I might have exaggerated a little.
- I see. Just blowing a little grease out of proportion to suit your blogging needs.
- What? You say it like I live by lying through my teeth.
- No, honey. Someday when you're old, you won't have any teeth and then you won't have to lie through them.

After The Conversation About Whose Last Name Was Better

- You know what name I kind of like for a little boy? Mason. It's too bad that some of my family members have that last name because otherwise it'd be a really cute name, don't you think? It seems like a strong, reliable, sensible name for a boy.

- Well, it's not too bad...

- Except, when you think about it, with the wrong last name it could sound pretty gay.

- (looking confused) WHAT?! Like what? What last name would give that impression?

- Like Geoffries. Can you imagine a Mason Geoffries who wouldn't be gay?

- (laughing at the sheer nonsense of it all) He does sound a little like a fashion designer. I guess I can imagine the announcement of the Mason Geoffries spring show.

Cupid and the Sling of Pens, not Arrows

Boyfriend was seated at the end of the couch writing me a love letter. Which I'm not allowed to read for Quite Some Time. I sat at the opposite end of the couch and stretched my feet out until they touched his leg. He looked at me. I looked at him.

- Is this uncomfortable for you?
- No.
- Okay. Good.
- If it were uncomfortable, I'd just jab your toes with my pen.

Leave it to a Man to Remember

Last year, Boyfriend and I lived 6500 miles apart. He lived in a small apartment in southern California and I lived in a smaller apartment in southern France. This year, Boyfriend and I live about 6.5 millimeters from one another, which anybody knows is too close, and we fight about Monopoly.

Last year, I flew home for the holidays. Boyfriend picked me up from the airport in late December and drove over an hour to my parents' house so we could decorate the tree together. This year, we didn't fly anywhere. Our trip to Missouri was cancelled less than a week before our departure, so we drove up the coast of California. Eight hours in any car on one day = too many.

Last year, we stayed up past midnight on New Year's Eve. I had a splitting headache and we were awake four hours later so Boyfriend could drive me to the airport. And this year, we stayed up past midnight on New Year's Eve. I was tired and grouchy and my eyes were stinging and I was not a happy camper.

"But this year is better than last year," Boyfriend insisted.

Why?

Cuz last year when I was cuddled against him and falling asleep, he informs me, I was wearing underwear.