In Which I Realize Why We're Getting Married

Our final exercise of the marriage retreat weekend was to write each other a love letter.

Tom wrote me an AIM conversation.

I'm ready for August.

Retreat!

So we went on the Marriage Preparation Retreat last weekend. And it was awful. More awful than I ever imagined. I think that I had modeled my assumptions about what it would be like on the Simpsons episode where they go on a weekend marriage retreat. You know, some sitting on the couch complaining about each other, and then a bunch of fishing.

(I couldn't find the video I was looking for...and then spent an hour watching Simpsons clips on Hulu. I miss when that show was funny.)

This weekend was much different. First of all, I assumed there may have been 5 or 6 couples. I don't know why I thought that, possibly because I thought more than that would require a great deal more couches to rest upon. We got there and it was like a swarm. There were easily 60 couples there. And we were all packing into the "auditorium" which was code for "room full of REALLY uncomfortable chairs." They looked deceptively padded, but when you actually sat it was like sitting on a piece of plywood. The second day I sat on Tom's sweatshirt because I was still sore from the previous day.

Anyway, so we get there. And we're sitting in the auditorium. And we're being lectured to about marriage by two couples, and a crazy priest. They talk about marriage for half an hour and then we're separated (men stay in the room, women go outside) to fill out worksheets. After 15 minutes, the guys in the auditorium leave to find their fiances outside and "share" their answers/feelings. Of course between Tom and I there was less "sharing" of feelings about marriage and more sharing about the feeling we had toward people lying on the grass with their heads in each other's laps. What is this? Some kind of cheesy commercial? Are you going to feed each other grapes? Everyone's holding hands, in the auditorium they have their arms around each other. It's weird. They even did mass on Sunday and everyone IN CHURCH is touching each other. Not. Cool.

Okay, sorry for the digression. You have to realize...watching 120 people fawning over each other like high school kids in "love" for 2 days straight is pretty little painful. Especially when the majority of them are so unattractive you're just hoping that they don't breed. You know....for the sake of humanity. So, back to the worksheets. Here's a glimpse:

Q: After we are married, if we disagree on a spending issue, who will have the last word?
Tom: Whoever speaks slower.

Q: (Blah blah certain situation) What were my fiance's thoughts and feelings?
Tom: No idea. She was probably thinking about cake. (He's right.)

Q: Do I feel called by the Church to be matrimonied to you?
Tom: I refuse to answer on the grounds that the word "matrimonied" is featured.
Me: I don't know- could you not find a real verb for this?

Q: Is my decision to have a Catholic wedding a free and honest one?
Me: No. The church is charging like $700. It's ridiculous.

Q: What would you like your fiance to do differently when you disagree?
Me: My bidding.

Q: Name some ways I can make a decision to love my fiance when:

• I feel angry at him/her: Physically
• I don't feel like talking: Physically
• My fiance is angry at me: Physically
• I realize I have hurt my fiance: Call EMTs.
  

You can tell that we really worked hard on these. :-p What we actually worked hard on was correcting the worksheets. There were so many grammatical errors. And they're dated from 2001. In 8 years no one has corrected these?! Fiance is spelled incorrectly on every page. And they have these little gems: "What would I most want you, my beloved to change?" There's another comma in there people!! AUGH! Painful.

Anyway, we sat through it. Even though it was the first absolutely beautiful weekend of the year. It was 80 degrees all weekend and we're either sitting in the world's most uncomfortable auditorium or out in my 80 degree car pondering whether we could drive away and still be given our certificates. Included were calculations of how many couples we could take out with the getaway car. Bonus!

So, mission accomplished. And now I understand why Catholics don't get divorced. It's not worth the possibility that you may have to sit through that weekend again. Cripes.

Marriage Favors the Prepared

This weekend Tom and I are attending a required marriage prep course thingie. Woo Catholicism! So, when I signed us up, they emailed directions to the retreat center, and a list of "Questions for the Engaged Couple." The instructions were to answer the questions and share the answers with one another prior to attending the retreat. So, I forwarded the questions on to Tom. The following is what I got back from him.

Q. What do I hope to gain from the marriage Preparation Weekend and how do I feel about making it?
A. Making what? This is a poorly written question.

Q. How do I feel about moving from my individual personal life to a committed relationship in marriage?
A. Better than I feel about moving all my individual stuff into a shared apartment, I'll tell you that.

Q. What do I mean when I say "I love you"?
A. Who am I addressing? The meaning of the phrase differs dramatically if I'm yelling it at the TV after Lowell homers in a tie game in the bottom of the ninth.

Q. How do I feel about my relationship with God?
A. I feel with my hands.

Q. What particular special (concern, issue, dream) do I want to share with you?
A.
Concern: Whoever wrote these questions wasn't taught proper proofreading skilz.
Issue: My mint condition 100th issue of The Amazing Spider-Man with hologram cover.
Dream: The one where I'm flying and then Peter Pan is there.


I have a bad feeling about this weekend.

Mochanut

Today it is 80 degrees outside and abso-frikkin-lutely gorgeous. I am wearing a tank-top and capri pants and I couldn't be happier. So, Tom and I decided to take advantage of the weather and walk to Dunkin' Donuts for some iced coffee.

DD Lady: "May I help you?"
Me: "Yes please. Can I get a medium iced coconut with milk and sweet 'n low?"
Tom: "Make it two."
DD Lady: "Okay."
She leans over to the guy who's actually making the coffee.
DD Lady: "2 mochas with milk and sweet 'n low."
Me: "Not mocha, coconut."
DD Lady: "Oh sorry, coconut."
The guy starts making the coffee. He fills two cups with ice and comes back to us.
DD Guy: "What did you want in those? Mocha right?"
Me: "No- COCONUT with milk and sweet 'n low."
DD Guy: "Ohh, mochanut, got it."
And he goes on his way.
Me to Tom: "Did he just say mochanut?"
Tom: "I have no idea. Mocha isn't even on their list of flavors."
Sure enough, the guy walks back from the corner and we can see chocolate syrup in the bottom of the cups. I almost say something, but it's summer now and the world is as it should be.
DD Guy: "Here ya go."
Tom: "Thanks."

We get the coffee, step out into the sunshine, and take a sip. Indeed he has included both chocolate syrup and coconut flavoring. Unfortunately he has also remembered to include the sweet 'n low which, when paired with the actual sugar in the chocolate syrup, makes the whole mixture taste really funky. It's okay though...apparently Tom has discovered his new favorite flavor. He sucked down his coffee and is halfway through mine at this point. Apparently "mochanut" should be a flavor option.

Another triumph at the Dunkin' Donuts.

In Which Meatloaf Conquers My Fear of Death*

I've always been totally freaked out about dying. Not really the best fear to have when your job is dead people. I'm constantly spending time with the family members of people who are dead/dying in the hospital, and it's awful. I enjoy it, because it's my job to give meaning to death. Yes, your loved one died, and it totally blows. Now, let's use this senseless tragedy to save someone else's life, and tell the Grim Reaper to go screw himself. I have to have these internal monologues to do what I do, and it works. I love my job.

But, when the eye turns inward, things are a little tougher. When I watch a fiance falling apart at the bedside of her future husband's deathbed, I can't help but be a little selfish. I think that if it were my fiance in that bed, I would die. I would just die. And I'm sure that's what she's feeling. When I see parents at the bedside of their child, I think that when I have kids, they will live in a padded room, wear a helmet, and drink their meals through a straw. I know how incredibly easy it is for something simple to kill someone. And it freaks the living hell out of me.

And I've always wondered...when you're like 70 years old, do you just constantly think about death? I know a lot of really happy-seeming old people. They enjoy themselves, don't seem to have a care in the world, and I think if I were them I would be on constant death-alert. You see it on television and people say "I'm ready" or "let me go" and I've always thought, "YOU'RE CRAZY!! BREATHE!!!" I really don't understand people that are okay with death.

So last week I was watching "House." And yes, the show is ridiculous and it's never lupus and all that jazz, but I love Hugh Laurie and find the show diverting. So I'm watching, and the story is that Meatloaf is going to die of lung cancer. In the opening scene. He's on his deathbed, he's telling his wife goodbye, I'm thinking what a waste it is of a perfectly good Meatloaf cameo, and he looks like he's slipping away. And I mean, it really looks like he's going. You know when you're sooooo tired that you're falling asleep in spite of yourself? And you know how good it feels when you finally give into it? Like when you're sick and you knock yourself out with Nyquil?

That is the exact look that Meatloaf had. I felt that peaceful sleepy feeling just looking at him. And then I realized. That's how you feel when you die. (You know, unless you have some horrible traumatic accident and in those cases you're gone so fast you never feel anything anyway.) It's like the longest nap ever. And I thought, I love naps. This is how older people deal with death. They're so tired from doing their jobs, cooking, cleaning, and dealing with a-holes at Dunkin' Donuts, that death looks like a vacation. And now when I think of that wonderful slipping off to sleep feeling, I think that death will eventually be okay.

And that is how in one brilliant guest appearance, Meatloaf conquered my fear of death.

*This post is dedicated to Donny. The only person I know who appreciates the true genius that is Meatloaf.

Earth Day Resolution

This morning I had a presentation to give at a hospital. I needed to be there by 8 AM, so I woke up at the crack of dawn, sat in traffic, and arrived to the hospital 15 minutes early. This punctuality meant that I deserved a trip to the Dunkin' Donuts situated on the ground floor of the hospital. Woo coffee and croissanwich (which I don't think is what they call it, but that's what it is.) I walk in and take my place in line. Ahead of me is a woman of petite stature, and not so petite proportions. She is wearing gigantic sunglasses, texting incessantly, and looking completely ridiculous.

DD Employee: "May I help you?"
Ridiculous Woman: "Yeah, can I get a bagel with cream cheese, and a coolata?"
DDE: "Yes ma'am, would you like the cream cheese on the bagel?"
RW: "Yeah!"
The DD lady grabs a bagel and starts toward the prep station. The ridiculous woman basically runs after her yelling,
RW: "Can you make it a coconut coolata? COCONUT COOLATA!"
DDE: "Sure."

Apparently she then orders a waffle breakfast sandwich. First of all, there is no reason to order a breakfast housed between two blueberry hockey pucks, but I doubt reason comes into play in RW's daily life at all.

DDE: "I'm sorry ma'am, we're fresh out of waffles."
Me muttering: "Omg there is nothing fresh about those waffles."
RW: "Hang on a second, I'll be right back."

Now, to get a good picture of this, you need to remember that throughout the requests, the stalking up and down the store following the poor Dunkin' Donuts chick behind the counter, the being INDOORS, this ridiculous woman has yet to:
1. Take off her ginormous sunglasses or
2. Stop texting for a single frikkin' second.

So, she goes to the door. She opens the door, and keeping one foot in the store at all times as if she would be melted by lava if she stepped all the way out, she starts yelling.

RW: "Wanda!"
RW: "WANDA!"
RW: "WANDA!!!!"

Everyone in the store flinches, but apparently she's gotten Wanda's attention. Bully for her.

RW: "They're outta waffles!"
RW: "THEY'RE OUTTA WAFFLES!"
RW: "THEY AIN'T GOT NO MORE WAFFLES!!!"

Sweet baby Jesus Wanda there is a waffle crisis, DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?!

So wouldn't you know it, the impending waffle famine spurs Wanda indoors to make the decision of a lifetime. She walks in, and I'm seeing double. She's the exact same size and shape as RW, and apparently they took a trip together to the Sunglass Hut. At least Wanda has the good sense to remove her blinders indoors.

They walk in together and move toward the food prep station where RW had previously been barking orders over the barricade. Then they promptly stop. Right in front of me. They're standing right in front of me, and they're texting. Not moving, not making decisions, not getting the hell out of my way. The lady at the counter is asking for the next customer and I am trapped behind a waffle-lovin' wall of stupidity. I finally make my way around the T-mobile twins and ask for a cup of coffee. I'm about to order my breakfast sandwich when I hear Wanda ask whether she can add bacon to her sandwich and whipped cream to her Coolata.

DD Employee: "And can I get you anything else?"
Me: "Oh my God, just whatever you can reach the fastest."

She smiled, glanced at me sympathetically and threw a Boston creme donut in a bag. I paid and left as quickly as possible as Wanda and RW's food sat on the counter unclaimed while they texted.

Screw the earth. From now on I'm using the drive-thru.

Talkin' About My Generation

I'm at the grocery store waiting at the seafood counter. There is a well-dressed woman in her 40's yapping away on her cellphone behind me. All of a sudden an announcement comes over the PA system about some sale they're having.

Yappie McGee: "Could that announcement have been any FUCKING louder?! Jesus!"

I look back at her, wondering who she's talking to and thinking that Jesus probably doesn't appreciate that kind of language. Unless Chris Rock is using it...then he probably finds it hilarious like the rest of us.

The guy working the seafood counter comes up and takes my order. I ask him for salmon and to please remove the skin (because I am lazy.) The guy smiles, says sure, and starts to work. As he's procuring the fish and the instruments necessary for its denudement, he starts chatting with his coworkers. All of a sudden, I realize Yappie McGee has sidled up to me.

Yappie McGee: "Doesn't that just make you crazy?"
Me: "What?"
YM: "The fact that he's having a conversation while he's servicing you*."
Me: "No...he's getting my stuff...as long as I don't have to take the skin off that fish, I don't care what he does."
YM: "Hmph. Well...I guess that just shows the difference between the younger and older generations."

I'm thinking that the difference she's sensing is actually that of nice person vs. total bitch, but I'm ready to make a break for it. Seafood guy smiles, hands me my fish, and asks if I need anything else. I say no and walk away as quickly as possible to the sounds of:

Yappie McGee: "Why is that fish so white?"
Seafood Guy: "It's a whitefish. It's supposed to be white."

Poor Seafood Guy.


*I had to stifle a major giggle when she said this. hehehe servicing :-p

Diagnosis: Your Car Hates You

The mechanic finally got around to taking a look at my poor pathetic mode of transportation. Their opinion? I am mean to my car. The guy calls me at about 7:30 last night. What he's still doing at his garage at that hour, I don't know...obviously I was at the bar by then...but it's nice to know he's dedicated to his work.

Mechanic: "Hi Sam, just wanted to give you a call about your truck."
Me: "Great. How does it look?""
Mechanic: "Well, it's not good. Tell me- did you recently hit anything?"
Me: "Well, it's the end of winter in New England. I'm sure I've hit a lot of things. Not like kids, or animals, or anything...but probably my share of potholes."
Mechanic: Yeah...that makes sense. You've got a few problems that we'll need to fix. First of all, your front right rotor is shattered. It isn't worn out, it's more like you hit something and it broke into a bunch of pieces. Actually that whole assembly is destroyed. It's lucky you had it towed in here because that wheel was actually about to fall off of your car*.
Me: "Wow. Good thing."
Mechanic: "The second thing we'd want to fix is your shocks. You have no shocks on the front of your car. They're so....fluid....not even working...much smoother ride..." (at this point I had no idea what he was talking about and kind of tuned out.)
Me: "Okay...smoother ride sounds good."
Mechanic: "So, I'm thinking at the absolute most it's going to end up being about $900 and I can hopefully get it back to you by the end of the week."
Me: "OK. Thanks?"

I wish I knew anything about cars. I think he's also doing something else to the car, and according to my companions at the bar the front end stuff will take a lot of labor. So maybe $900 isn't the worst price of all time. But then I think about the bluebook value of my truck (maaaybe $1500 if I was lucky) and shudder. I have doubled the value of my truck twice in 2 years. The thing is a rolling moneypit.

*Aside: Those of you who read my previous blog about the trip from Atlanta will remember that this is the EXACT same problem that I had two years ago. And which I drove on for a grand total of 3 hrs on an interstate prior to getting repairs. Wildcard!

Dear Bacteria: We're Onto You

Science is totally awesome.

In Which My Car Was Probably Trying To Tell Me Something

Readers of my previous blog may recall the last time my car made funny noises. It sounded like metal grinding on metal- primarily because that's exactly what had happened. My rotors had exploded and my axle was pretty much just held in place by the will of God. As a solution, I of course drove the car 60 mph for 2 hrs until the wheels almost literally fell off.

So, when my car started making funny noises yesterday...I'm sure you can all guess where this is headed. The car has been making occasional strange noises for a while now, but I just chalked that up to my car being a total piece of crap. Leave well enough alone is my motto, and I had extended it to "Leave well enough alone and the sound of ducks dying is a standard feature in American-made cars." I lead a rich fantasy life. But yesterday the noise became less of an occasional squeak or quack and more of a rubbing that simultaneously tried to pull me off the road. I knew I would have to take it to a mechanic today, but thought I'd be able to make it to my meetings in Boston first. The truck only has 130K miles on it- it'll be fine, right?

Not so much. The view from my windshield quickly became the view from Timmy's windshield...and it really needs cleaning.I made it about 3 miles before the rubbing sound became more akin to the sound of all my car's parts being run through a dryer. It sounded terrible. So I decided to pull over. I applied the brake...applied more brake...sweet Jesus I am braking aren't I?! Before finally grinding to a halt. Needless to say I was a little terrified to drive any further and had to call my friendly roadside assistance provider.

Now my car is sitting outside a mechanic's near my house where they "might" get around to doing a diagnostic today. I have a bad feeling about how much this is going to cost...and how long it's going to take. As Timmy was driving me home I just stared at my pitiful vehicle and thought, "I am never buying American again."

In Which Graduation Can't Come Soon Enough

My Sister: "Someone called and said that they'd planted a bomb on the football field."
Me: "Cripes. So that's far enough away from the school they won't even let you out of class or anything?"
MS: "Nope. The principal said that it was a trick to get us to stay in the school where they'd really hidden the bomb."
Me: "So what did they do?"
MS: "They evacuated us to the football field."

I Suck at Dy(e)ing

In honor of Easter and nostalgia for my childhood, I've decided to dye eggs this year. So, I went to the grocery store and purchased 2 dozen thinking that maybe Tom's younger siblings would want to come over and help. I bought the eggs I usually buy- vegetarian, cage-free. Because I have a conscience, but primarily because I don't want to die of mad-chicken disease (oh, it's coming people.)

Anybody else see the problem with this?Go ahead, think about it. I'll wait.


Need a hint?
They're brown. I bought 2 dozen BROWN eggs to dye. I'm officially a moron.

First Pug

I am in a hospital basement. I've just left the cafeteria and am taking the elevator to the 8th floor. The elevator stops on the first floor. A woman walks in with a dog. The dog is wearing a pearl necklace with a pink bow, and pearl "bracelets" around each of her(?) front paws. The dog is running laps around the woman and tangling her up in the leash.

Me: "Your dog is dressed to the nines"
Dog Lady: "Yes. Today she's Barbara Bush."

And then she and Barbara walk off the elevator.












I assume the 1st floor houses the psych ward. Primarily because if you're going to dress your dog as someone, I think we all know the obvious choice:

In Which Relics Are Defaced

Mom: So, I've been thinking, and you just can't wear green shoes with your wedding dress.
Me: I know. You told me that as soon as I mentioned it.
Mom: It's just not going to look good. Tell you what we can do- your dress has rhinestones on it, right?
Me: No.
Mom: It has something though, right?
Me: Yes. It has tiny glass beads around the waist.
Mom: Okay, so what we can do is go to the craft store and buy some green beads, and then attach a few of those to your shoes.
Me: I can buy shoes with green beads. I saw some yesterday.
Mom: Yeah, but we can just add them and it'll be easier.
Me: No it won't. Buying shoes with beads is one step. Bam. Beaded shoes. Your plan involves a craft store. Not easier.
Mom: Yeah, but you haven't heard my whole plan! Have you thought about how you're doing your hair?
Me: I figure it'll be hot in August, so....up.
Mom: Okay, so I have one of Granny's old combs that's decorated with rhinestones. What we can do is pop the rhinestones out and put in the green beads that we get at the craft store!
Me: I'm not going to let you deface some family heirloom with craft-store beads.
Mom: No, it's okay! I think we can just pop the rhinestones back in when we're done.
Me: You can't just "pop" things in and out of 90-year-old antiques.
Mom: I think you can.

My mother is the little-engine-that-could of bad ideas.

In Which the Word "Majestic" Loses All Meaning

Mom: I was talking to a girl at work about her daughter's wedding. She said that for a centerpiece they had a big majestic vase that they filled with apples, and then put some flowers on top.
Me: How is that different from what I said last week about filling the bottom of the vases with limes and then putting flowers in? You didn't like that idea at all.
Mom: No, you don't understand. They had a big majestic vase filled with apples, and that's it!
Me: Oh...one big majestic vase. I get it.
Mom: One majestic vase! In the middle of the room, and everyone could look at it.
Me: Wait...one? Like, one centerpiece.
Mom: Yeah! A majestic one.
Me: So what was on the tables?
Mom: Nothing! The big vase was so pretty that everyone just looked at that!
Me: So, you want me to have white linens...and one giant majestic apple-filled vase that everyone will spend the entire reception staring at?
Mom: What? You don't think that will be nice?

This is why when people ask me, "How's the wedding planning coming?" I just walk away.