Paranoid...

Whenever I'm at work alone, I surf the internet, shop online, check my email and post in my blog. *This is, of course, only if I'm totally caught up with my real work (nudge, nudge, snicker, snicker).* I will always have something work-related pulled up on another screen to toggle to if someone comes back to the office (thank gawd for Alt + Tab!!!).

But why do I always toggle to something work related when the phone rings? Apparently, if I don't toggle, they'll know. They'll know and THEY'LL TELL.

Till Death Do Us Part...

Friday, 5:45 p.m.: We are at the church. I am all dolled up in my wedding dress, jewelry and heels. My nails are done, my hair is done, my makeup is done. And I'm sweating my fucking ass off as though I'm being slow-roasted over an open flame with an apple in my mouth. D looks amazing. His tux is HOT. We grow impatient as we wait, and wait, and wait. Guests arrive. People come in to where we're waiting to take pics and give us hugs and kisses, to ohhh and ahhh at how "cute" we look, and the entire time I'm hoping I don't have pit stains on my dress from sweating so freaking much. I feel like I'm going to pass out.

FINALLY. The music starts and the priest leads us to walk down the aisle. I want to laugh. I want to DIE LAUGHING. D and I are both stiff as boards, we really have no idea what we're supposed to do. We're going with the flow. We're flying by the seat of our about-to-be-married pants. After a free-style sermon from the priest, which went on and on and on but was quite touching, and an awkward exchange of the vows, D kissed the bride and we skipped back down the aisle. I was high. High from the fact that I'd JUST GOTTEN MARRIED and because I no longer had to worry about getting sweat on my dress. It was party time, baby!

We hauled ass to the Tribute, where drinks and antipasto awaited. The setup was beautiful: a huge lit candelabrum in the fireplace, Sinatra playing in the background and laughter in the air. After an hour dinner was served, and though I don't remember all the different foods, I do remember that they all tasted amazing and that I kept wondering how my mother could afford all of this, how lucky I was to be able to throw such an awesome party to celebrate D and I getting hitched. Dinner, more drinks, pictures out the ass, cake cutting, cake eating, more drinks, a champagne toast...

Fast forward to later that night, after our families had left and only our friends remained. We invited them all back to our suite, which was decorated with candles and chocolate covered strawberries, the most romantic thing I've ever seen in my life. I could not wait for D and I to be alone. I was having fun with my drunk-as-fuck friends, but being the only completely sober one in the group was getting old FAST.

Just as I was thinking it was time for the guests to drive home drunk, D puked over the outside balcony of our suite. He stumbled back inside, took off his shirt, and lay on the king size bed, puke on his shoe and pants, the stink of mixed alcohol and stomach acid filling the room. As our friends FINALLY left, and I locked the door behind them, I turned to find D on the bathroom floor and started BAWLING my eyes out. Our night was ruined! No romance, no feeding each other cake and strawberries and champagne, no fucking like wild donkey's as man and wife... instead, there was cleaning up puke, putting cold cloths on my new husband's forehead, holding trashcans for him to vomit into over and over... and eventually there was going to bed ALONE. AWAKE. TEARY EYED. ANGRY.

In the morning, D had the most insane hangover I've ever seen. He was hurting, and part of me was glad. He felt bad physically, and also emotionally for letting me down the night before, as he should have. I forgave him. I moved on. I expect to be whisked away one weekend in the near future to make up for it.

All in all, I would not change a thing about our wedding ceremony or our reception. I'd do the wedding *night* over in a second, but nothing is ever perfect.

Oh, Pardon Me!

My fiance. He farts out loud. On purpose. And when I say out loud, I mean LOUD. There is no hiding this natural occurence of his. In fact, there are times when I really think that he was taught in his younger years that the more you fart, the LOUDER you fart, well, it gets you some sort of special place in heaven.

He enjoys farting. In bed, on the couch, in MY FACE... in the kitchen as we're cooking dinner. Noone is safe from his ghastly blows. And when they smell? Oh mercy. My hair stands on end and my eyes burn. It is baaaaaaad. Even the dog, who EATS HIS OWN SHIT, runs for cover.

So I've been thinking... I'll be marrying this man, the farter, in 2 days. On Friday. THIS Friday. If he's already doing these things in front of me, what could I possibly have to look forward to after we are officially man and wife?

Isn't divorce "in" these days?

Just a SQUEEZE of Lemon...

Lately? Going to the bathroom? Which is something I do eight-thousand-and-forty-two times a day? It really sucks. Because now, not only am I constantly running to the bathroom as though I'm being chased by someone with a chainsaw, but I AM HAVING TROUBLE GOING when I get there. It's like this: Sudden urge to pee. Sudden dash to the bathroom. Pull down pants. Sit on toilet. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Wipe. Stand up. Pull up pants. Flush. Still have to pee more. Repeat process until bladder is completely drained.

The only way I can describe it: My bladder is a stubborn lemon that holds on to it's juice, and I've really got to SQUEEZE to get it all out.

In one more week I will enter the third trimester of my pregnancy. I've heard things only get worse from here.

I have no idea, I know.

Doggy Style...

Last night our neighbor, Rick, came over with his 3 month old baby chiuhauha puppy, Monkey. Picture the most fragile and precious little doe imaginable (think Bambi), only add a longer tail and decrease the body size to around 2 pounds. Cute is not the word... he is... is... EDIBLE. I started flipping through my dog cookbook, thoughtfully lingering at the pages with recipes for doggie stew and chihuahua suprise. He is THAT damn adorable. Monkey has energy to SPARE. I nicknamed him "amphetamine" because he always acts like he just blew a huge rail of uncut cocaine, and his nose is still burning from it.

Then there's Bogart. Our 2-year old chihuahua. He is 6 pounds, a light sandy color with white "highlights", MUCH cuter than the infamous Taco Bell dog and a notorious ankle biter. He likes to play, and he likes to play rough. He also is incapable of eating at his food bowl. Instead, he takes a few pieces of the SMALLEST DOG FOOD EVER MADE and transports them to the living room rug, where he drops them in a pile and strategically eats them one by one, crunching and chewing with glee. Sometimes I'm convinced he has OCD.

Enter Lloyd, our other neighbor's dog. Lloyd is a 4 year old weiner dog... a dachshund. He is long, stalky and PIGEON-TOED with a silky black coat and tan accents. He reminds me of a cartoon. Lloyd has a binge eating disorder. I once dropped a single chip on the kitchen floor. I immediately bent down to retrieve the fallen vessel, when OUT OF NOWHERE comes Lloyd. He rushes past me and devours the chip in record time. All I saw was a black blur, all I heard was a "chomp, crunch, gulp". Every time Lloyd comes over to play, we must put Bogart's food bowl out of sight. Lloyd immeditaly goes to it everytime he comes over and will eat until he DIES. His owner has instructed us to never, ever give him treats. She says he will eat until he passes out... really. He just likes to eat THAT MUCH. And he begs... he gets up ON HIS HIND LEGS to sit like a human and just stares at you while you eat, hopeful that a single crum will fall within his reach.

So last night, Lloyd, Bogart and Monkey were all playing together. It was doggy threesome galore! Lloyd on all fours, sniffing Monkey's monkey, Monkey humping Lloyd's face in sheer delight, and Bogart smelling Lloyd's ass from behind.

That's what I call a goooood time.

Oh I'm Just a Girl...

I'm just a girl. A girl who is getting married in 2 weeks and 1.5 days. A girl that, despite everything else that is going on in the world, wants to ENJOY these last two weeks of wedding anticipation and wants to ENJOY her wedding day. So forgive me while I overlook recent tragedy (see previous post) and ramble on about shit that means NOTHING in comparison.

Dress... final fitting on Saturday.
Cake... ordering it after my bridal shower on Sunday.
Flowers... got my boquet today and am IN LOVE with it. Who gets teary eyed over freaking flowers?? I do, that's who!

I spoke with the caterer and we are making the final reception payment tomorrow. The total was a tad less than we'd anticipated which, hello, is a great thing. Lots of beer and wine, tons of food, good music, flowers, table arrangements, cake, favors, family, friends... and did I mention at all that we will be MARRIED? I'll be a "Mrs." A WIFE. D's wife. That's the best part of all. And D will be my husband. Saying this aloud makes me nuts in a good, good way.

I guess these last few days I've really thought and thought and thought about the changes to come. Marriage, new baby, moving, financial decisions and changes and sacrifices. I am whole heartedly aware of the leap we are taking. I am a little nervous, a tad scared, very excited... and by the dumb goofy drunken grin that's permanently plastered on my mug (when I'm not having a hormonal pregnancy-related meltdown, that is), I'd say that most of all I'm HAPPY. Voids are filled and spaces are no longer empty. We're going to be a family.

I'm finally HAPPY.

Friday...

I'll be married in 3 weeks from today, exactly.

::

I feel guilty for being excited about it and for spending any amount of time planning/purchasing/worrying about what little there is left to plan/purchase/worry about. When the tsunami hit earlier this year, my heart ached and I worried, but I didn't really fully understand what was happening. The hurricane damage in Louisiana hits close to home because, well... it IS close to home. It is 8 hours away. D has family there. They are ok, the worst they suffered was a lack of electricity for 3 days. Sounds like cake in the scheme of things. A few miles away from my office, refugees are gathering at all the large venues in the city. The pictures on the news send shivers down my spine, and I can't read cnn.com without choking back tears and trying to ignore the horrible knot in the pit of my stomach. That doesn't mean shit... boo-fucking-hoo for me, I know. I'm basically speechless about it all to tell you the truth, hence the blabbering on and on without a point.

I won't drudge on about gas prices either. I know, you know, we all know... it's total bullshit and it just plain sucks. I nearly shit my pants this morning when someone alerted me that gas was nearly $3.00/gallon. When I filled up at the beginning of the week, it was around $2.60/gallon. I'm not one to pay close attention to every $.01 rise or fall... it's a sure fire way to give myself a fucking stroke. I don't really need to furrow my brow anymore than I already do.

So I got the dress, the flowers, everything is in order. My bridal shower is on Sunday, Sept. 11... nice, eh? At this point I wish I could go on and on about how excited I am about the baby... which I am BEYOND EXCITED about. And I wanna go on and on about the wedding, too... about my fears, my increasing anxiety, waterproof makeup, how to discreetly carry a box of kleenex down the aisle, figuring out how to walk in 2 3/4" heels without falling over or stepping on my dress, the enormity of the black strapless bra that I must wear under my dress, how suprised I was to find a black strapless bra that actually lifts and seperates comfortably... but I won't bother. It just doesn't seem appropriate.