Countdown: less than ONE month..!

I'm afraid to actually know how many days are left. I think I'll just say less than a month. Then it's not so scary!

It's my day off today and I have actually a lot of errands to run. I was planning on picking up the candy order, but there's a huge accident on the freeway where I need to be. And then in the afternoon I'm taking my mom out to see the church, the hotel, and the reception site. So that will be fun. Oh, and if we can make it back in time for dinner with my sister, we're going to try to do that too.

But the real reason why I'm posting today is because it's time for another... no, not another to-do list, but another post similar to this one, a list of qualities about Ricklet that I love that really make us who we are. Sometimes we have it so good that we don't really realize that there are others (singles and couples) who don't have it as easy as we do, who have to work harder on their relationship, and sometimes who just aren't really compatible or have very different personalities that each partner must "put up with". Perhaps for some, that's as good as it gets, so the bickering and miscommunication is accepted, standard, and normal. For me, because I have Rick, that kind of situation is totally unacceptable.

I can see the question mark over your head. What in world is she talking about?? So let me explain. A few months ago someone from my past life found me on a social networking site and tried to add me to his friend list. I let the request sit for a long time before finding out that there can be different settings for different friends. So I set up a restricted list, accepted his friend request, and added him to this list. I guess the reason why I went through all the trouble is that 1) we're adults now, I shouldn't avoid my past in fear; 2) I was curious about how we'd reconnect; 3) I had others to add to this restricted list anyways; and 4) I didn't want him all up in my stuff on my page if I added him to my regular friend list. Privacy is important to me, and what comes in and goes out on my page isn't something I want the whole world to see let alone someone whom I've known and with whom I'd had a falling out. You never know who's going to turn out to be your next stalker.

So I accepted the request; I didn't say hello right away, I waited a few weeks. Finally, for some reason, of which I'm still unsure, I decided to post a hello. He wrote back and commented on my engagement photos. Those I'd purposefully left up while filtering more private life pictures of Bella and events we've participated in. I wrote back: thanks, we took new ones, and how are you? I'm fine, work is tiring, etc. He wrote back: saw your new pictures, they look nice, is that your baby, I listen to news radio. I wrote: sure, that's my baby, I don't like listening to news radio on my morning commute, I'd rather hear trivial gossip. And he responded: You haven't changed a bit, enjoying celebrity gossip. Your baby is cute, she sure is chubby.

I reacted. And I reacted badly. I haven't changed a bit since I was 12? Really. And he would know this from two short messages? How arrogantly assumptive. And because I choose not to listen to the news during my morning commute, I happily seek out and "enjoy" shallow and meaningless chitchat? Oh was I offended. I was mostly annoyed that he was nostalgically self-indulgent, patting himself on the back with the "you haven't changed a bit" feeling, like he intimately knew and still knows me. The truth is, he never knew me at all; he saw only what he wanted to see, and in my darkest hours, he had absolutely no idea what I was going through, and I couldn't handle a lollygagging puppet tagging along at my heels who was more annoying than harmful.

I know we were really young when we were together, but this behavior was exactly the reason why I broke it off with him back then. The unequal status between us irked the heck out of me; he fawned over me and in doing so, lessened himself. Within the idolotry was the perception that I was an angel who floated when I walked and had no thoughts of substance within my cute little brain. Of course, he didn't see this as offensive and there are worse perceptions of women than this; he probably treated all women he liked as little cuddly and sweet things, and is refreshed by their innocence and naivete, and therefore promotes it. I know that plenty of women would consider this guy a catch because he would adore her, put her up on a pedestal, and treat her like a princess, do anything to make and keep her happy. I, on the other hand, wanted to vomit on my keyboard. Some people just don't realize that when someone's put up on a pedestal and held high in esteem, the one who's up there is very lonely and maintaining that image by herself is tiresome. The fall from the top can be quite far, and if she falls, she will loathe herself and will want someone to speak the truth and sit on the ground with her for awhile. He will simply dust her off and try to help her get up on the pedestal again, assure her of his undying devotion and of her perfection, when she'll realize she doesn't want an admirer from afar. So she'll run off to join the rest of the village people, on solid ground, and she'll find a playmate with whom she can share her opinions and sit in the sandbox together for hours. He, abruptly abandoned, broken and purposeless, will curse her for all his best efforts to love her were not enough to keep her. She hopes that one day he eventually learns that one-sided adoration only leads to disappointment.

I've never really been a feminist, nor do I believe that we should set social roles that differentiate between men and women. I suppose I'm simply an equalist, an equalist with certain exceptions, of course. ;) And most importantly, this is about attitude. One may think, for example, that men should make more money than women, and that's fine as a personal opinion; but I have a few select words for the one who thinks that women CANNOT make as much or more money than men. The thought of limitation is what makes my blood boil. I hate being limited, told that I can or cannot do something. But most of the time, it usually has nothing to do with the issue/task at hand, but the intangible, indescribable perception of my abilities or capabilities.

So back to the story. After I virtually vomited on my keyboard, I shut down the computer and went to bed. I couldn't sleep and thought about all the nasty things I could write back. Of course, this was hardly mature, and if he was baiting me, I'd be giving him exaclty what he wanted: more chances to think he knows me and knows what I'd say. I could be honest with him and tell him that actually I've changed quite a bit; but that would be justifying myself to him, and I don't believe I owe him any explanation or insight to who I really am. Just these few messages over the internet sent me reeling, and I thought, Geez that relationship never would have worked out. Imagine all the fights we'd have and how many times I'd be offended by his condescending adoration. Then I thought about the traditional Christian wedding vows: the woman promises to obey the man, the man promises to love the woman as Jesus Christ loved the church. I've never had problems obeying Rick, but that's because he's never been a demanding tyrant or sacrificing martyr. He is willfully independent and has a strong sense of self, and doesn't idolize or fawn over me; it is easy to follow someone who knows what he's doing and is doing it for the right reasons (not doing it all for me). I turned over in bed and snuggled close to Rick. And all my feelings of love for him flooded me, and I held him tighter.

Rick has:
* never treated me like an unequal, or assumed I can't do something
* nver treated me like a princess (although he calls me HIS princess), meaning his position is never as my servant, and he'd never do everything I say just because I say so
* never rolled-eyes-edly said, "yes, dear" to anything and everything I want
* never coddled any of my bad behavior in efforts to keep me happy
* never gone down without a fight, especially when I'm wrong
* never been fake with me
* never participated in the group bashings of women or marriage that are so disrespectful that I loathe to even hear bits of
* always talked to me like an equal, never being above me or below me (certain touchy subjects are an exception)
* talked to me like we're both knights (in keeping with the royal metaphors) fighting together for our king (whatever goals we make) against our enemies (whatever obstacles we need to overcome)
* put me in my place too many times to count
* allowed me to take control of whatever I want, but will honestly tell me when I'm doing something "wrong" (heehe)
* happily gone shopping with me, not to please me, but because he wanted to
* has shown me and others his chivalry by opening doors, but not every time, and for men and women alike

Despite what this sounds like, we are not a platonic or same-sex couple!! The balance we achieve by being a team and respecting each other is what makes us super strong. Even if I tried, Rick would not take well to having his spirit and freedom roped in. I believe in personal accountability and choices, and have very little desire to control Rick and tell him what to do. And we do share similar he-said, she-said sort of behavioral quirks that are inherent in hetero relationships. But Rick is different in that he doesn't talk to me the way other guys who have "liked" me have. Very early on in our relationship, he didn't let me get away with something that would have been easy to pass through with other guys, and I thought, WHAT? NO ONE talks to me like that!! Not that he called me names or was abusive, but he drew his boundary lines. And in that instant, he earned my respect. And as time went on, I learned I could trust him with the deepest parts of my inner self, parts that even my mother or sister haven't seen. I feel like I truly have a partner, not a servant or a caretaker.

Coincidentally, as I was working on our table names for the reception, I stumbled across an old song from the musical that Rick and I worked on together, when we first met. My White Knight, from The Music Man, is sung by the stodgy librarian (ironic, isn't it?) who falls in love with a con artist. The lyrics, which are appropriate for this post, go like this:

"My white knight, not a Lancelot, nor an angel with wings
Just someone to love me, who is not ashamed of a few nice things.
My white knight, who knew what my heart would say if it only knew how.
Please, dear Venus, show me now.

All I want is a plain man
All I want is a modest man
A quiet man, a gentle man
A straightforward and honest man
To sit with me in a cottage somewhere in the state of Iowa.

And I would like him to be more interested in me than he is in himself.
And more interested in us than in me."

Meredith Willson was a genius.

They say after you get married, you have to start putting the other person first before yourself; I say that will just cause resentment, especially if the sacrifice is not appreciated. I say that you should have already started thinking about doing what's best for the both of you, and not to lose yourself in the process. I am, after all, whom Rick fell in love with in the first place; for him and for us, I can't afford to lose myself.

Freakouts and The Best, revisited

So. We met with our reception site florist in Murrieta to select our flowers for the reception that were supposed to be part of the package. Unfortunately, the centerpieces that come with the package are only covered up to a $25 value. Huh. Do you know what you get for $25? A square tub with a handful of roses. For a table that seats ten. That wouldn't do at all. In addition, the owner of the store was out sick, but didn't call to reschedule the appointment so we dealt with one of their designers instead. He was nice, but didn't know how much things cost and didn't really help us with alternate flower types when we realized we couldn't afford what I wanted. What did I want?

Green cymbidium orchids
Green hydrangeas
Green and white peonies
Green Ranunculus
Green lisianthus
Purple calla lillies
Seeded eucalyptus
Hypericum berries

and apparently, in a pave style.

But what did I get for $79 per arrangement?
Bells of Ireland
two types of roses
Green spiders
Green button poms
White stock
Fuschia stock
Hanging amaranthus
Leatherleaf

in an airy style so more greenery will be used.

Hmm. Seems like a bunch of filler greens, don't it? Oh well.. it's not like we're going to be bringing them home and taking them to bed with us. Expensive taste with a small pocketbook. That's me.

So in my quest for what kind of flowers/arrangement we liked so we could show the florist, I conveniently kept my eye out for I wanted for our personal flowers. We can't have fillers for that. So I wondered what my cheaper alternatives would be, since a bridal bouquet with white roses, green cymbidium orchids, and "other green/white flowers" would come out to $230 (!). I refused to give up the orchids. I was hell bent on paying up to $20 per green cymbidium boutonniere for the groomsmen. I wanted The Best, as discussed in this previous post. Good Enough just wasn't going to make the cut this time. The boring all-roses bouquet that the rest of the world's brides want for its simplicity and classic elegance just wasn't unique enough for me (despite that I love roses and would have wanted an all-roses bouquet if you asked me a month ago, particularly because it was classic and elegant). My head swirled of tart green cymbidium orchids, expressive white phalaenopsis orchids, lush and romantic peonies and ranunculus, and hydrangeas as fillers. HYDRANGEAS AS FILLERS! (yes, I have a budget of $10,000 for flowers, sure.)

Rick, on the other hand, when presented with a minimum quote of $500 for our personal flowers (with mostly white roses when I wanted green cymbidiums), said:

"We can just get fake flowers. At least for the guys. I mean, we're just going to take off our jackets anyways. And they won't care if it's real or fake."

Then when I told him that our reception site coordinator no longer works there and there's a new hire who responded to my email, he went ballistic.

"OH SH*T!!! WHY?!!!?!?!?!?!!!!"

"I dunno. Maybe she got a better job or something. Why are you freaking out?"

"Because it's just our luck. Now this new girl's going to F everything up."

"?? What do you mean? We have everything written in the contract. Everything."

"Yeah, but she doesn't know that. She's going to get everything wrong since she's new and hasn't worked with us and has to learn all the rules over there."

"Ohhhkkayyyy.... well.. we still have two more meetings with them over there when we'll discuss details. They do weddings all the time and have a manual. And it's not like we're getting married this weekend and she's still learning. She'll be settled in when it's our turn, I'm sure. And maybe she came from another Wedgewood company, there are like 8 locations around here. Oh, and I'm sending out the second payment tomorrow."

"See?!!! And she doesn't even know how much we owe and when we owe it!!! OMG!!"

...

For a while there, I almost laughed out loud. In his freakout, I saw myself and the irrational, totally inconsolable behavior of which I have also been guilty. And then when he said:

"The reception is more important than the ceremony. It's where we're going to spend the rest of the evening with everyone!"

I thought, this is it. We need to re-prioritize. We need to take out our Engaged Encounter booklets and re-read WHY we are getting married in the first place. We need to look each other in the eyes and remember that we are supposed to become the Sacrament of Marriage and demonstrate qualities of a healthy and supportive couple. Making drama about a new coordinator and feeling like a hapless, pathetic little child who doesn't get the flowers she wants hardly demonstrates good, rational character.

So tonight, we will talk. And from this day forward, I will not get drawn into the hoopla about the wedding or demand that we spend more than we should. I will listen to the underlying message when he freaks out and says, "Let's just use fake flowers" and not call him cheap and other impolite names, but compromise on a practical and cost-effective solution. After all, isn't event planning for 170 people so far the ultimate test of our relationship and our communication?

Closing doors

I’m blogging this lovely Sunday morning because after yesterday’s ordeal, I’m a mix of emotions: anger, frustration, futility, resentment, sadness. At least for once I’m not having an identity crisis.

Ah-Gong’s funeral was yesterday. I spent the day not thinking about it, Rick and I ran errands in the morning, and I took an hour and a half to get ready. Upon arriving at the funeral site with my sister and brother-in-law, I greeted my father and other relatives at the door of the chapel. I wasn’t nervous; rather, confident, because I was looking good and I guess had the intention of looking like the 27-year-old woman that I am to people I hadn’t seen in over 10 years. It was almost like a high school reunion where you show up looking like you’re accepting an award, and people look at you and marvel at how much you’ve changed since high school when you were a dumpy nerd with knobby knees. It didn’t work in my favor yesterday that I look very much like my mother.

The service was interesting. I’d somehow forgotten that, duh, the whole thing would be in Chinese, and surprisingly, I understood about 80% of it all. Go me. Although I wished I hadn’t understood that much. What was said wasn’t all that nice, a little self-indulgent on the ministers’ parts (of course, touting that this was God’s message and Ah-Gong was a saint), and very over-the-top preachery in a loud and dramatic way. I remembered why I never liked Chinese church, and especially why I stopped going to Chinese church in the first place. These people are pieces of work. I wondered if I was in a cult.

Grandma asked us to be in the receiving line after the service, and everything happened so fast and it’s not like we had rehearsed this, so off we went to stand there and shake people’s hands. Our father had told my sister that we could wait outside, but I didn’t know that was an option. We greeted about 100 people, about 10 of them I vaguely remember from my repressed childhood memories. 80 of the people were over 70 years old and gray-haired, and while they spoke my name, and I just smiled at them, I thought, Who the hell ARE you??

Going into this, I had intentions of being polite. I was going to be respectful and friendly because funerals aren’t really the time to be angry and slit-eyed and rehash old grudges. Too bad other people didn't come in with the same intentions. How naïve I was to think that by being open I could change perceptions. People, people that I didn’t even know or remember, thought it was in their Godly duty to take this opportunity to voice their opinions to my sister and me. There was even one of my dad’s cousins that I recognized who had been like an aunt and whom I had fond memories of, who now glared at me with disapproval and a jaw-clenched, puffy-cheeked frown (and of course, no greeting. What!? Do I owe you money or something?). We were told things like, “Let the past be the past,” and “You should have visited your grandfather more; he talked about you often, I expect to see you more at Grandma’s house from now on” and “He loved his sons very much; he loved his grandsons very much.” Period. Okay, then...

Three things boggle my mind:
1) Why are we the ones getting lectured and being told to forget the past? We are the products of divorce and all the adults involved (parents and grandparents) mishandled the situation, and continue to do so. We react to the lack of parenting and grandparenting involved. By that I mean lack of role models. If anyone should get a talking-to, it should be my father for his continuing indiscretions. My sister and I just look at each other and are confused when people approach us with this comment. Who’s not forgotten? We’ve gone on with OUR lives, get on with yours and OUT of OUR past!!! WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?! And it’s none of your business anyway what goes on between me and my father! They turned a possibly innocuous re-meeting very ugly with unnecessary words. (Coincidentally, this is how my grandfather behaved.)

2) If someone hits you, doesn’t apologize, you’re supposed to forgive him. If they continue to hurt you, still don’t apologize, don’t think they’ve done anything wrong, you are still supposed to “forgive and forget.” Hmm. Do I have “walk on me” written across my forehead? Or am I just worth less than the one who’s hurting me? Do we tell this to victims of domestic violence? Do we teach our children this concept? If a child is getting beat up on the playground, do we say to him, “oh, just let the bully hit you, you need to forgive him for being mean.” Or do we pull the bully aside, talk to him, make him apologize and try to get him to see that what he was doing is wrong? The reason I bring this up is because my father and my grandfather have hurt me very much with their words and actions. Although I am an adult now, our relationships have been frozen in time; being the CHILD in all of these relationships, I don’t believe that it’s right to blame us for anything that ADULTS do or don’t do, especially divorce. My father and grandfather hurt me, so I made my feelings very clear, and left the environment. They did not apologize, or change to accommodate me in their lives, so I did not go back. How is this wrong? Just because they’re my elders I’m supposed to take the abuse? Every time I try to reconcile, let down my walls so we can start anew, one of the men manages to f*ck it up with the same words and actions, and I’m left hurt again. Why is this MY fault? Yet, I left the funeral yesterday with a heavy load of outsider judgments on my shoulders. There’s nothing like feeling misunderstood for 10+ years. I felt mentally and physically impaired and frustrated.

3) There are some people who don’t believe in divorce and take it to the extreme where the products of a failed marriage are somehow associated with it. So to some people, I guess my sister and I are bastard children who shouldn’t deserve to live, despite that for the first 14 years of my life I was an accepted individual human being who was allowed to play with their kids. Okay, then. Nice to have known you. I'll just go die quietly in the corner. (of course, the man who acted this way turns out to be a well-respected pastor)

So this is what’s REALLY going on: my sister and I stopped speaking to our father over 10 years ago. Why? Not because we “sided with our mother and she turned us against him” but rather because my father chose (and CONTINUES TO CHOOSE) very inappropriate relationships with my mother’s female cousins. These women have literally torn my mother’s family apart, as if the already shameful and unheard of divorce between our parents wasn’t enough. Their presence at the funeral was inappropriate and, ironically, therefore expected. One of the women approached us and tried to make small talk, telling me how pretty I’ve grown (and I wanted to say, “I wish I could say the same about you,” but didn’t) and asking if I still worked at the Getty (to which I responded with a curt “yes” and looked away, disinterested). And she knew my sister had a baby. How on earth would she, my mother’s cast-off first cousin, have known any of this information? I certainly know no one on my mother’s side said anything. It became quite clear that it was my father who is still keeping in contact with them. And obviously on a pretty regular basis, being that my sister had her baby no more than 5 weeks ago. She insisted on revealing that she knew personal information about us, and I wanted to scream in her face, “STEP OFF, BITCH!”

Although we had stopped speaking to our father 10+ years ago, we continued to visit our grandparents for a while after. By that time things were very ugly and my grandfather found out that we, two girls both under 20 years of age, were forsaking his beloved almost-50-year-old son who could do no wrong. So on two separate visits (with a 6-month falling-out period) our grandfather to our faces cursed our mother, saying that she squandered all the money he’d given us over the past decades, that she was a selfish woman, and the divorce was all her fault. We were so angry that we couldn’t even fight back with evidence of my father’s laziness as a husband responsible for maintaining a running household, immaturity as a guiding father figure, multiple infidelities brought into our home (my sister’s room, to be exact), and as a spineless son who was ordered to remarry to save face. In any case, stop using us as pawns in your twisted game! So we stopped visiting them as well, which was unfair to my grandmother (she enabled the behavior but we can’t really blame her for that).

After all the snippets of opinions we were hearing yesterday compounded with the fact that these women actually showed up at the funeral (and one bawled uncontrollably in my father’s arms like his mistress while my stepmom looked on, passively), we saw my father introduce them to old family friends – so my sister and I hightailed it out of there in contempt.

After doing so, I wondered if it was a bad decision. No doubt everyone noticed that we’d left early in a huff without saying goodbye, and thought, “There they go again, still acting out even at the funeral, those are [my mom’s name]’s daughters, how shameful, such poorly raised girls...” And while I can easily say, ‘well f*ck you all, you don’t know half the sh*t that’s going on!’ I also wonder if we just gave them more fuel to add to their already massive fire of misperceptions. What were we supposed to do? Acquiesce to the inappropriate behavior and witness it like we agree and are OK with it? I suppose none of it really matters; there was no changing their minds about us one way or another. We've been tagged for years already.

The offender gets away with it because he’s all smiles and act like nothing’s immoral about anything he does. He’s just an easy-going guy who’s friendly and charming. So when we react by putting on an ugly face and acting bitchy, we turn out to be the villains (aka [my mom’s name]’s daughters), and my father comes out looking like the poor, innocent victim of hot-tempered, ill-mannered, and sacrilegious children raised by the hellish ex-wife. (to which I say, hey, at least SOMEONE raised us...)

This morning, I turned on the TV and Joel Osteen was on. Osteen says that when God causes problems and commotions in our lives and closes doors, we shouldn’t be bitter and think, Oh, just another thing to happen to me... God closes doors whether or not we like it or are ready for it, changing the old and creating the new, and we shouldn’t keep trying to go back to how things used to be. We should look toward this new path and while we can think [fondly] of the old, now it’s time to create new memories and new traditions. Now I’m not an expert in theology by any means, and I admit I haven’t read the Bible all the way through, and I know Joel Osteen is a controversial preacher (or “motivational speaker”), but I like that his messages can be applied to my life and I can use positive ways to go forth. (Whether or not this is blasphemous is not for me to say; I make use of any tools I can get my hands on and try to be my best self.) So perhaps instead of laying in a fetal position in bed all day feeling like a sack of sh*t and wondering why I can’t have the warm and fuzzy relationship I had with my father in my younger years, I should keep this door closed and move forward without the man I thought I wanted to share my new life with. I’m even considering dis-inviting him to my wedding if he can’t comply to my now one-and-only rule: if I were to start sharing my life with him, he must immediately stop disclosing details of MY life and MY information with THEM. (And sadly, as easy and painless as that sounds, I don’t see him giving that up for me.) If that’s the case, I can stop asking “why” and “can’t he just” and “what if”. And especially stop hoping that my dad will start to take us seriously, really HEAR what my sister and I are saying, and choose us instead of his “friends” – perhaps this is a door that is definitely closed, and although I’m saddened by the prospect, it may be for the best for me and my future family.

Reinventing the Wheel

Why do I feel like I'm reinventing the wheel with wedding planning??? A million other people have planned their weddings, done it this way or that, and lived to tell the tale. (And then often wished for their money back.)

I suppose it's because there are so many options. I know what I want and, for the most part, how I want it. But choosing between 25 different kinds of flourishes to add to the invitations, for example, is supremely difficult. I like them all. And doing it DIY style doesn't allow for me to go to The Decision Maker (Rick) to get the vetoes and yays. I have nothing in print to show him.

I'm constantly reminding myself that even though I like the look of the pretentious, vintage, ornate swirls and flourishes, that doesn't represent the (in)formality of our wedding, so I should shy away from these beautiful designs. Designs that give the impression that the wedding is going to be some very formal and extravagant event where guests must dress in their name-brand tuxes and haute-couture gowns with fancy footwear. Not so. Stainless-steel chafing dishes hardly qualify for luxurious. Yet going the more casual route can be a bit too modern for me. The wedding isn't going to be a backyard BBQ either.

I've added a few links to my blog for DIY and budget ideas. And even if they aren't cheap ($1,100 for 100 invitations? You must be joking!), I can get an idea of how I could do it myself.... which leads me to WHERE can I find these designs so I can LEARN to do it myself? And why don't I have some graphic arts friend who can do this for me for free?????? ;)

Hopefully as I browse through other women's blogs about budget weddings, DIY ideas and such, things won't be as intimidating. And it's also not necessarily the cost of things that's making me freak out (because I haven't let myself reaaaally think about my whole life savings going down the tube for ONE FREAKING DAY despite the fact that my whole life savings was started solely for this occasion, hA!) - more so that I'm waiting for our deposits to be put down so I can start crafting already. But even if I started crafting, HOW would I do it? I have pictures in my head, but no details. Cardstock, vellum, brown ribbons, pictures, even basic text... but HOW? And what font is BEST?

WHERE IS THE METADATA?!????!??!??!!!

Someone tell me what to do so I don't have to think.

Internal contemplation ... external explosion

In the days since my last post, I have probably gone through all the stressed-out emotions that probably should have occurred earlier. And I had thought I was maturing! Psh-ahh!! ;)

Valentine's Day was wonderful. The day before Vday, Rick gave me my present early (and again, I wasn't expecting anything since I've been busy since before Christmas I haven't had time to anticipate any gift giving and all that.)

After dinner, he said, "I kind of want to give you your Valentine's Day present early." I was surprised, and got up from my permanent position at the computer with my butt imprint on the task chair, and said, "Oh yeah? You got me a present???" And he replied, "Well, it's not really romantic..." and I asked, "What did you get me? Mouthwash? Socks??" AHAHAHAHAHAA..

He bought me an Optimus Prime mini remote-controlled car. How CUTE is that?! I immediately tore it open (as immediate as one can tear hardcore clear plastic packaging with seams that appear to have been heat-fused together), put in the AAA batteries, charged the car (that took some time figuring out) and zoomed it around our 3' x 3' linoleum floor kitchen. I was so happy. :) And Rick had fun watching me drive the truck around uncontrollably. It was the best present ever.

The next morning as I was rousing from sleep, Rick placed a card on my chest. I opened my eyes and saw the card, rubbed sleep from my face, put on my glasses, and opened the envelope to find a card with a cute Dalmatian sitting on a plush red heart pillow. And on the inside was the same Dalmatian, but its black spots had been photoshopped with red heart spots instead!! And in Rick's boyish handwriting was:

Can't Wait!

And I laughed out loud because I had sent him an e-card to be delivered that day, which of course he hadn't gotten yet, that had the same sentiment of "Can't wait" (to be your wife). So it was very sweet indeed.

This past weekend, my sister and I went to the Mongolian BBQ restaurant where we're having her baby shower just to check it out and taste the food. We liked it and for buffet at $5.68 per person, it was a great deal. The restaurant was small and the food was just okay, but the biggest problem was that we left there smelling like food. Like we had been in the kitchen all day slaving away over grease and soy sauce. Not the best place to have baby gifts opened up, but we figured my sister was going have to wash everything anyway before the baby gets to wear anything. We met up there with her friend, Vanessa, who is getting married this May and also in the process of moving into her new home, but her newborn nephew is not doing well, so she was in a sad mood. We had such a nice time talking and having our meal together that it wasn't until we got back in our cars that I noticed it was 1:40 and I had an appointment with a church coordinator at 2:00 that was 40 miles away!!!

I immediately grabbed my phone and called to let her know I was running late. The coordintor seemed a bit peeved that we were going to be late, but simultaneously convinced herself that it would be okay because the appointment before us was late as well, and she could meet with us at 2:30. After that phone call, everything became chaotic. My sister and I were in separate cars and we both needed to get gas, and somehow our communication broke down. After lots of driving behind slow people, freeway traffic, and pregnancy brain (and hormones) kicking in along with my own stress hormones, we finally made it back to her house so we could drive together in one car. And by then it was 2:15. We were never going to make it by 2:30.

We finally got in the car, argued some more, and then I burst into tears. My sister demanded, "WHY ARE YOU CRYING?!" and I shouted, "I'M SO EFFING TIRED!" (with the real expletive). And she was quiet for a bit. And in that one weak moment where I just needed to scream and cry, I let out all my frustrations, my stress, the irritation of my inability to finish my homework, worrying about riding the train to SD, my engagement announcement drama, getting to all of these places on time, having to get up super early the next day to take my grandparents out, and all the other minor details that on other days would just have been minor details.

That took about 60 seconds of full-on wailing. And then it was over. I didn't want to have smeared makeup all over my face at our appointments. And my sister said, quietly, "You have to tell Rick to stop waking you up so early." And I laughed through my tears. Because Rick likes to call me every half hour when he's at work and I'm home and sleeping in. He wakes me up when he gets up, when he leaves at 7:30, and then starting from 8am, the every-half-hour phone calls start. Just to see if I'm up and what I'm doing. I never get upset or anything, but there are times when a girl just needs to sleep for 10 hours without being disturbed.

When we finally arrived at the church, it was 3:00. I had called the lady again to tell her we weren't going to make it for the 2:30 appointment. She didn't give me any lip, but didn't sound very pleased. And I was upset. Not really with her, but that our situation made us late. I hate being late, and even though I'd called twice, I still found myself to be rude to be so egregiously late. My sister was on the polar opposite, saying that the lady should be the one to be flexible, she should be catering to ME, not the other way around. And while that rang partially true since I'm the one who would be potentially paying $1,450 for her services of TWO HOURS (and apparently for her leather-interior Saab sedan with sunroof), it also sounded a bit Bridezilla-y to me.

We made it to the church but the 3:00 appointment had already arrived, and the coordinator was just about to take them on a tour of the sites. She greeted us, shook our hands, and when I apologized again for being late, she just smiled and scrunched her nose at me. And I didn't really like that. She didn't say, "oh, that's alright" or anything. Just that smile/grin/chortle that conveyed that "Yes, you should be sorry."

We were there for an hour, first sitting in her office that was one of those office/trailers and after seeing the coordinator and the group get into a golf cart and drive off to the other sites, we walked around the site by ourselves and saw two of the outdoor chapels. The place was HUGE. Not the sites themselves really, but the campus was huge and there seemed to be a lot of paths. And it didn't seem very churchlike. They even had separate Bride and Groom trailers. REALLY! Are we at a church? Or are we at a place that solely does weddings?! The coordinator and the couple came back into the office, so we then got in our car and drove over to the other outdoor chapel that I was interested in, took some pictures, and talked about what we liked and didn't like about the site. For $1,450 I wasn't really impressed. The nearby freeway was VERY noisy, airplanes flew overhead, and a row of new houses sat at the top of the hill, looking down at us. Plus, it didn't feel church-like at all. The place looked nice in pictures (even my own) but in person... it left something to be desired. And I didn't even know where the Sanctuary was. So we drove back to the office and the 4:00 appointment was already there, so I just poked my head in and said we'd be taking off. She squinched her eyebrows at me and drooled, "Oh, I'm sorry," and I said, "No no, thank you for your time."

Then we got on the freeway when we finally realized that it was Presidents' Day weekend and that's why there was so much traffic. It took us 40 minutes to get to the next church, which was probably only 10 miles away. The church campus was HUGE too, brand new and very modern looking. It looked like shopping mall, really. But with a giant cross on top. We parked after driving around their enormous lots and walked the campus a bit. There were a few groups of kids doing some activities, but no one else was there. We walked around but couldn't find the chapel we were looking for. Asked around, but no one had any idea what we were asking. Their Sanctuary, which wasn't the place were looking for, was more like an auditorium, like one of those televised shows on Sundays. So we left.

After getting back on the freeway and heading INTO traffic so my sister could see our reception site, we were both a little disappointed and a little tired. With my emotional meltdown, bad traffic, snotty wedding coordinator, and being confused and lost, it was turning out to be a waste of a day. However, upon exiting the freeway and following the tranquil road to get to the golf course where the reception site was, my sister commented how nice and EASY it was to find the place. She called it "secluded" which was a great contrast to the adjectives we were calling the churches. And we couldn't hear the freeway. We were late (again, of course) so the wedding reception that we had intended to photograph prior to any of the guests arriving was already in full swing. We quickly ducked into the foyer just to get a glimpse of the appetizers and the bar and hid in the bathroom to try to figure out our next step. My super pregnant sister needed to go to the bathroom anyway and while working out a plan, we saw the bridesmaids primping.

The bridesmaids wore these hideously tight, pink, two-piece, floor-length mermaid gowns in that awfully thin, "satin" polyester fabric. The kind of cheap fabric that, in a light color such as pink, showed every bulge, every shadow, every crease of your body and undergarments, and the girls had not worn any slips underneath - probably because there was no room for it! Even the thinnest bridesmaid looked bad in her dress. All topped off with a brown satin sash that was supposed to lightly rest around their corsetted waists, but ended up being tied so tightly that the satin knots were creased. It was sad. They all looked like king-size pillows stuffed into standard-size pillowcases with belts cinched around the middle. And the poor groomsmen had on pink vests and pink ties with brown suits. Oh the madness of it all. It seemed obvious that the pink was definitely of the bride's choosing.

Anyways, please excuse my diatribe. To my own gals - don't worry, I would never make you (let alone ALLOW OR ENCOURAGE YOU) to wear such awful things. Especially on my wedding day. You're permanently in the pictures, you know. ;)

What we saw of the reception we liked. Mariachi music blaring from inside, the din of the guests having a good time, people helping themselves to the appetizers and drinks.. It all had a positive aura and feeling of warmth and celebration.

On our way out, we saw the bride and groom coming towards the banquet hall, riding in on the back of a golf cart. The bride had on her husband's jacket (it was cold!) over her dress, her crinoline pulled up on her lap so as not to drag on the ground, and oh boy, did she look happy. :) That was nice to see. Almost made up for the hideous pink dresses.

The next day I stayed home in my pajamas all day, finally finished my homework, and started on my final project. I ended up not having to take my grandparents out after all, which was a big relief. I watched Charlotte's Web in the afternoon and cried when Charlotte died. That just shows so tired I am. Then I watched The Devil Wears Prada on YouTube (the whole thing!) because I had just finished reading the book the previous night and wanted to compare. When Rick came home after a day of golf and racing, we watched 300, which was okay. A day of watching three movies made me really happy.

And then I'm back at work, on a holiday, no less. What's going on this weekend? Nothing yet.....

Gobble, gobble, *choke*, *hack*

So it's Monday. And I had the strangest and shortest work week last week and a long weekend to boot. I'm back to the grind, but things happened today that tripped up the wonderful, euphoric flow I had going.

Well first of all, I went to Felt Club yesterday and spent $60 on this:

And someone decided she wanted to play too (it's a crochet kit of 2 snails in a toadstool):

So anyways I get to work early and decide to be good and not have coffee, but tea instead. I start working and check out some of my blogs to catch up from the short week I had, and saw that two of my eBay auctions have sold and been paid for! OMG! I'm, like, 12 hours behind!! So I send off an email to the buyers saying thanks and that their stuff will go out tomorrow. And I hope my tardiness (ok, so it's just a matter of hours... but still) doesn't affect their giving me good feedback on my 0 feedbacks so far. And I have to get Rick to ship them out for me tomorrow.

Then get this email about my application to grad school. To make a dramatic story short and not so dramatic, an aspect of my application is incomplete, yet I have a perfectly good answer to why it is incomplete, and there is nothing I can really do about it being incomplete as it's out of my hands. I ask what steps I need to take, and get emailed that it's required. I email back, saying Yes I know, but what should I do now? and get emailed that it's required. Yeah. Pain in the butt much? And it's signed by an actual person, so it's not like it's automated, although you could have fooled me with the robotic unintelligence.

So then I find out we get a 20% discount on tuition. But you can either do that OR get work credit. So then I have to do math (UGH) and try to figure out what's the best 'deal'. And then I realize that I didn't get any financial aid so no loans to help me out, so can afford to take two classes a quarter??

I get a few emails from my mom with her updating me about things going on and then I get depressed. Sheesh. Not that it's her fault, it's just that Sh*t happens sometimes. And you can't always prepare for it.

I was hoping this week was going to go super smoothly since it's short and a lot of people are on vacation so things in general should be quiet. Maybe it still can be. But I'm already stressed and I haven't even thought about the impending holiday yet. Which is a smaller stressor than Christmas, but still a stressor.

Ergo, I wish you a happy Gobble, Gobble, Gobble... while I Gobble, Gobble, *choke*, *hack*, *cough*, *grunt*.

Irritated Iguana

So I decided to continue these posts with the animal alliterations. I think they're fun. This time I'm irritated. And I'm an iguana because they're slow-moving reptiles, and no matter how hard I've tried to get my life back to normal, things keep coming up to slowwwww me down from accomplishing things. But Mercury's in retrograde, so what can I say.

Today is Wednesday. And it took me 1.5 hours to get to work because traffic was a nightmare. Again. Seems like what used to be a nightmare commute is turning out to be the norm. Which really beats on one's patience. Especially mine.

To add to my ongoing irritation as of late, I was cleaning the apartment last week and in the process of being irritated and lazy, decided to stuff a whole jar of pickled carrots (sliced) down the garbage disposal in the sink. Not a good idea. I clogged the thing, whined, cleared it via telephone advice from my mother, and left it alone. Only to discover the next day that yes, I cleared the disposal, but the drain was clogged. So after a few days I poured Liquid Plumber down there. And then a few days later tried baking soda and vinegar. And entertained the idea of buying a cheap plunger and having at it. But instead I wrote a note to the apartment manager asking for her to call a plumber with a snake. OH SIGH. So now we're waiting for the plumber. But the manager couldn't get a hold of him, and now the owner of the apartment complex is involved; and she's given out our number to her Roto Rooter man. Who hasn't called yet.

OH SIGHHHHHHHH. I'm mad at myself because I caused it. Stupid me. And Rick's stupid pickled carrots. That he didn't even eat more than two pieces of because he said they tasted funny. Like pickled carrots would. Sheesh! ;)

Went to the library yesterday after work because there was a book sale going on. Got lucky with parking but when I went into the library, I couldn't find where the sale was. I knew it was upstairs... but the stairs going up to the children's library was closed off. I wandered around, found some GRE books that I was going to check out, and tried to find any stairwells and elevators. Nope. I was close to asking someone for directions (gasp!). I went back out towards the staircase I'd first seen and saw someone come out of the doors, so I decidedly ignored the "DO NOT ENTER" and "PAINTING IN PROGRESS" signs and went in. Smelly, yes, but I was determined to get to the book sale. And no one ran me down to stop me. At the top of the stairs, and into the children's department was a backwards sign that said "CLOSED," taped across the door frame. Oops. So I definitely wasn't supposed to be in that stairwell. I waited a few moments for the librarian in there to turn away, and snuck underneath the sign. I felt like a rule breaker! God forbid. Walked down the hallway and the sale was there, being held in what they called the "auditorium." And I thought, How did people get up here?! And then I saw the stairwell across from the auditorium and thought... Hmmmm. I guess there's a stairwell on the opposite side of the building where I walked in. DUH. Irritation.

Anyways, I went in and pored through the aisles of paperbacks and hardcovers, fiction and nonfiction, children's books, CDs and cassettes, textbooks and reference volumes, and found... wait for it... MUSIC books. I was floored. Literally, since the boxes were on the ground. (HAHAHAHA... ahem) Four heaping boxes of classical piano music books, brand spankin new, stuff that I used to pay an arm and a leg for every year depending on what my piano teacher had planned for me that year according to my level's standards. There were no signs saying how much the books cost, but I didn't care. Couldn't have been that much anyways because "small books" were 25 cents, "medium books" were 50 cents, and "large books" were $1. How do you distinguish what's what by that description anyways???

I squatted there in my 4 inch espadrilles and dress (ARGHH) and picked out a few choice books before finally having to get up and stretch out my toes and calves. Sheesh. Of all days for me to have decided to dress up for work. I made my way to the cashier after maybe an hour and the music books cost... wait for it... wait for it.... TWENTY FIVE CENTS. Of course, while I was there, I overheard some awful 90 year old librarian who had her panties on too tight complaining about her student volunteers who weren't do anything. OH SIGHHHH. Why do some librarians give us a bad rep? Those kids were in there volunteering their weekday evening (albeit a requirement for graduation), staying out of trouble and off the streets, potentially missing dinner, and she didn't even give them specific instructions other than "clean up and make things look nice," so what else were they to do but mill about and chat? Can't expect everyone to be proactive, especially with a control-freak librarian in charge.

If she had said, "You - take charge of the nonfiction section by making sure that all the books are facing right side up and whenever there are gaps, fill them in with other nonfiction books that are on the floor underneath the tables. You - do the same with the reference books and children's books" the kids would have had something to do and been accountable for their areas. The librarian was being passive agressive towards the kids and I heard her complaining to the other librarians about two kids and said, "I don't want them here, they're not doing anything, they must be from the community service club, they're bad" and I wanted to protest. Or slap her. The other ladies, who were nicer and seemed to just tolerate this lady's rantings, told her to just send them home. Which she did by saying to them, "Just sign off and go home. There's not enough to do and there's too many people here." Not enough to do? Then why complain about them not doing anything??? Perhaps if she gave them something to do, they'd do it, and then there would be things do to. ARGHHHH. Obviously, this lady had issues.

I even heard one of them ask her what he could do to help and she replied, "you mean like clean up like I told you to do, which you didn't??" (I felt my eyes widen as I thought "Holy sh*t!") and there was a long pause from him before he replied, "...but you told me to go over there, so I couldn't finish here," and she bit back, "Yeah, okay, whatever."

Ten bucks this lady was the classic, stick-in-the-mud, old-maid librarian who never married or had kids. And obviously had a problem communicating with human beings. I was irritated.

Off my tirade.. anyways, I was irritated. Again. Because although I made out like a bandit with my $3.25 armful of books, I sat in the Del Taco drive-through for FORTY MINUTES. I could have driven to my sister's house 30 miles away and had dinner there in 40 minutes. By the time I made it up to the one and only window, I was soo peeved (but not enough to leave), but as I looked into the face of the nice lady who was running around inside with two other workers, I couldn't be mad. She was trying her best and moving as fast as she could (and she was a hefty lady). She got my order right, gave me the right change, gave me a zillion packets of mild hot sauce, and was still nice to me, so I couldn't yell at her for the line being slow even if I'd really wanted to. I wished her a nice evening and she smiled and said, "Thank you for waiting."

Who can be irritated when someone else who should be irritated smiles and says, "Thanks"?

Ode to a Nose

It has been cold lately - a cold storm actually just blew in and out over the past couple of days and for a while there, my body has been thinking it's Christmas and I had better get my chores done.

Weather changes usually affect me only to the point where I have to pull out my sweaters/tank tops and put away my tank tops/sweaters. But when it's 90 degrees one week and 72 the next, something happens to Rick's nose. It gets clogged up and/or drippy and he gets whiney, irritable, and quietly grumpy.

Every night this week, there has been snuffling, sneezing, flopping, groaning, snorting, and other sorts of noises coming from his side of the bed. Noises and movements that one can't just sleep through. Noises and movements that actually wakes one up multiple times in the night. Because we don't have a tempur-pedic, and nope, those spring mattresses don't absorb any sort of jumping movements, but rather spreads them evenly. Like an earthquake.

When whispered: "Do you want Nyquil?"

No answer. *snuffle*

"Do you want Vaporub?"

Head shake. Grunt.

"Do you want your nasal spray?"

"I already used it." WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE.

Nights (and days, to think of it) are difficult when Rick's sinuses are acting up. He's got a big nose and big nostrils, but when his sinuses act up, he says it's like someone's squeezing his nosebridge and air can't get through. And nothing he takes helps it, even the sinus medicine.

So what to do? Endure the elbows in my face, the knees in my back, the wheezing and hard breathing from the mouth, the kicking of the blankets, the flopping around (seriously, i think there's a seal in my bed), the banging of the medicine cabinet in the middle of the night, and the sorrowful *SIGH*s that come from this poor man who can't breathe with his nose.

Who knew that a simple body part, such as cartilage, could cause this much trouble?? Like it was trying to say, "Oh yeah, you think I'm just here to smell things, huh? You think that I can just filter out all that pollution and give it back to you in booger form without me having to work at it, eh? So you're just going to take me for granted???!! Well... I'm going on STRIKE!!"

To appease the nose, I've written up this "Ode to a Nose." (not a proper ode, mind you, really just a poem off the top of my head, but "ode"ing it makes it seem more poetic):

Oh Nose, how wonderful you are!
You oderous, odoriferous, Odorific thing!
You smell, you flare, you wiggle!
Breath would not be the same without you.
Food would not taste the same.
I love how your shape changes if I force you.
I love how you leak when extra fluids are retained.
I love how you get cross and throw germs out of your house.
Please, do not be angered.
I was insensitive to your needs.
Please, open up and let the air flow through,
Oh sweet gate of breath!

Okay so that was lame. But I bet it made someone laugh.

Compassion and Daymares

I have good days and bad days. It comes and goes. Not thinking about it makes life normal and easier, yet thinking about not thinking about it is also somehow irreverent. I never want to forget what happened, because that makes light of the tragedy and the life that was wasted for no good reason. I started this blog with intentions to do something productive with my life (besides the recurrent pangs of wanting to go to grad school and volunteering on the weekends). I have many hobbies and not enough time to do all of them. Having a blog and forcing myself to post gives me an outlet, but before I can do anything creative, I must first work through my emotions. So perhaps a good way to stop running around in my head and giving myself headaches and stomachaches is to put it all on paper.

I'm not past being sad. But I've added anger to the mix. On bad days, I want the guy to get what's coming to him, and bad. On good days, I feel sorry for the poor idiot, a misled teenager. It is not our place to judge, only God can do that. And I can try to forgive and pray for his soul. I want to believe that he has some good in his being, that he has remorse for his behavior, that although he is responsible for his own actions, he is product of his environment, upbringing, and a victim of gang pressures. That he was not strong enough to fight the bad influences, nor did he have enough love and support from family and friends, which resulted in the person that he has become. This is on a good day. With compassion and peace and forgiveness. I have a healed heart on good days. On bad days, I have daymares.

I had a daymare last night before bed. For those of you who don’t know of these things, a daymare is a nightmare that occurs during the non-sleeping hours when you’re conscious. It is a wild fantasy of things all in your control, and you allow it to go as far as you want, as detailed as you want, have full imagined conversations, replays, alternate endings, etc. This can occur when sitting in traffic, having a quiet meal, reading a book, walking, in the company of others (they see your eyes glaze over), etc. Mine often make me have cold sweats, heart palpitations, anxiety, and a nasty look on my face. After a while, I realize I should stop the daymare. Especially when people ask me what's the matter and if I'm okay.

My daymare last night was about meeting Gil’s killer. I was at work, he was a student coming up to visit the Getty with friends and/or schoolmates. For whatever reason, I was introduced to him amongst the other kids, which is strange in itself because I don’t work with the public nor am I in the Education department. He introduced himself while shaking my hand. And I froze. I said, “what?” and he repeated himself. I snatched my hand back – and in Ending #1, I pounced on him and beat the crap out of him. And (of course, because it’s MY daymare) no one stopped me. I don’t know exactly how I beat him (I have no real-life experience so details in fake-reality are very vague) but I know I was pissed. I probably broke all my fingernails and didn’t even know. In Ending #2, (because I consciously know that I can’t just strangle people and not have any consequences) I watched him walk away as I stood there and wrung my hands, wrung my shirt, grabbed a nearby railing as hard as I could. I wanted to bang my head on a wall, pound it on cement blocks, rip out my eyes, cut my arms. I was so angry. SO ANGRY. And so frustrated. Additional alternate endings were similar to the second, except coworkers were concerned, people huddled around to watch me writhe on the floor and pull my hair out, but no one knew what had happened or why I was acting this way. I couldn’t speak, and I didn’t care if I looked psychotic. I was uncontrollable and my fury took over my body.

I then decided this daymare needed to be over. So I sat up in bed and cried. I felt so sick to my stomach that I wanted to eat a bottle of Tums. I sang some good, quiet songs in my head to calm myself down and lower my blood pressure, and tried to get to sleep.