My little sister spent the night, the night before the wedding. And while the others slept blissfully unaware, she and I slipped out early Saturday morning to get donuts. Whenever we’re together, she and I, somehow we usually end up having donuts – not the fresh made ones from a local bakery, but the marvelously cakey ones that come in boxes of 12, smothered in a slippery chocolate shell, or covered with enough powdered sugar to leave a white splotchy mess on your clothes when you eat them, no matter how neat you try to be. Over all the stress of the week leading up to my wedding, she was there, laughing with me over remembered escapades from childhood years and reminding me that it would somehow all work out.

So when I still did not have all the outfits by the time we were to leave for the church, and one of those outfits was hers, I called the seamstress and explained quite calmly that I didn’t care if she had to finish sewing there in the bridal room – she was coming over *now*, and she was bringing my little sister’s dress with her.

At this point, it went from bad to worse. Ivymoon and my older sister’s dresses seemed to have been mismatched with bodices and skirt. The junior bridesmaid’s dress would not zip all the way. The ushers were not completed, and two groomsmen still had no shirts. It had been somewhat of a nervous joke the past week that the outfits would still be under construction the day of the wedding, but when we stood there, with a sanctuary full of people downstairs, waiting for the outfits to be finished, somehow it wasn’t quite so funny anymore.

Suddenly people were pouring out of the woodwork offering to help – wonderful people. Richard’s oldest sister (my almost twin now because we’re five days apart!) managed to find choir robes that could be belted up and voila! – we had shirts for the ushers. A few members of the dance troupe came forward to help the guys get their swords and belts and boots on right. Ivy’s fiance played gopher, helping with outfits, lighting candles, and Bethy came in and calmly did all the bridesmaids’ hair and even helped fix the dresses.

Even though the ceremony started an hour late, it was wonderful. The ring bearer was properly serious, once convinced that he really did need to wear his red and white checked jester’s costume. The flower girl had no problems with her pale satin back-laced gown , but wanted nothing to do with her fairy wings, and she charmed the entire audience when she took the basket of flower petals from her father (who followed behind trying to show her what to do), dumped them onto the floor, and then said ‘uh oh’ and plopped down to try to clean up the mess she figured she’d made. At eighteen months, we’d pretty much been holding our breath the whole time, not sure if she’d even be willing to make that trek down the aisle, but she did it and stole the show.

And then it was my turn and from there it’s all somewhat of a blur. I remember the minister speaking the words we’d given to her, but I couldn’t tell you what they were now without looking them up again. I remember my dad’s voice wobbling as he gave me away. I remember holding Richard’s hand as we listened to the readings. I remember our parents joining us in front to read and light our candles. and having to work at keeping from crying as we read pieces of an Irish blessing to each other while the best man and the maid of honor took lit candles down the aisles until everyone else’s were lit. And most of all I remember standing there, my eyes locked onto this incredible man whom I was lucky enough to marry, thinking that everything we’d had to go through was worth it, just to get to this moment when, rings on our fingers and vows said, we were pronounced husband and wife.

To say that last week was stressful is putting it mildly, since it all culminated with me bawling my eyes out on my sofa Saturday afternoon. Not once during this entire process did I have any doubts about marrying Richard, or did I get cold feet. No, the stress was all related to one thing. The outfits.

To add to the list of stumbling blocks that have thrown themselves into our path for this wedding, the seamstress called Monday with strep throat. When she showed up Tuesday for a fitting, she looked like she felt like hell, and if it was anything like when I had strep throat, I would not have wanted to be her right then.

Thursday my entire family spent decorating for the reception. With four ladders between us, my sisters and I hung slightly less than 20 strings of lights from the ceiling of the church’s social hall, and then topped that with probably 50 or so lengths of vines and flowers, while my dad wrestled up huge vines and managed to attach them to the wall to form tree trunks, muttering unkind words about said vines all the while. Through all of this my little niece stumped around the room, playing with her toys and otherwise being adorable, and my mom offered words of encouragement and handed us paper clips and vines or lights or whatever it was we were hanging at the time. Yep, paper clips. Handy little suckers, those. Bend them just right and you’ve got a nifty hook for tucking all manner of things into the particle board ceilings.

Friday I woke in a panic (yes, such a bride thing to do. Ha) with a sore throat. Considering how everything else was going, I was pretty much convinced that I was going to break out into full-blown strep throat. Oh, and with the wedding the next day, we still did not have all the outfits, although parts and pieces had been trickling in all week. To say that my mom and I were concerned about this state of affairs is putting it mildly.

I took my bridesmaids out to lunch Friday afternoon, and then it was off to the rehearsal, where our oh-so-patient minister managed to get our loud and unruly crowd of two families and combined wedding party to cooperate and process, recess, and manage to play with candles without dropping a thing. Once we’d all figured out just who stood where, did what, and said what and when, then we all piled into cars and headed for the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner.

Richard’s parents are wonderfully cool people and had booked dinner in a restaurant on a huge boat on the river. This won rave reviews from the three-year-old ring bearer, because not only did he get to watch trains going over the river, but he also got to watch the bridge actually turn around to let boats through. Richard and I passed out our gifts to everyone – pewter goblets for the entire bridal party, and various dragon items for everyone else. We sat at the table with both sets of parents and laughed and talked and had a wonderful time.

The entire day seemed rushed though – as if despite our best plans we just didn’t leave enough time for everything, and by the end of dinner I was starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. But I still had more to come – D had planned my bachelorette party, so there was plenty of laughter and a rousing game of ‘Kiss the Stud’, gifts to make some of the more inhibited party members blush and giggle, and then, of course, the requisite male stripper.

Okay. Excuse me while I blow the whole stripper mystique. Perhaps I was expecting something different, as the only time I’ve seen anything even remotely resembling male strippers was when my sister and her friend and I went to see a Chippendales review years ago. There were yummy men dancing in teensy tiny undies, and dollar bills were tucked into places using teeth by someone (we won’t mention any names, but it was quite fun!). So in a way, this guy – yummy though he might have been – turned out to be kinda boring. It was amusing at first, but then I was starting to check my watch surreptitiously to see how much longer he’d be there, because quite frankly he just wasn’t doing anything for me. Yes, I’m hopeless. A gorgeous male offers lap dances and all I can think about is that I just wish he’d hurry up and get on with it so I can get some sleep.

But despite him, we had fun, ending with a small slumber party that night – a handful of women crashed on various futons and mattresses, all of whom luckily were already owned by cats and perfectly fine with being trampled on, purred at, or otherwise snuggled by critters of the feline persuasion.

And so night passed, and then it was The Day.

I, Jennifer, take you, Richard

          Because whenever you touch me, I feel cherished

To be no other than yourself

          Because you are just as much of a computer nerd as I am

Loving what I know of you

          Because I love the way you can make me laugh

Trusting what I do not yet know

          Because despite our best attempts we have still been unsuccessful in having an argument

With respect for your integrity

          Because you alone understand the meaning behind Super Spare Census Monkey Bear

And faith in your love for me

          Because you agreed to mutate with me if there was toxic waste underneath our plot of land

Forsaking all others

          Because I couldn’t imagine living my life with anyone else

Through all our years

          Because we never run out of things to talk about

And in all that life may bring us

          Because every time I think I love you as much as I possibly could, you do something to make me love you even more.

Richard noted, as we sat at the restaurant last night, fiddling with silverware and waiting for food to arrive, that it’s now less than 72 hours. We’ve gone now from counting in days to hours, and somehow those few hours seem to be dragging slower than all the days beforehand.

Quite a few people have commented on how calm I am, and it’s true. I’m amazingly calm. There are little things that aren’t working out quite right, but I have rarely been the type to worry to the point of distraction over something over which I have no control.

The bakery called to say they didn’t have heart-shaped pans? No problem – the cake layers will be round, and they’ll draw hearts on top. Yes, I wanted heart shaped, but what difference does it really make in the long run? And I think it was because I was so calm and didn’t raise a fuss that she also suggested a technique so that the top will look more like the picture mom and I found in a Wilton book so many months ago. It’s going to be lovely no matter what the shape, and besides I have a feeling I will barely taste it anyway.

The photographer has this burning desire to take oodles of black and whites of things prior to the wedding – my shoes, my veil, the curl of my hair. My mother isn’t the slightest bit interested, and I’m not seeing how I’ll really want these, but at this stage my feeling is, if it makes the photographer happy, what can it hurt? She seems so darn excited about it – coming in garb and setting up her tripod in the back of the sanctuary so she can shoot even with just candlelight. The black and whites are not included in our package so it doesn’t make much difference to me. It’ll all work out, I keep telling my mom. No need to get so worried.

And there is, of course, the continuing saga of the seamstress. This poor woman has had more difficulties crop up in the past five months, all related to the making of the costumes for our entire bridal party. To her credit she’s got them mostly done – the remaining outfits I don’t have in hand only need small things like hems or a few final tucks and gathers. Her latest trial was to come down with strep throat earlier this week. We waited til the antibiotics kicked in after 24 hours, but I remember how wiped out strep makes you – the constant fever and no energy – and I wonder that she was able to do anything at all earlier this week. I suppose if things were perfect we would have had all our outfits a few weeks ago, but I’m still not worried. It will not surprise me if things are being finalized up to the moment we slip them on Saturday afternoon, but I am quite certain at this point that they’ll be completed in time. And once again, if not, well, what can we do? If we’re a little late to start because she’s frantically finishing a hem, people will understand.

Later on, sitting on the sofa watching another episode of Red Dwarf, Richard turned to me and whispered “67 ½ hours left.”

We’re getting there. Slowly but surely, we’re getting there.

My nephew is undergoing potty training. Right now, he’s at the stage where if his mom reminds him on a regular basis to go to the bathroom, he doesn’t have any accidents.

The amusing thing about potty training, to those of us who are not his parents, is that because *his* parents make such a big deal about him using the toilet like a ‘big boy’, he therefore thinks that the rest of us should be just as excited. We dutifully praise, of course – one doesn’t do anything to jeopardize toilet training.

My younger sister and her 18-month old little girl are in from Seattle for the week, to help with wedding plans and also to visit. As opposed to the last time my nephew saw his cousin and was afraid of her because she crawled up to him and promptly poked him in the eye, this visit he finds her quite fascinating. She’s tall for her age, and he’s small for his, so they’re nearly the same size – a fact which seems to puzzle him because even though she *looks* like she’s just his age, she isn’t the slightest bit interested when he tries to explain his make-believe games to her. Nevertheless, he adores her, following her around, or convincing her to follow him.

So bearing this in mind, my older sister (his mom) sent him off to use the toilet, and he did so, high clear voice jabbering that he needed help to turn on the light, but then his mommy was to ‘go away please’ so he could go in private Well, almost in private. Seconds later we heard from the bathroom down the hall his clear little voice calling for his little cousin to come and watch him go potty.

An entire room full of adults tried desperately not to laugh out loud while his mother, in an amazing feat of voice control, managed to keep it together long enough to explain to him that little boys and little girls don’t get to go potty together before she, too, succumbed to the hilarity of the moment.

Poor little kid. He has no idea of the ammunition he’s giving the rest of us. I’m thinking that in about 16 years, when he’s nervous and pimply and has a girlfriend he’s trying to impress, we might have to dig out the story of how he wanted his little cousin to come watch him pee. Heh heh heh…

If Collab – July: If you were asked to identify your most life-altering moment, what would it be? Why did that pivotal event or experience cause you to change your direction?

I remember very distinctly when my dad gave us the first of the disbursement checks from my uncle’s estate. This was before we knew the full extend of what he had left us – before we could even comprehend what sort of legacy he had left behind. All we all knew was that there were three checks – one for each.

There were a lot of things I could have bought with that money, but I had been a graduate student for far too long by that point, living paycheck to paycheck, never knowing what my funding would be one quarter to the next. Every time it looked as if I was finally caught up and could actually start to *save*, something would happen to send me scrambling for money again. All four tires had to be replaced on the car. It needed a new ignition coil. I hated borrowing money from my parents, but all my friends were in the same boat, and I had no other choice but to swallow my pride and ask.

So I took that check my dad handed me, and I deposited it, and I waited anxiously until it cleared and I was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the money really was there in my account, and then as each bill came in that month, I paid it off in full. I couldn’t pay them all, but I cleared out most of them, and each time I wrote out another check that would wipe the slate clean for that particular debt, I felt lighter and lighter.

It’s not polite to talk about having money. It’s perfectly acceptable to talk about the lack of money; how you have to struggle to scrape together enough to put one gallon of gas into your car so you can get to work, or how you play a little form of roulette to determine which bill gets to be paid late this month. No one minds if you talk about things like that because too many of us have been in that same boat – are too many more are still there.

But people don’t like it when you *have* money. It makes them uncomfortable when you mention it, and so it can never be brought up – this amazing amount of money that I suddenly had when all the bills were paid. My sisters and I have talked to each other about it time and time again, if only to have *someone* who can understand the experience and not feel as if you are bragging. It’s not that you suddenly have more money. It’s just that the money you have is *yours* now. You’re not sending it off to pay bills – it’s sitting there, waiting for you to spend it any way you choose.

My little sister says she almost cried when the bill statements came back reading 0. The freedom of no longer having to live paycheck to paycheck – the immense amount of money you suddenly have when you no longer have to send it all to creditors. It changed our lives – all three of us – in very distinct ways.

You go a bit crazy when you are suddenly solvent. My little sister said she went to a gourmet food store and wandered the aisles, giddy. She purchased $20 bottles of truffle oil, and specialty spices, just because she could. I bought electric litter boxes and a digital camera (there is no connection. Don’t even go there!).

If I had my choice, I’d rather be in debt and still have my uncle living, of course. He wasn’t our true uncle by blood – only by nickname – but he’d been our ‘uncle’ since we were tiny girls. He was a close friend of my parents for so long that my sisters and I can not remember a time when he wasn’t part of our lives. I cried when I heard he was dead – cried more for him than for any of my grandparents who’d died beforehand, because he was really the only relative we ever knew (despite the lack of true blood relation).

The rest of the inheritance trickled in in a few much larger checks, and we all admit quite frankly that if it hadn’t been for the money from my uncle, none of us would have been able to afford the houses we live in now. But by the time that came in, it was icing on the cake. The best part of receiving that inheritance was that small sum in the beginning, when at long last we could finally climb out from underneath the fear of never being able to handle an emergency or of trying to decide between buying groceries or paying the electric bill – and finally breathe free.

We went out for Indian food Friday night. We both love salmon tandori, and so we get one order, with extra onions, and split it with extra naan, fresh from the oven. They pile on the onions, cooked til they’re translucent and oh-so-sweet. Whatever they marinate the salmon in turns it a bold yellow color, and it flakes easily with a fork so that we can wrap slivers of salmon with sweet onions into the bread, and take bites, juice oozing onto the plate.

We always finish the meal with some sort of cheese ball thing in honey. I can never remember the name, and even though he and I have tried our best to commit it to memory, we usually end up stuttering ‘golab ja…something.’, and they nod, amused, and bring it out to us anyway. They recognize us there now, most of the time, and don’t even ask how spicy we want our tandori anymore. There are times when we go twice in one week, sometimes one night after the other. I suppose that at some point we’ll tire of it, but there seems to be no danger of that any time soon.

We went for tandori last night because I was craving it, and even though Richard *thought* we were going to go with friends tonight as well, I knew better. Between the two of us, his best man and I concocted an elaborate scheme for how I would get him to his bachelor party. I had some idea of what was planned, but frankly, that wasn’t my concern. No, my job was simply to get him there without him knowing. In fact, when the whole idea of a bachelor party has come up, I’ve been deliberately vague about the whole thing, assuring Richard that his best man was most likely going to do *something*, and next Friday night after the rehearsal seemed to be the most opportune time since Richard’s spending the night there anyway.

Problem was, it was at a friend’s house, and there was no reason at all we would be going there.

So…I came up with the dinner story so he’d not try to plan anything else that night, getting those friends into the plot so they’d not inadvertently blow it when it came up in conversation. Then I mumbled out a rather vague story of the party hostess needing to borrow some of my garb pieces for the costume she intends to wear at our wedding, and we were off. I was laughing as I pulled away, waving to his best man through the window as I drove off.

My manager and I have been exchanging email and voicemail the past few days. There’s a position she wants to submit me for, but I’d have to travel. She’s not surprised by my answer that I really want to escape consulting. We discuss various alternatives. She is willing to be helpful but makes it clear that I need to make a decision by the time I return from my vacation. She cannot leave me on the bench forever. Things are coming to a head, though, and I reluctantly email her to ask to extend my vacation a few more weeks. She knows why I’m asking, but doesn’t comment on it.

In the past few days, however, she’s been quite busy going above and beyond. She’s called a number of people to ask about available positions. She’s doing her absolute best to help me – far more than I expected. She directs me to talk to a woman in Denver whose enthusiasm infects me. If it were up to this woman, I’d be taken in an instant and converted to this position – selling consulting services to customers. I consider the information and forward my resume, but wonder if this really is the wisest decision – I’ve no wish to go into sales. My heart would not be in it. Could I do it? Yes – I’ve always been good at selling when I put my mind to it. And despite all my issues with the way the Big Fish treats us as consultants, everything I’ve seen indicates that the rest of the departments are much better. Staying with the Big Fish means not having to switch insurance carriers, 401k paperwork, phone numbers and emails and everything else involved in changing jobs. All those lovely stock options would have a chance to vest.

But I accept that this may not be a possibility. Most of the jobs available right now at Big Fish are in the corporate office, and I cannot even imagine doing that commute five days a week. So…I send out resumes, and call people on the phone, and smile and nod and act dutifully charming, and all the while the days tick by. Using up all my vacation is painful – we’d planned on three weeks next spring for our honeymoon and if I ‘m still with the Big Fish after this, I may no longer have enough. But I’m not sure what other choice I have.

Since my maid of honor is busy planning evil things to do to me for my bachelorette party, one of my other bridesmaids, Ivy, pulled together my bridal shower, which was yesterday. She, Beth, and Roni all got together Friday night to do the food, and from the looks of it, they all had a lot of fun. I’ve never seen finger sandwiches shaped like teddy bears and unicorns! I also had no idea that Bethy was such a good cook! She made a chocolate cake that was truly divine.

We talked and laughed and they all told stories on me to each other, and we ate teeny sandwiches and brie on crackers and cookies and veggies. I opened presents – wonderful presents, including a huge platter from my older sister that everyone else there immediately coveted, and Ivy dutifully gathered all my ribbons (of which I broke not a single one – heh heh) and created my rehearsal ‘bouquet’.

It was a quiet, fun gathering. These are friends I haven’t had much chance to see the last year, what with every weekend full of house-building or wedding-planning activities lately. The one benefit of this class I took the last two weeks was the proximity of Big Fish’s training facilities to Ivy and Beth. Thursday night I drove down a quiet, tree-lined road to meet Beth for dinner, and we strolled down the streets of Berkeley, eating tiny little hamburgers and finishing with chocolate mouse and ice cream cake.

I’ve missed getting to spend time with my friends, and these brief tastes of ‘girl’ time in the last few weeks have only made me look even more forward to the days (coming soon!) when we’ll no longer have a house to work on or a wedding to plan, and can actually take time to see friends, and relax, or to even have a weekend where nothing is scheduled at all.

Both sets of parents (mine and the soon-to-be in-laws) came to our house for a Fourth of July barbeque, since our house is situated so that we’ve got a perfect view of the park where they set off the fireworks. It was a beautiful day – not too hot out, thankfully, since Richard’s mom is extremely allergic to cats, and our house is kind of a walking time bomb for anyone with feline allergies, so she spent some time outside on our back porch. Luckily, we had the gardener mow down the waist-high weeds, so our yard just looked ugly, but not lethal (we had an incredible crop of sticker bushes coming up out there!).

To his credit, Richard did warn me that he hadn’t really ever barbequed before, but I assumed that since we’d have his dad and my dad here, between the three of them, there’d be enough guys standing around poking at coals to make it work. Somewhere in the house there are grilling utensils, but I couldn’t find them (probably still in one of the few boxes we’ve yet to unpack – sigh).

I tossed the hot dogs onto the little mini-Weber I’ve had since college, and then went inside to cut up melons. Suddenly, the noise and laughter outside increased sharply, and when I wandered out, I saw why. Flames were shooting from the larger grill, where Richard had just recently laid out the hamburger patties. Richard was standing there looking a bit bewildered, and both sets of parents were laughing too hard to be of much help at all. Someone finally suggested that he put the lid over the grill to try to kill the fire a bit. Only problem was that the flames from the burger grease were going so hard that when he put the lid on, it forced the flames out the *bottom* of the grill.

I’m awfully proud of him. He’s now taken ‘flame-broiled’ to new heights. The excitement of the burger-cooking was so much that there were practically no jokes at all about what happened last year when we all got together for the fireworks, but he’s going to have to come up with something even more amazing next year to top this one.

********

We got out early from class Friday, so I dashed for my car. Traffic was actually not too bad for 2pm on a Friday in the Bay area, so I managed to get home with enough time to actually relax before Richard and I headed off to meet the seamstress for a fitting ‘dress rehearsal’. She wanted everyone to come fully ‘garbed’, with swords, boots, tights, etc., just so everyone would get an understanding of just what this was going to entail. I’ll admit to finding amusement in the fact that, for a fun change of pace, it’s going to take the groomsmen longer to get ready than the bridesmaids. All the ladies have to do is pull the dress over their head. The guys have to lace up boots, belt on swords, tuck in pants, and there are laces at shirt collar and cuff to deal with as well. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘all’ the ladies – my mom and I are going to require someone to help us get into our own dresses.

They all look amazing. The colors we picked work to everyone’s advantage, and Richard’s outfit looks incredible on him – very dashing and romantic. Nah, I’m not biased. Nope. Not me.