We sit in the our office, one on either side of the wide double desks in the middle of the room, checking email before heading off to bed. That is, checking email and surreptitiously glancing off to one side, toward the cat tree that is swaying and creaking by the door. Sebastian is inside – nearly 11 years old and usually one more prone to sitting and napping (when he isn’t yowling aimlessly down the halls) – but tonight, he is happily ensconced in the little box at the top of the tree, chasing his tail. I am willing to bet that if I walked over and placed my hand on his chest, I would feel the steady rumble of a purr. He does not often break into kitten mode these days, not at his age, and so this is too much fun to not watch. He stops briefly, to wash his face and pretend that he’s being perfectly mature and dignified…before that tail taunts him again and he’s flopping down, pink toes peeking over the side of the box edges, paws swiping at that sleek white rope that taunts him, never quite within reach, but always with a death grip on his furry butt.

********

We go to the local bakery for lunch with my parents. The talk turns to the wedding – the issue of the seamstress, favorable comments on friends involved or attending.

“Now that we don’t have anything to plan,” my mother notes to Richard, “I think it would be nice to have your parents up here to play.”

At the reception, when he was to dance with his mother, and I with my father, we started out like that – me trying desperately to find the three-beat for the waltz in the music from the fiddler – but then when it came time to switch, without any planning, I paired with his mother, and he with my father, and we waltzed on. Shortly thereafter, our mothers were doing a dramatic tango step across the floor, arms outstretched.

Too bad our families don’t know how to have fun. Even worse that the two families don’t get along (grin).

********

We’re sitting at the table, eating breakfast. I happen to glance outside.

“Oh, there’s four socks left on the line. They weren’t dry before.”

Richard pauses in eating and assumes a dramatic look.

“I could write an ode to socks. Four lonely socks hanging on a line.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“It’s the sort of poem that should be read at poetry readings in clubs.”

“I see.”

And he says I’m the weird one.

We somehow got onto the subject of wearing makeup, probably due to the fact that one or the other of us pointed out to the other some group of women who were wearing far too much of it. It seems to be a common affliction in the younger female set, but eventually most of them grow to realize that the whole point of makeup is to enhance with subtlety, not to create a glaring mask.

Most guys I know admit, if asked directly, that they really prefer women who look natural. I’m sure there are guys out there who think the painted Tammy Faye look is simply gorgeous, but I have a sneaky feeling that those men are few and far between.

My mom doesn’t wear makeup. Ever. Oh, granted every once in a long while she’ll put on lipstick, and then it looks so very odd that it seems to stand out on her face, just because we’re all not used to seeing it on her. But except for those rare occasions, she just doesn’t bother. Consequently, my sisters and I did not grow up learning how to paint our faces from our mom. We had to pick up any random tips on the stuff from friends at school. I remember going to the mall to get a make-over for the sole purpose of hoping to finally learn how to put on eye shadow without making it look as if I’d been punched. No such luck. I’ve got my dad’s deep-set eyes, and any color at all on my lids looks as if I really ought to be pressing ice packs to my face. I could never get the hang of blush either, despite the fact that in the winter I tend to look like death warmed over and could probably use a dab or too.

Neither of my sisters is particularly into the stuff either. My older sister did figure out that whole eye shadow business and sometimes wears it, quite successfully. My younger sister was blessed not only with perfect hair, but also with naturally blushed cheeks, and thick dark lashes. As for me, I only wear eyeliner and mascara, and that’s simply for my own self-preservation, to hide when the trichotillomania has gotten too bad.

Someone asked me if I was going to get my face ‘done’ for the wedding, and I had to laugh. I got my hair done, simply because none of my friends or sisters are expert enough at braiding to do what I wanted, and I didn’t have the practice to do it on my own head (although I actually did consider it). But I wanted to look like *me* at the wedding. My only concession was that I wore lipstick (because, like my mom, I do break that stuff out for special occasions), but other than that, I wore exactly what I wear every other day of my life.

But the discussion on makeup (wearing it or not) really started me thinking. What if my mom *had* really been into wearing the stuff. What if my sisters and I had grown up thinking it was essential, like so many other women I know. How much of this stuff is part of our own nature to be comfortable in our own skin, and how much is taught to us when we’re too young to even be aware of it? And I realize how lucky we were, to not buy into that insane and expensive world of pencils and brushes and compacts.

Hey, all that money can be so much better spent! Just think of all the cat toys and computer stuff I’d never have been able to buy.

Ha! I complain about the ants and they think they have the upper hand! Little do they know I’m armed with my trusty can o’ Raid. I got to slaughter two trails of the creepy little suckers this morning – one swarming all over one of the cat food bowls, and the other making tracks for my wastebasket. I’m not sure quite what was in the wastebasket to attract them, but I emptied it anyway, just to be sure.

The trail to the cat food stretched from the closet, which is right next to the bathroom. I can only hope that this might also have taken care of that lone toilet ant experience I’ve had so much fun with these past few weeks. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

*****

For my wedding gift to Richard I spent the past few months conspiring with Bil-1 to build him a computer. Basically, I knew some of the parts I wanted him to have (rewritable CD-drive, for instance. I told Richard it’s nice to share!), and Bil-1 supplied the rest, complete with emails chock full of questions to which I mostly had blank ‘huh?’ replies. However, we done good, since Richard has been merrily playing with his new toy ever since we got back from our mini-honeymoon (yes I’ll post an entry about that at some point. No it wasn’t our real honeymoon – that’ll be next summer, in Ireland).

My wedding gift was a pick-it-yourself sort of affair, which was actually a good thing because as anyone who tinkles the ivories knows, you have a certain feel and pressure you expect and like on the keys. Yep, my incredibly wonderful new husband got me a piano, and after we picked it out earlier this week, it was delivered this morning!

The poor piano guy wasn’t too happy to see our front steps, but with his assistant and Richard’s help, they managed to get it up the three steps and through the front door into the living room.

The sound in this house is amazing. That echo factor we noticed with Sebastian-the-foghorn-cat works beautifully for a piano – the music comes out so rich! I plopped on the piano lamp Richard got me, dug out my folders of sheet music, and sat down to discover just how rusty I’ve gotten without access to a piano of my own lo these past many years.

It feels so good to play, and know that I can play any time I want! The cats aren’t too sure what to do with this new thing. On the one hand they can lounge on the top (it’s an upright. I’ve never seen any use for grand pianos – they’re lovely in concert halls but they take up far too much space in a house), but on the other hand, it makes a lot of noise. Azrael jumped up and tried to ‘help’ me play by batting at the higher keys. The others are eying it from a safe distance with a modicum of suspicion.

They’ll get used to it. I’m already looking forward to family gatherings at our house with the whole group gravitating toward the piano as we so often do at my parents’ place.

We’ve got each other. We’ve got our office and our computers. We’ve got our cats. And now I finally have a piano of my own. Who needs furniture (grin)? I’ve got all I need to make this ‘home’.

I’m really getting tired of these ants. They’re everywhere, randomly. There’s not enough to trace – just a few scrambling around on the kitchen counter, or wandering aimlessly over to poke at the bits of food the cats are so found of flinging from their bowl, or my personal favorite – the one lone ant that waits for me somewhere on the toilet seat each morning as I stagger half-awake from the bed to greet them.

It’s only ants, I tell myself, and really, that’s not so bad. There’s a rather large and healthy-looking daddy long leg spider who’s spun himself a web right behind the door from house to garage, and I’m perfectly happy to let him stay there, since inside the garage does not actually count as ‘in the house’. Any spider actually stupid enough to come inside is either really confused, or else suicidal, because there are seven little spider-hunters just waiting to chitter some poor unsuspecting bug down from the safety of the ceiling to be dismembered and then devoured with a great quantity of lip smacking.

But still, I can’t help but get a bit tired of the sheer monotony of them. If they’d only come in force I would feel as if I could do something, but no, we’re stuck with these little lone scouts. Ah well.

********

With gift certificates we received for a wedding gift, we purchased some toys for ourselves this past week. Richard’s been happily slaying odd ugly creatures in his game that comes complete with really creepy and disturbing music, and I’ve been fretting over my Sims. I’ve got a couple that actually really hated each other and they were supposed to be married. I’m discovering that a whole host of flaws can simply be wiped away just by evicting the poor suckers from their house and then moving them in again. They may still hate each other, but the flaming oven goes away, and all those other little problems like depression and poor hygiene are kaput.

It’s a deceptive little game, this one. I have spent hours poking and prodding at these little simulated people, trying to get them to be responsible and go to work on a regular basis and stuff like that. There are additions one can buy for this game, I’ve seen, but I’m a little afraid to add on. I know myself too well, see. This is a woman who still fosters a healthy addiction to Civilization. I don’t think I need to get any more involved.

Still, the House Party pack does look pretty cool.

Hmmm. This may have been a very bad idea…

When we gave the two littlest members of our bridal party their gifts the reaction was about the same for both. My neice looked at the silly stuffed purple dragon (NOT Barney!) and was decidely unimpressed, although she later discovered that the dragon’s ears and horns made marvelous things to hold onto when the dragon needed to be dragged from room to room. My nephew opened his box and exclaimed “It’s just a dragon!”, which was about the reaction I was expecting, even though I was quickly reassured that ‘just’ was a fairly new and well-liked word these days.

So it was with great amusment when I heard today that my nephew’s dragon has taken on a much larger role than any of us anticipated. It seems that Bil-1 came downstairs a bit earlier than usual last night after trying to put my nephew to bed, noting that it appeared he was no longer needed. Apparently little Aaron calmly told his father that he didn’t need to stay there with him because the dragon would take care of him. The dragon (whose name, I gather, is Dante) and Aaron hold lively conversations together, and he’ll do what the dragon tells him to do (such as ‘you should eat another bite of dinner, Aaron!’ ‘Okay dragon!’). And it’s not one of his parents ‘talking’ for the dragon – no, this is Aaron who does both sides of the conversations.

I apologized, between giggles, for inadvertantly giving my nephew a toy that has usurped some of their parental privileges. My older sister assured me (laughing herself) that actually they were relieved, and so the arrival of the ‘talking’ dragon was a good thing after all.

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…