PHOTO Mania

Well, Sunday was a real milestone for us: Engagement pictures. As I recall, I insisted on negotiating with our photographer to get "free" engagement pictures. My theory was that because our wedding ceremony and reception are at the same place, and I was NOT willing to gallavant around town with Jeff before the ceremony, all of our pictures will be in the same place. It seemed boring and flat and unedgy. When we hired our photographer, the amazing Jennifer Mordini (recommendation from Mary B.N.), we ended up with the engagement pictures.

Which one of us do you think was the MOST annoyed we had to get up and do this on Sunday? Yes, me!! (The answer is almost always me. It is, after all, my blog.)

I laid my clothes out on the bed (seen above) and allowed Jeff to have access to the sacred rite of picking out my clothes. If we can survive that, we can survive anything. And I mean ANYTHING. The morning was cloudy -- almost a foggy cloudy-- and we got a voicemail from Jennifer asking us if we want to go through with it. (I am thinking people should learn how to phrase that a little more gently as we inch closer to the aisle!) It was totally nervewracking to find clothes that were not too trendy or distracting or uncomfortable or cold or hot or dorky-- I didn't want to hide my body, but I didn't want to look like Jeff's slutty fiance, either. Just so you know, what I am describing is a hard outfit to put together.

But, we did it. We got out the door and met up with Jennifer at Millenium Park, and we rocked it. Jennifer did the most brilliant thing she could have ever done. When she first met up with us, she mentioned that she will take the pictures, but the connection and love between me and Jeff is up to us to show her. She explained that she can't create that with the camera, she can only capture it. Then her brilliant stroke: "I hope you guys are more animated than the couple I shot yesterday."

What do you think I heard in that? COMPETITION! I decided right then and there that Jeff and I would be most un-self-conscious and animated couple that Jennifer or Chicago or the whole universe has ever seen. Note to anyone who wants me to do something: make it a competition. Tell me someone did it better or that I have a chance to be the best. Tap into the infinite reserve of ego and ambition inside of me. Manipulate it and I will perform like the winning pooch in Best in Show. Every single time.

Even with my maniacal drive to be the valedictorian of engagement pictures, Jeff and I had a blast. We pawed each other, played in a fountain (or two), stood on the median of Michigan Avenue and mugged for 1.5 hours all over downtown Chicago. I kissed Jeff more during that photo shoot than of all the cumulative days we have spent together. It was really fun. The bright side of my competitive nature is that once I set my mind on a task-- on WINNING a task-- I do actually become un-self-conscious. Once we got rolling I didn't spend any extra time or energy worrying if my hair looked ok or if my outfit was right. I was a little worried about how my jeans didn't really stay put and I am not excited about seeing my unmentionables in a picture down the road, but it was a really happy time because I wasn't thinking all about me. I was in the moment with Jeff and Jennifer got to capture it.

Let's hope she does better than we did when we were practicing in the kitchen before heading downtown!

These are my "come hither" eyes.

This is my healthy tongue!

Jeff's healthy and fat tongue!

Lemons

Lately, I find myself describing (in my head) the ways that Jeff and I are different. I use different metaphors and examples and the running commentary in my head entertains me as I walk to work or sit in boring work meetings.

Here's my favorite so far:

You know that saying, "when life hands you lemons, make lemonade"? Well, here's is how that would play out at my house. If life handed Jeff and me lemons, there would be two very different processes.

Jeff: Jeff would start by surveying the lemon situation and deciding what he could buy at Home Depot that would aid the lemonade making process. He would then proceed to Home Depot's abundant wood aisle and buy some very sturdy oak wood-- oak because it's on sale-- and then he would go home (but first maybe stop at Stanely's and get some friends for the lemons in the form of .10 lemons and limes just this close to rotting) and sand down the oak to make a perfect lemonade-making cutting board. Then, he would google the best way to cut lemons to make lemonade and proceed to cut each lemon (and now the limes too) systematically so to maximize the juice while simultaneously getting rid of those little seeds. After improving on the chopping and squeezing method he learned on the Internet, he would put the lemonade in the fridge and adjust the temperature to the perfect lemonade-chill. He would freeze any left over lemon or lime chunks, and then revisit the Internet to add to our wedding registry any devices or contraptions that would make it easier in the future to make lemonade. Left over rinds? Jeff would dry them out and use them to construct a tarp into which he can hit golf balls during the winter.

Christie: I would start by catastrophizing the situation for hours on end. I would call all of my friends to enlist them into catastrophizing with me. Then, I would go to Ann Taylor Loft and buy a bunch of clothes (not on sale) and jewelry that match the yellow waxy-ness of lemons.

2 Months

Doesn't Jeff look great from this angle? I totally agree!!!

Having caught the bug from our friends in Avondale, we decided to do a little painting ourselves! We picked a perfect color last night during our date to Home Depot: Sunkissed Yellow. It's bright, happy and has a great name. We are painting our second guest bedroom that I keep referring to as my office. I have a great vision for this room as a cheery, pastel, cozy nook to hang out, write a little note, read a book or clear my thoughts. I found a perfect pastel multicolored rug to match from Land of Nod. And, one day, this gender-neutral room with pastel accents may become a place to put new editions...such as outfits from Ann Taylor Loft or little people that I pop out of my womb. Whichever.

It was really fun to work together on this project. I was able to take in Jeff's suggestions and we worked really well together. Very satisfying work.


Jeff is good at getting the high-up spaces and I am good at getting the low down. All about symbiosis.

I keep reminding anyone who will listen that it is the last weekend in September and we are getting married in the last weekend in November. That means our wedding is close. And I got a little help with all the feelings that is bringing up today....


Yes, bridal caboose members made an early housecall to Wishbone for 8:00 am meeting with the stated topic of Helping Christie Prepare For Her Wedding and Honeymoon. Over a little spot of grits and eggs, the ladies guided me through my anxieties, let me vision for who I want to be in the next 62 days and then on my honeymoon. Both Krista and Debbie went through the wedding/honeymoon bonanza in 2007 and 2005, respectively, and they were full of loving advice and tidbits, which have been recorded in a notebook for me to revisit when I need a little reminder that (1) it's ok to be a mess during the next few months, (2) I should take a day or two off in the next 2 months to take care of some errands on a weekday and (3) it's ok to stop and breathe. The breakfast pow-wow opened me up to more joy about this whole process. It's going to start going really quickly from here, and my friends are helping stay present through all of it.

HOT HOT HOT

I just had the supreme honor of accompanying my financee to a certain Chicago department store to sign off on the purchase of the super fine black suit he will don to become my husband. This suit is HAWT! I mean it is white hot fine fine fine. I was so excited to see it. While I was visiting a certain doctor who is about to have another hiatus (as soon as I cross the line to "it's two months until my wedding), Jeff was on a sartorial frolic of his own finding himself a wedding outfit. He was aided by the capable salesman Derrick who shook my hand and laughed when Jeff called me the boss. Derrick and Jeff had already pinned the suit for alterations so when Jeff tried it on for me, it fit him like a Hallmark greeting card fits in its envelope.

Jeff looks tall and handsome and very lean in the suit-- which is another way of saying that he looks like himself. My new favorite way to torture Jeff is to grab his stomach and poke around for some fat. There is none, ever, even after a lunchtime visit to Chipotle, but I love the chase, especially on a crowded Chicago street during rush hour.

We have cruised into the portion of wedding planning that is really intimate and all about us. It's so much more fun to work on the program and the party favor because it requires no input for anyone we have to pay or hire or consult. It's me and Jeff. I really love working on the parts that are purely about who we are and what we want to share with each other and all of our guests. Wedding dress shopping and floral designer visits may have their charms (and annoyances), but when Jeff and I can work on our own time and unleash our creativity, we are at our very best.

Prey Everyday

After a mere 9.6 hours of sleep last night, I made my way to the shower and got myself out the door in record time. I was on the train absorbed in the New York Times Magazine (it takes me a good 6 days to make my way through the Sunday NYT) and suddenly I was at my stop. I still wasn't fully awake, but I realized that I had forgotten to spend my entire train ride perseverating about the work day ahead. I usually concentrate on my fear and really stoke it up during my commute when I am busy at work. I have suddenly found myself busy in the most agonizing way. I will have the humbling experience of facing a blank page over the next few days, the same blank page that needs to be filled with adriot legal arguments and convincing prose about why my client deserves a little thing we like to call his Constitutional rights. No pressure, just several hundred years of inalienable rights, self-evident truths, and the ghosts of our forefathers hanging over my head.

I filed off the train with all the other shuffling commuters and suprised myself by saying what I think was a prayer:

God, please bless my efforts today.

Hm? What? I didn't know I was going to say or pray that and my first reaction was, "wow, that's a pretty holy way to start the day. I must be a good person if I am asking God to bless my efforts."

But, then I went down a whole other road.

My next thought was, wait, I can't just ask God to bless my efforts. What if I was on the way to my office to plan a murder or to embezzle funds or steal from my assistant's 401K plan? I was thinking maybe it's not right to ask God to just sign off on whatever it is I do today. What if I go to my office, become incapacitated with fear about the blank page waiting patiently for me -- stalking me-- and spend the whole day ordering unnecessary courdoroy clothing from on-line retailers? Would God bless that? Do I want God to bless that? Would that be an effort? Actually, it would be an effort because it can be challenging to find good courdoroy that is not too heavy, or grainy, but also not too light. I mean this is Chicago, so it has to be thick, but not so thick you end up staring at your thighs in your new courdoroy pants and thinking they are twice as big because the material is so damn thick. You also don't want those ridges in the material to be too thick because when you take your pants off your butt will look like a griddle, especially if you favor thong underwear.

So, then I thought, well, even if I was coming to my office to plan illegal and nefarious deeds -- which I am not, by the way-- then inviting God to bless those deeds may mean that God can intercede and change the course of the day. That sounds like a good idea if I was confused enough to be planning my daily felonies and also praying for a blessing.

But then again, I think maybe you are supposed to pray for God's will to be done, whatever that is, and just hope you can face it without hurting yourself or others. I wasn't praying for any old thing to happen, though. Implicit in my prayer was that I was going to go to my office, put forth my best legal efforts, and I wanted the Big Boss of the Universe to sign my slip saying I had done a good day's work.

Then, I started thinking, maybe God doesn't want me to look at my life as an effort-- even my job, which is also known as W-O-R-K and traditionally is associated with effort. Lots and lots of effort. What do I know? Maybe God wants me to relax, show up and let Him or Her handle the effort. Maybe the notion that I use my will and my efforts to change a world that belongs to God is grandoise and a mark of my most fatal flaw: hubris. But that's the most confusing part because I am pretty sure it was my efforts that got me through law school and I was surely the one who showed up for those infernal tests.

This whole thought process took about 3 minutes and I wasn't even out of the train station yet. It wasn't even 8:15 a.m. That's what I get for reading an article on philosphy and paying attention to my thoughts.

I think it's going to be a very long day.

Deep Thoughts

Been up since about 3:00 a.m. this morning.

Can hardly make coherent sentences.

65 days until the wedding.

10 days until the bachelorette party.

I wonder why I can't sleep?

Life Lessons

Last night I learned a very valuable set of lessons that I hope I won't forget in the next 2 months and 6 days. The first and foundational lesson is that my constitution is too anxious and preoccupied to read in-depth coverage of the financial crisis. I had already had an emotional day yesterday for reasons previously recounted, but then, after some cardio and a veggie pizza with my Beloved, I snuggled up in a rocking chair to the lastest Newsweek. In less than 8 minutes, I had absorbed all of the fear and panic of the entire capital system and could hardly breathe. I literally only read the table of contents, the letter from the Editor, and the following page with all the quotes from the week. Where the wheels came off my emotional cart was the quote from Alan Greenspan, who allegedly said, more or less that the markets now are the worst he's ever seen in his entire life, and he's like 130 years old.

The room was spinning, and I was light-headed from the rush of pure terror. Say whatever you want about US Magazine-- and the criticisms are likely valid and the long-term affects of such tripe may cause eating disorders and a host of other social maladies-- but I have never had a panick attack just from reading the first three pages, though sometimes when I read about the Olsen twins I have a gag reflex.

I pried myself away from the doom and gloom and found Jeff laying in bed, feeling a little puny from a headache and too much Ryder cup golf last weekend. Here's a replay of our conversation:

Me: I am feeling scared. I was reading about the financial markets and am having a panic attack. I was already sad about my friend's husband and this put me over the edge.

Jeff: Oh?

Me: Is everything going to be ok? I feel so scared that such bad stuff can happen.

Jeff: Yes, bad stuff happens. Really bad stuff.

long silence

Me: Is that my pep talk?

Jeff: Yep. Feel better?

Ok, lesson #2: It's not Jeff's job to make me feel better. It's not his job to shield me from seismic shifts in the economy or from the unpleasant, but rather banal fact, that people do not actually live forever. Here's living proof that opposites attract: Jeff assumes that everyone will be ok-- the bankers who no longer have jobs, the cleaning people who were laid off because their investment banker employers can no longer afford the luxury of having their houses cleaned by illegal immigrants, young widows, David Duchovny and his family. In Jeff's world view, everything will sort itself out in due time and he accepts peaceably that there will be certain amounts of pain and discomfort along the way, but fundamentally, all is well. Not me. Not for one second. I project and project and project, and it all moves so quickly in my head that I am already worried about how my granchildren will cope when the market crashes again in 2043. It's not so much that I assume every situation will end with devastating poverty and abject losses, but I can imagine it all so vividly and I spend an inordinate amount of time imagining it. So maybe I do assume this will all end with us living in a eco-unfriendly cardboard box down by a toxic river trying to scavenge enough aluminum cans to afford one more therapy session to learn how to better set boundaries as a homeless person. See? It's so easy for me to go there.

The real clue that the pep talk was over, however, was when Jeff started snoring moments later. Lesson #3: Just because I am anxious enough to chew my knuckles off doesn't mean that Jeff has to suffer and join me in the fear about the collapse of the United States of America.

But, speaking of America, I stumbled on something that made me feel some joy and some faith in humankind this morning. In these darkish times politically and economically, I have decided to take it where I can get it, and today it from America. As in America Ferrara, the young actress who stars in a show I can safely say I will never voluntarily watch (Ugly Betty), but who helped me turn my corner of the bridal caboose from the dark side to the sunny side of the street.

I just read a report that Ms. Ferrara, upon achieving a certain level of financial success, splurged on a new BMW. And, no, that is not what lifted my mood, though I used to have a little slate BMW named Sadie that I loved for a lot of the wrong reasons, but it was still love. What buoyed my mood was reading that Ms. Ferrara was riding around in her BMW and realized that she just needed a car to get from point A to point B, so she returned the BMW and got a Toyota. I can't exactly say why that seemed like good news. Maybe next to the news about the largest banks sinking into oblivion makes a story about a young woman in Hollywood who makes a practical decision seems like a hope. Or it was just surprising enough to jar me out of my doom jag and it made me feel like it's happy to hear about people who have what another generation may call "good sense," which comports with her good sense not to starve herself into inanity like so many young starlets. I pray she doesn't pull a Christina Ricci or Keira Knightly by losing tons of weight and then publish patently absurd statements like, "my whole family is thin, I am not hungry, I only crave the taste of cigarettes."

I pray that Ms. Ferrara and I both can embrace our fullsome size 6 (or sometimes 8, depending on the cycle of the moon) frames and our non-luxury and non-German chariots. I'll take the inspiration wherever I can get it.

More on More About Me

"Here is just one example of the total wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness because it's so socially repulsive. But it's pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute center of. The world as you experience it is there in front of YOU or behind YOU, to the left or right of YOU, on YOUR TV or YOUR monitor. And so on. Other people's thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real."

-- David Foster Wallace, commencement speech at Kenyon College, May 21, 2005

THIS IS NOT CHEERY

I am feeling really sad today. Remember when I went to the place to get my dress altered because my stylish, couture colleague recommended it? Well, she's been a really good source for Chicago wedding information for me at my day job. I learned today that her husband passed away this weekend, and they have been married less than a year. She's younger than I am. We just sat with them at a dinner this past July. It's so totally tragic and wrong and awful that I probably shouldn't even post this blog entry because it's not cheery or chipper or filled with the sunlight of the spirit. I don't know this colleague very well, though I trust her taste implicitly, and she has always been kind and generous towards me. But you know what, even if she was the nastiest person I had ever met, I would still feel sad because experiencing death when you are still a newlywed is too cruel and heartbreaking to even comprehend. What an asshole the universe can be.

The minute I heard about this, I called Jeff. I was feeling sad and panicky, because of all the things I have worried about, I never considered something like that would happen, which is the point because it is shocking and you aren't expecting it. You don't know it's coming. Jeff told me to swing by his office so we could share a mid-morning hug and some gratitude that for today, we are alive and well and able to hug at the office. I told Jeff that I didn't want to marry him if he was going to die, and we sort of reached an impasse at that point in the conversation, because what can he do with that statement?

Bridal Caboose Meets Habitat for Humanity

One thing Jeff should know about me before we get married, and I think he knows this, is that I lie. A lot. Remember during my early blog posts when one time I said-- and I paraphrase-- "it's not all about me." I think that was probably a lie. There's a lot that's about me, more than I would care to recount here, but I am grateful that this weekend made an honest woman out of me: it was not all about me. In addition to the privilege of crossing the Illinois State line for the political party in Wisconsin-- thanks to the I-pass and good old middle eastern oil-- we got the privilege of helping our friends rehab their house. Jeff and I made our way to Krista and Gene's house to for a little therapeutic home rehabbing this afternoon. I didn't know I would be weilding a hammer and screwdriver this afternoon popping 1950s tile off the kitchen wall, but I did. And I liked it. A lot.

It felt like the best way in the world to make a home: have your friends over to take part in the transformation. I loved how it felt this afternoon to be part of a network of support that actually can actually transform a house, room by room. Krista, Trish and I painted the master suite, while Jeff, Gene and Jay removed sofit and primed the living room walls. We kept talking about how satisfying it felt to see the results of our labor right before our eyes: one minute the room was white, and then it was a soothing gray-blue. I was having fantasies of getting a new career that allowed me more of an opportunity to see results so immediately, although all I could come up with was house painter, and that roller is kind of heavy.

For several years I have felt so blessed to have a group of amazing people in my life whose love and support have literally transformed my life. Had these people not been around during the break-ups, disappointments, work pressures, and Major Life Moments, I wouldn't be upright, or gainfully employed, or a lawyer, or the Christie I am today. It's one thing to know that being part of a loving community can get me through an emotional upheaval, it's another to watch us roll of our sleeves and rehab a house. (Ok, I know Krista and Gene have contractors who did the seriously technical work and I only spent 3 hours there, but I still get to say I rehabbed a hosue.) It's astounding what we do for each other-- throw showers, paint walls, move refrigerators, attend funerals and weddings and graduations, hold the tissues, buy the chocolate, send flowers, give advice, made amends for giving unsolicited advice. It ranges from the intangible, such as saying a prayer or refraining from butting into someone's process, to the tangible, such as removing a ceiling fan or going to the emergency room.

And, it is all from the same engine-- an engine powered on love and a commitment to supporting others and showing up for one another and bringing fresh air and fresh muscles to do what needs to be done. I can't believe I get to do this with my life. I can't believe I get to spend Sunday painting Krista and Gene's bedroom and helping make way for their new kitchen. I can't believe I get to listen to Trish talk about her dates and joy as she steps out into Match.com and then I also get to compare spiritual journeys with Gene and steal kisses from Jeff when he's got primer on his head. I love it. And, while I may not be religious these days, I have an overwhelming urge to thank someone for putting me here with these people and giving me a brain and heart that can appreciate how much it means and how wonderful it truly is that it's not all about me. Thank God.

BaRock the Vote!

One of the things I treasure most about my relationship with Jeff is his willingness to join me for any number of adventures that are important to me or my friends. This past week alone, he came with me to a wake, an Obama button making party, and on the date I planned for us on Thursday night: Running home from work (3.3 miles) and ordering Thai from our favorite restaurant. Jeff's first response to my hair-brained ideas is YES. I have to be careful not to propose anything that I don't really want to do, because Jeff is liable to be game for any activity I throw his way. In return for him agreeing to join me on a date where we ran towards the sunset home from the office, I invited him on a date next Friday night: to Home Depot (the male version of Ann Taylor Loft) for paint and then a hotdog on the way out.

We had a great time traveling to Milwaukee to join our friends Kelly and Reuben who were hosting the Obama button making party. Our Wisconsin friends have embraced certain causes more ardently than we have: Kelly has a composting bin, is training to be a La Leche League leader, and also hosted a political party in her backyard yesterday, complete with Vancouver smoked salmon and delicious fresh fruit. I marvel at my friends who have the energy to devote themselves to such worthwhile causes. Sometimes I feel burdened just putting my La Croix can in the recycle bin at home, which, incidentally is right next to the regular trash. I am happy to have friends who challenge me and show me new ways to spend my energy and time and money. I mused to myself that maybe if I spent a little less time thinking about myself, I might have more energy to recycle or learn about local politics. I can't even name my alderperson!

On the up side, we did our part and in our sunny little corner of Wisconsin we made over 500 buttons to send to the Obama campaign in both Oregon and South Carolina.


I get a little overwhelmed when I get drawn into political conversations. I tend to hang around a lot of Democrats, who are unambivalently capital D democrats, but it's also really important to me to be tolerant and open-minded. (It's not my natural state, but it's how I want to be.) I know it's hard when we hear that a certain veep candidate has some ideas about manifest destiny and how the Baby Jesus wants pipelines drilled through polar bears' asses, but it's important to me not to cross a line and slam anyone simply because she is religious. I am not religious and I have a strong reaction to religion being used to justify atrocities committed against humanity and nature, but I also want be a person who supports other people having religion and allowing it to guide them. I don't have to agree with it. I probably won't, but she's free to believe anything she wants. Doesn't mean I want her leading my country, my soldiers, my army, my children, but there are a lot of things that I believe that are controversial (like my belief that food should be eaten before the expiration date, which has proved quite controversial in my household, but that's another story), and I really just want to be left alone to believe them. (I will note here that I am not running for very high political office.)

There is nothing new or original to say here about the 2008 election, except that it's fun to make buttons, it's fun to get involved and channel my time and energy into participating in my country's election process, and it's fun yell to Barock the Vote at the top of my lungs!

Not as easy as it looks to make a button, people! It takes heart and elbow grease and grimaces.

Newlyweds-to-be that attend political events together, stay together. That's our theory, at least. Jeff and I took a giant step away from the world of wedding planning to take part in the historic campaign. I would like to see Barack Obama become President. I don't let myself think too much about what would happen if McCain gets elected. I don't think about it because life is scary enough without projecting out 5 weeks and having an entire Presidential campaign in my head. I would feel most sad if I missed this moment in history. If I just hit snooze on my social consciousness and dove into wedding planning or work or the monotony of my everyday life and let this all pass me by, I would feel so sad. I would have missed a chance to have conversations with friends and strangers about topics I have never imagined I would discuss, including the frontier mentality, Alaskan local politics, how to modernize a hairstyle that includes a bun, the relative merits of having a religious prohibition against premarital sex, how to make a donation to Planned Parenthood in Sarah Palin's name, how to get comfortable with a potential candidate who undoubtedly suffers from PTSD, why every freaking candidate has an alcoholic dad, and where oh where does AA and recovery-speak to fit into the public discourse when alcoholism itself casts such a dark shadow?

A favorite conversation

Jeff: I talked to Reza's (the restaurant where we are having our rehearsal dinner) and we are finalizing the contract. The question is how do we want to handle alcohol?

Me: What are our choices?

Jeff: Well, we can serve no alcohol at all, serve it for one hour, or serve it for three hours. The cost is about what you would expect for alcohol for about 50 people for three hours. Of the total bill, 1/3 is alcohol.

Me: One third? That much for alcohol? It seems like a lot, especially when you and I don't drink. I feel a little torn because it seems like a lot of money for a feature that we don't participate in but I also don't want to throw a lame party.

Jeff: I hear you. I am torn too. I think we have to either have it the whole time or not have it at all, because serving it for one hour and then cutting it off seems like we are either sending a mixed message or trying not to look cheap.

Me: I think we have to decide who we care about pleasing in this situation. My parents don't really drink so they won't care one way or another. I don't know how your family feels about alcohol being available. Whose opinion do you care about in this situation?

Jeff: Yours.

Honeymoon Update

It was November 2007. Jeff and I had just returned from India on a 16-hour coach (gasp!) flight and careened headlong into the worst jetlag of our lives. I won't sugar coat it: it was pure agony. We tried Ambien prescribed by one of Jeff's physician friends, but nothing could cut the sleeplessness. It's hard enough for me to feign emotional stability after sleeping for ten hours in one night, but after waking up at 1:00 and 2:00 am for days trying to get back into a good old American rhthym, I was a complete basketcase. Lack of sleep exaggerates all of my homegrown grumpiness and impatience to a level that is downright certifiable. After India I remember sobbing in a drugstore because it had run out of the Pooh bandaids I wanted. I had walked 1.5 blocks to the drugstore and was apopletic about the bandaid shortage. While I am always impatient, I can usually recover without going all Steel Magnolias right in aisle 2. Right then and there I vowed that my honeymoon location would take into account the rigors of jetlag and my accompanying insanity, which pretty much knocked Asia and most of Europe out of the running.

When Jeff and I got engaged, we soon started planning our honeymoon. Armed with our India experiences of the recent past, we decided that traveling too far east or too far west would be a bad idea. So, then we looked at our choices to the north and south. Canada was out because I really wanted to experience warm breezes and pack flowing summery, honeymoony dresses. We tossed around a Mexican vacation, but I objected because too many visits during Spring Break in college to impoverished border towns really stifled all of my romantic associations with Mexico.

So because we wanted to go someplace farther than Alabama, and less humid than Cuba, we ended up talking more and more about Argentina. I flipped open a guidebook about Argentina and read the first paragraph which said that anyone who travels to Buenos Aires who doesn't look like a Vogue model-- liposuction thin and uber-stylish-- and doesn't want to eat dinner at midnight will not fit in. Not the most heartening news about a potential honeymoon vacation-- I mean, it's my honeymoon and if I wanted to feel like a fat ass and eat dinner when I am normally entering cycle 2 of the REM, then I would just sit on the couch and eat dinner after Conan O'Brien. I read on, though, and we learned that Buenos Aires, the Paris of South America, has a lot to offer us, even if we are decidedly un-botoxed and like to eat dinner at 8.

We booked it and are looking forward to our steak-filled honeymoon in the southern hemisphere. I decided to read about Argentina and see what clues exist in its literature to explain this crazy obsession with plastic surgery. What in the world would make a culture drive its peoples to have their falanges cosmetically sculptured?

One night Jeff was reading the Lonely Planet guidebook to me as I was falling asleep and we learned an additional fascinating tidbit about Argentine culture: In addition to being obsessed with plastic surgery (so much so that some women get work done on their toes-- Um, ever heard of a spa pedicure? Usually does the trick for me), it is also obsessed with psychoanalysis. Eureka! Common ground!

In fact, Argentina has the highest number of psychoanalysts per capita in the world, and the Argentine people are extremely committed to psychoanalysis. To learn more about this phenomenon I ordered a book called Freud in the Pampas by Mariano Ben Plotkin. The subtitle of the book is The Emergence and Development of A Psychoanalytic Culture in Argentina. How's that for hot honeymoon reading? What's with this culture that spends millions of dollars chopping the fat off its body and then millions more learning to gain wholeness through therapy? No wonder it's currency crashed. Don't cry for me, Argentina, kiss my fleshy god-sculpted ass!

My New Wedding Coordinator

Please, please run my country! Please. That's exactly what we need: more guns at the local waterhole.

All Dressed Up....

I just got these too-cute-for-words picture from my mother. She and the Party P had a little photo session yesterday with the Tate Family Christening dress. My grandfather and father both wore this dress for their christenings, and Party P wore it in April when he too washed away his Original Sin. Patrick seems to be loving his time in the backyard dressed up in an antique dress. What a good sport he is! I love that smile. I tried to convince my sister to bring Party P to Chicago for my bachelorette party, but we are not sure that's the best place for a child under one year of age.
Patrick, deep in thought, grasps one of the Tate Family antique silver baby cups. He's probably thinking about how important it will be to help voters in Ohio get registered and vote democratically. Maybe he's thinking about how cute little Mahlia Obama is and how, maybe after her father serves 2 years as President, he could come to Chicago to stay with Aunt Christie and Uncle Jeff and then take her on a coffee date. He assumes that she likes younger men like her mother, Michelle and his Aunt Christie.

So this is what Texan grandmothers do when watching their children's children:


Here, young Party P reclaims the cowboy hat as a symbol of goodness and a way to keep dangerous UV rays off the ears. One does wonder where my mom got the inspiration to pull the rocking chair into the backyard, dress Patrick up in a 100-year old christening dress, accessorize with a silver cup, and then top it off with a mini 10-gallon hat. The inspiration definitely led to some priceless photos.
Will it be confusing to look back at pictures of himself in a dress with a cowboy hat on? Is it confusing right now?

Blue Angels

I always wanted to pick a flattering and fun-to-dance-in dress for my bridesmaids. Since my wee obsession with pink that began in late 2004, I assumed they would be wearing some variation of dusty rose or pale pink. I never really imagined getting married in November in a cold part of the country (does anyone ever imagine a November Chicago wedding?), so when the calendar no longer suggested pale, Spring-like colors, I adapted. And you can see from Joyce's picture, that the results are stunning. It's a good thing I am well adjusted and have a very therapeutic process around my own wedding dress, because a less secure bride may not be so keen on her 7 bridesmaids looking so gorgeous in their sapphire dresses.

It's a great dress and I am hoping one of them will give me their so I can have it for my scrapbook or to wear when I chaperone the prom!

Return to Sender with Love

It's funny how it works. You send out an invitation with a response card, and then people return them! I love it. These little cards full of promise and response have changed the way I view our U.S. Postal System.

I have historically been very remiss about checking the mail. So remiss that in my old condo, the doorman would stop me every three weeks to tell me that the mailwoman hated me and prayed for a pox on my head, because the mailbox was so full she couldn't add one more parcel. I endured those rebukes and the disapproving stare from Murray the doorman because I hate getting the mail. Why would I rush to get my electric bill or some third notice about my property taxes? This little quirk in my personality has been hard to justify and Jeff just shakes his head.

But now! Now it's different. Everyday we are getting the response cards from wedding invitees! It's like getting a different piece or pieces of the puzzle everyday. I have been surprised at who are our first responders. I also enjoy the little notes and embellishments that people put on the card. So far my favorite is my brother who RSVP'ed for 2.5 people: Himself, his lovely wife, and their 3-year old and 3-month old.

I also felt joy when I saw Jeff's grandma, 90 plus years young, who promptly returned her card from the sunshine state! We have a very complicated tracking system (or it looks complicated to me because it's in Excel, my mortal enemy) and have already started drafted table assignments. Seriously, people should not have this much power over one evening. It's like voodoo. And I love it. I am pretty sure power looks good on me!

Dream Check-In

I couldn't make this up. Last night I had the MOST vivid dream that I was in labor. As in childbirth labor. In the dream, I was 9.5 months pregnant and standing in line at Northwestern Memorial hospital waiting to be admitted. My sister was with me and I was very confused in my dream because I had never felt the baby kick in all those 9 plus months, and I had not experienced any of the symptoms of pregnancy. My sister kept saying something soothing about loving my baby, but I was convinced that something might be wrong since I didn't realize I was pregnant until my water broke. In my dream I kept thinking of all the taboo foods I ate while I was allegedly pregnant: brie cheese and lunch meat, which I am told you can't eat because of some bacteria issue. At one point I was laying on the ground writhing in pain and calling Jeff on the phone. I was saying to him, "It's April 29th, and it's the due date of the baby. Can you believe our baby is coming right on time?" Then, I got mad at him for talking to me on speaker phone-- sometimes dreams are so realistic.

It's also strange how specific it was. Our wedding day is November 29th, and in the dream I was doing some rather high level math to figure out when I got pregnant. It's not easy to count backwards 9 months from April during deep slumber.

I think I probably just had to pee in the middle of the night and wasn't getting up, which in turn was causing labor-like pains in my abdomen. But, ever in search of symbols, I decided to do a little research on April 29th. Here's what I learned about that auspicious date in history:

1945: American soldiers liberated Dachau concentration camp. This is obviously a very good event, though the fact that the concentration camps existed at all dampens my enthusiasm for this memory.

1992: Los Angeles jury acquitted police officers of beating Rodney King and massive rioting ensued. I am ambivalent about sharing the birth of a child with a date that sparked a huge race riot, causing deep divides and searing scars in American race relations-- a date that also exposed some of "justice" system's flaws.

1997: First joint US-Russian space walk-- Jerry Linenger and Vasily Tsibliyev do the moon walk. Now this I like! Jeff is Russian (100% actually) and I am Texan, which is close to being full-blooded American. I like space (ha, ha), I like walking and I love Michael Jackson's music (pre-pedophile days), so moonwalking Russians and Americans I am on board for.

In Memoriam

The Bridled with Joy staff is sad to report that one of the caboose riders experienced a loss in her family. Debbie's father-in-law Father Moss passed away this weekend after enduring a tough 10 weeks since his diagnosis. We are sad for the Moss family loss and grateful that Father Moss' suffering is now over. Bridled with Joy is committed to being present in the joyful times, as well as when the days are dark as night. We are thinking about the Moss family and its loss this weekend. I personally like to focus only on certain aspects of the life cycle, especially those parts where everything is alive. But death is a part of the cycle whether I like it or not, and we'll be there to support Debbie and her husband David this week and in the coming weeks, because grief requires love and attention and community support.

Death sure appears to making loving a risky venture. Our old friend Tennyson perhaps has said it best in his epic poem In Memoriam, AHH:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

My Pueblo Picture Book

This sign in front of the Teddy Bear factory says it all: Make Time to Connect. That's exactly what this trip was about. Stepping out of our lives and careers and planning for the Obama victory party to meet up with family and celebrate Jeff's dad and his heroism and fortitude. It's worth the plane delays and snafus attendant to travel these days to meet up with family and share some time reflecting on history, enjoying the present, and visioning about the future.

Taking our bridal theme on the road, Jeff and I posed in front of the Vermont Teddy Bear factory.

The bounty of Vermont! It's not just cheese and syrup, people. It's the greatest produce I have tasted in my life. The tomatoes we sampled at Shelburne Farms were as sweet as a jolly rancher, though not nearly as hard.

Jeff and I opt for artsy self-portraits while taking a tour of Shelburne Farms. Vermont is the most eco-conscious place I have ever been in my life. I celebrated that with my own style, when I bought a pair of kermit-colored cordouroy pants at J.Crew. Living La Vida Verde!!!

Jeff gathers his thoughts in front of the host hotel before attending Pueblo Bar-B-Que. I am probably biased, but he's CUTE!!!

Jeff's dad and Charlie Crandall, former federal prison warden. Charlie has the best laugh of anyone I have ever met. We enjoyed Bar-B-Que and prison stories with Charlie and his wife, Marlene. I happened to mention that I have a client in Parchman Prison (in Mississippi) and I believe I made a friend for life.

Jeff and I join the Pueblo crew for a tour of Ben & Jerry's ice cream factory. We got to sample Sweet Cream & Cookies ice cream. It was really, really good.

Jeff and David taking in some local Vermont color. Vermontans love their cows, cheese, maple syrup, and cider.

Jeff and I acknowledge our burning desire for one another by posing next to a fire engine from the great town of Burlington, VT.

Me and Celia sharing a moment in front of lovely petunias. She's even cuter in person. I have never met a woman with so much energy. If we would have suggested that we all go bungee jumping at the end of the night, she would have led the charge.

Los hombres Ellis! I look at this picture and think that genes will be good to my future children. There is so much to love in this picture. Jeff, his dad and his brother, David.

Jeff's dad and stepmom, Celia, enjoying food and friends at the closing banquet, along with former shipmate, Paul. Paul was a hilarious dinner companion, whose antics included razzing Jeff and Steve for being attorneys and going to the "dark side, while lauding David for being a CPA and staying on the side of goodness. Paul looks like a mix between Kenny Rogers and George Carlin.

Here are all of the brave men-- brave to survive their North Korean captivity and brave to show up at a reunion where long-buried feelings may swell to the surface. Jeff's dad, Steve Ellis, is kneeling in the front row, third from the left. Very nimble man, able to kneel with the agility of a man half his age. (This picture convinces me that I need a camera that will take better pictures. If I am going to be a shutterbug, I want to at least produce an image with clarity and focus. )

Family?

The Bridled with Joy staff is still in Vermont enjoying a peaceful Sunday. We saw Jeff's dad and stepmom Celia and brother off at the airport about 2 hours ago. We will see them again in 2 months and 1 week and 6 days at our wedding. While we enjoyed a wedding-free reprieve this weekend, it is coming to a close. We are in the less than two and a half months zone. Guess which one of us is freaking out? Right. Good guess. Me.

We made a list of all the outstanding tasks and appointments on the flight to Vermont. It honestly looks very manageable. But that's the bad news. That means that it's not actually the tasks and logistics that are causing the anxiety. The appointment to see the Judge or meet with the band (No CELEBRATION by Kool and Gang, no matter how much money you are slipped) actually seems calming to me. When my mind tries to imagine what it will feel like to be me in January 2009, Mrs. Christie O. Tate Ellis, I get such butterflies I feel like I am going to hurl my Vermont sharp cheddar omlette all over the Sheraton's lobby.

This weekend I came face to face with my own internal conflict. Or one of them. I have been saying for over a decade that I really want to be part of a family. As in, my own family who lives under my roof and where I am one of the central players. I want to be missed. I want someone who wants my flight itineraries and who wants me to call him when I get to my hotel when I travel out of town for business. I adore my friends and love them like family and in some cases better than family, but it's not the same as having family. It's mostly that feeling of someone who knows where you are all the time.

I remember the most upsetting part about 9/11 for me-- as someone who had no friends or family in NY or DC at the time-- was that I had no idea who I would call if I was on a plane that was going down. I felt haunted in fall 2001 by the fact that the person I honestly thought I would call is my therapist, and I barely knew him at the time. Sure, I knew that I could have called any of the future caboose riders, but they would be talking to husbands, children, and their own families. And I love my relationship with Jeff for more reasons -- so many that if I listed them, I would run out of Internet-- and it's also challenging for me to be a member of a family. It's hard for me not to be in control of my own schedule, food, meals, time. And those things are so much easier to control when you are not connected to a family. When I was single, I may have been suicidal with loneliness and despair, but I could go to the gym whenever I wanted. I could also have breakfast foods for dinner or talk on the phone during my dinner of baked Tostitos and chihuahua cheese. I could. It sucked but I could do it. And I did, night after night.

This weekend was as far away from my single sad sap days as I ever have been. This reunion for Jeff's dad was such a big deal for Jeff's family, which is now very close to being my family. Jeff's dad has eschewed many Pueblo reunions for reasons that are not hard to imagine after hearing his story and learning the details of that horrible chapter in his life. What made him decide to show up here in the Green Mountain state and reconnect with all of these old friends and mariner-mates, is something only he can say. Jeff's dad is a fun-loving, jovial man, who is also very private and almost shy. Behind his reserve he remains inscrutable to me, his future-daughter-in-law that he has met only twice now. I was touched by how generous he was to me-- he treated me as lovingly as he treats his two beloved sons. So this is family. I pretty much knew I was part of the family when we engaged in a long conversation about the virtues and drawbacks of bidets.

I felt myself holding back in some places during the weekend, which was not because I was trying to make a good impression on them. This roving band of Ellis' trekking through Vermont wasn't looking for me to be prim, proper, or polite. Celia made this clear when she offered Jeff and me some marital advice on the shores of Lake Champlain. This is a family-friendly blog so I can't exactly repeat what she said, but she basically came out in favor of us not holding anything back, especially bodily gases. If you ever see her, ask her about the jar and the bathtub. She's a marvel in her sheer lack of shame and her commitment to stay open-eyed and open-hearted to whatever life tosses her way.

I held back because it's hard for me to connect. Whenever I connect, I mean really really connect with another person, I cry. It's strange that it hurts like it hurts to knick your funny bone or to get a massage when the therapist gets that little knot on the back of your shoulder that has been sort of aching. It's the feeling of a long-hard muscle that has been tight longer than it has been loose, suddenly releases and you can feel the blood move to a place it hasn't been able to course in a long time. It's the feel-good hurt. I remember when my first real boyfriend moved away to go to Duke Law (and also get a Master's in English along the way) and I cried and cried and it felt so good to have loved enough to have it hurt so bad.

My prayer is to let it hurt and let myself cry cry cry. I kept wondering how these Pueblo survivors could keep from crying. I assure you there was no dry eye in the house when the Captain's wife, Rose, accepted his flag and coin for him. Standing ovation as moving as any tribute I have ever witnessed with my own heart. My prayer is to expand my own capacity to let go of these rhythms inside of me which beat to the tune of "alone. alone.alone." I would like that rhythm replaced with the beat of "family. family.family." Because, let's face it, do I really think my time is going to be my own when I have kids? If I think it's a little challenging to figure out when we are stopping for lunch in Stowe, Vermont, how do I think it's going to be when I am lunch to my two nursing twins?

Field Trip

The Bridled with Joy staff has made its way to Burlington, Vermont for the weekend. It's a really special occasion that I am honored to be a part of. Jeff's dad Steve Ellis was a member of the crew of the U.S.S. Pueblo, a navy ship that was hijacked by the North Koreans in 1968. Eleven months later the surviving crew was released. This weekend is the 40th reunion for the survivors. There is a schedule of events that include some heady memorial services as well as a tour of the Ben and Jerry's ice cream factory.

Jeff's dad has expressed ambivalence about attending all the events-- he likes his space and appears to like a little distance from the large group of veterans who are steeped in memories of its time on the Pueblo. And from our dinner last night where we got to meet and greet his fellow "swab jockeys," it looks like being a Pueblo survivor is a full-time identity for some of these men. We sat with a lovely man and his bride of 41 years: Charlie and Marlene. Charlie told us lots of stories about his post-Pueblo time as a federal prison warden, which, as you can imagine, were very colorful. Honestly, however, I just wanted to ask him and Jeff's dad questions about the psychic marks that their capture left on them. Jeff said it best: the trauma of the ordeal is the proverbial elephant in the room.

And, it's SO hard for me to keep conversation on a superficial level. I want to talk about the elephant in the room. I want to ask them if they saw and heard John McCain's speech at the RNC. I want to know if they have been back to Asia. I was dying to ask Charlie and Jeff's dad if they had any therapy to help them make sense of both what happened in North Korea, as well as how to process how our government and nation treated them when they were released. Since we landed in Vermont, Jeff's stepmom Celia and I have been laughing at how similar Jeff and his dad are in that they both really like control. (As if I don't!) Last night at the dinner table, Jeff's dad said that he was eating cherries jubiliee on the ship when the North Koreans attacked (it was lunch time) and explained that when captured, he was blind folded and forced to disembark with the other crew members. He recalled that they were told by their captors not to talk, and when some crew member said something, he was beaten severely. Let's see: 11 months in a foreign country, where you don't know the language or the culture, and you have no idea when or if you can ever go home. Of course you want control of your environment for the rest of your life. Makes me think I need to get a better excuse myself!

Jeff just showed me our commemorative t-shirts. It has the ship's logo on it, which is a picture of the ship as well as the unofficial mascot: "the lonely bull." Lonely bull indeed. The image of the lonely bull is so apropos. That's exactly the feeling I get when I watch these older men walk through a bar-b-que buffet and I imagine them alluding to food in the navy or food in a North Korean prison. It looks lonely to hold it all in and make small talk.

More about me: Candidly, I am thrilled to have something totally outside of the wedding to focus on right now. This is an extraordinary event that really puts everyday stresses in a whole new light.