You Shall Above All Things Be Glad And Young

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

-- e.e. cummings

There's NO Place Like Home

Did I buy these? Yes, I did.

Why? Because, look at it! It's a FABULOUS shoe. I only have 4 more weeks to use being a bride as an excuse to buy slightly superfluous red high heel shoes, so I have to milk it. I am planning on wearing these shoes for the rehearsal dinner where I will also don a gorgeous BCBG dress that is H-O-T. This bride is not ready to give up her sass and sex appeal just because she will be a Mrs.

Nope, it's too soon for the shapeless dresses and comfortable rubber soled shoes to wear while I peruse the gigantic aisles of Costco. I may just wear these very shoes every time I go to Costo during my first year of marriage. I'll do it just to prove a point that will probably end up hurting my feet. But I will look oh so fine eating my Costco frozen yogurt with those snappy, red, rearticulated Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, shoes. I can imagine feminists screwing up their noses in judgment that I would use punitive shoes to "prove" I am sexy. Well, to all of them, I say, "suck it." The whole point of feminism is to wear any shoe you damn well please and I'll be the first to kick these red-hot hotties to the curb when yours truly has a big ass bun in the oven. Or if I get a blister. Or if they grow to bug me with their vivid, joyful redness. Or when I am working a late night at my law firm and want to be in my flip flops. And, yes, I'll be the first to embrace "barefoot and pregnant" when I get knocked up, so long as barefoot includes comfy UGG slippers with the deliciously warm shearling. Til then, I'll kick up my crimson heels and celebrate my life in any heel height that suits my mood.

Speaking of freedom, my efforts to further the broader cause of freedom was thwarted today when I tried to cast my early vote for one Mr. Barack Obama. For the love of Moses, the line for early voting was over 2 hours long! Thank god I am not in a battleground state, or I would have panicked right there in the county building. When I saw all the people crowded into the basement of the building, I felt shivers of pride at seeing our democratic process at work. There were business people, and city workers, college students, and more than one man who appeared to have no teeth and no access to running water or a shower any time during the Bush administration. Everyone appeared to be patiently waiting in the longest line I have ever seen. I would expect a line like that for free Madonna tickets or a chance to have a picture taken with Dr. Phil, but to vote? To participate in the democratic process? It's shocking. For all the ink spilled over all that is wrong with this country, at 69 West Washington in the poorly lit basement, hundreds of people took an extra long lunch hour to cast their votes, which indicates to me, that there is a lot right with the people in this country.

October 29, 2008

Hmmmmm. October 29 . . . . Rings a bell. Maybe because it's one month until our wedding. Time is moving a little bit faster now, especially because work has gotten a lot busier. I think that is good because it's keeping me out of trouble and helped me step away from nursing resentments about people who don't RSVP on time. Whatever it takes, right?

I have no deep thoughts.

I have plenty of deep feelings.

There are about 4 minutes every night before I fall asleep where I completely give in to the joy and just buzz around the room, bugging Jeff by pretending to pick the boogers out of his nose or by telling him that my stomach itches. He usually says, "well, then scratch it." Then, I explain that it itches from the inside and I can't scratch it unless I swallow a stick. It's a brief little portal into my little kid side, who is so excited to be creating a family and feels so free because Jeff is almost stuck with me for life. Why not try to pick his boogers? In those 4 minutes, it makes more sense than anything else in the world. Eight or nine hours later when I wake up to go to the gym or to work, I will be back to my rational, grumpy "I have so much do to; I am so stressed" personality. Poor, poor me I am planning a really fun party with all of my friends (except those who do not RSVP) and I have a few little details to work out in the next 4 weeks.

Ambivalence

At the heart of each posting on Bridled With Joy, regardless of the subject matter or heading or picture, each posting is a love letter to Jeff. That's what this is all about for me. It's not your mother's Hallmark card to be sure, but it's the real, honest, nitty gritty, guts of who I am and the only audience I consider very, very carefully before posting is Jeff. And I may have pushed the boundaries of what he feels comfortable with in these here pages, but I would never hesitate for a second if he said, "please, just don't post that." Not one second.

I got in touch this morning with some really painful feelings around the wedding. I would like to think I hit the core, because the pain was flowing like magma. I tried to avoid the subject, but today I stared at the R.S.V.P. response cards issue without blinking, and I'd like to think I am morally superior for having the cahunas to deal with it all instead of smiling like a coked up Stepford Wife.

Here's the background. Sometimes when people plan a wedding, they send out response cards for would-be guests to send back to the bride and groom after indicating if they will attend, and how many will be in their party. It's a genteel process that facilities the subsequent table assignments that the bride and groom make in order to assure that everyone has a seat. Of course it is much more complicated that simply giving everyone a seat. You have to be sure that your rambunctious cousin doesn't end up by his meek Aunt who disinherited him after a little drunken joy ride in the 80s. You can't sit your step-family too close to your other family, and you can't put your officiant by the exit door.

Here's a tip: If you don't want to hear a reason why someone hasn't RSVP'ed to your wedding, do not ask her or him. If you suspect the answer may be painful or induce vomiting from the emotional hit, then do not ask her. Don't ask her on a Monday morning when you have had less than 6 hours of sleep. If you don't want to hear about someone's ambivalence, then do not ask, because you may get an answer or explanation or justification or story and it will hurt. It just will. You can tell yourself you are above it and that the world doesn't revolve around you just because you are going through a rite of passage that is deeply terrifying, miraculous, and meaningful to you-- and one that millions of people do all the freaking time. Go ahead. Tell yourself whatever you want. The truth is that when someone doesn't RSVP in the 6 weeks you gave them to do it, you will never like the answer. Period. Don't play tough girl, because it will look stupid when you start sobbing after trying to act tough. Don't resist the crying, because it may ignite the gag reflex. Don't stop breathing because, honestly, that solution is just too damn short-term.

A definition:

* * *
ambivalence [am-biv-uh-luhns] –noun 1. uncertainty or fluctuation, esp. when caused by inability to make a choice or by a simultaneous desire to say or do two opposite or conflicting things.
2. Psychology. the coexistence within an individual of positive and negative feelings toward the same person, object, or action, simultaneously drawing him or her in opposite directions.

* * *


If you have to ask, here's another tip: Bring your Kleen-ex. You will cry. When you hear the reasons why someone does or doesn't want to commit to coming to your November 29th wedding by October 29, you will cry. You should cry. If there are little children around, you can modulate your voice, but by all means, cry.

When I started hearing several of the invitees explain why they hadn't RSVP'ed because they need to have a "process" around coming to the wedding, I felt my hands start to tingle and the room started to spin. I also was shaking uncontrollably, but it's also a cold October morning in Chicago. My favorite "process" was the one where a guest explained that there is an issue of her spouse not liking me, so they have to work through that before committing to the wedding. (That one hurt! Extra tissues for the extra honest friends.) There is the "we can't find a babysitter," or "not sure about travel plans." Whatever it is, I have certainly cried over much less relevant issues-- so this one seems ok to just let it all flow out.

I have been told, and I do believe, that once the day comes, what really matters is that Jeff and I show up, along with Judge Shadur and at least 2 witnesses. We are assured our two witnesses. It hurts that people for whom I would show up for their milestones and important events are less sure about showing up for us. I have no idea when that hurt will heal, and I am not putting presure on myself to heal on any timetable-- there is no RSVP card for my hurt self to respond and say she's all done hurting by November 29th, thank you very much. It hurts today.

The best thing, though, is that Jeff hasn't expressed any ambivalence about marrying me. Even when I begged him to just go to the Dirksen building for a nice, quiet, uncomplicated civil ceremony. He reminded me that our wedding is for us and for anyone else who is capable of showing up with and for us. That's who we will look out and see on November 29th. I will see him and those gathered that are able to resolve their ambivalence about dressing up, or having a date, or traveling to Chicago, or seeing a former lover, or seeing someone who pays them to do work in another context. Those are the people who will be in the circle surrounding us. And if I can focus on them, I will be well served.

In the meantime, I can meditate on my own ambivalence and pray to have an open heart around every single experience I am having around this wedding, regardless of how searing, abusurd, cruel, meaningful, transformative, or corrective.

Beauty Break

A woman can't just work all weekend! I made a little beauty run to Ulta 3 and found some fun fall nail polish from O.P.I. I think it's called Lincoln Park at Midnight, and it reminds me of a former colleague who moved to Berkeley to get a PhD in Legal Studies. My commitment to beauty treats appears to go way, way back.

Packing Up the Bachelorette LilyPad

While my Beloved is in Vegas this weekend with his dad, brother, and other close friends who gathered there to golf, bowl, and play pool (the "lazy man's triathlon"), I was completing my spiritual homage to my bachelorette pad. Our intrepid real estate agent indicated that all signs lead to "yes" for closing on my lily pad, so I decided to use this weekend to pack her up and say goodbye (or "good buy"). Not only did I do the manual labor of getting rid of the broken bike pump and old ironing board-- for which I have a sore back to prove it-- I decided to have a little spiritual ceremony for the space that was so good to me for the brief time I was there.

I lit candles-- the same candles I bought after reading a feng shui book that said you have to have symbols of love in the southwest corner of your bedroom if you want to find love. (I did so I guess it works!) I went to each room to thank it for being my cradle for the almost three years I lived there. I did this clapping ritual I read about (the feng shui phase was sort of long and it's finally paying off) where I cleared out the energy from the corners of the rooms. I looked at old pictures of parties and events that took place within it's walls. I listened to old mix tapes I made as far back as college-- and let me tell you, it's frightening to suddenly hear David Allen Coe cursing at you when you are trying to clap out bad energy-- and I cried when the Golden Smog song about "home" came on.

I feel so grateful that this "home" is passing on to other hands before my wedding. And, it's not really about the money, though not paying two mortgages is a thing of beauty. I am mostly grateful because it is time to move on and to have all my stakes in the ground that Jeff and I are tilling together.

The unofficial mascot of the Bachelorette Lily Pad was Blue Baby. She was a doll I adored more than anything in the world when I was a little girl. She's been with me through a great deal, and we were reunited when my mom dug her out of the attic and brought her to New Orleans in 2005 when we were all there for my nephews graduation. I named her Blue Baby because she came with a darling little gingham blue dress. I could write a book about Blue Baby, and Blue Baby says a great deal about me and my younger days.



Me and Blue Baby in the newlywed period standing in front what I imagine is the largest fern that ever grew in a Texan suburb. It appears that I know how to hold a baby doll in order to prolong her baby doll life. It also appears that I might trip on my little hippie dippie sundress, but my grip on Blue Baby looks pretty secure so she's probably be ok if I took a tumble on that carpet. However, under my care, Blue Baby was going to experience some suffering.....
Somehow, between birth and today, I managed to pull out Blue Baby's hair. I remember my parents tried to find someone to replace her hair for me, but the only solution was to get a wig, and for obvious reasons, that didn't seen like a viable solution. Once Blue Baby's hair "fell" out, she was not exactly the darling little baby doll that mothers and grandmothers hope their little female offspring will carry around. My dad's mother hated how hideous Blue Baby looked and offered several times a day for years to get me a new baby doll. I refused. I loved her and didn't care of she was missing a few strands of hair. One morning, my (paternal) grandmother threw Blue Baby in the burning can-- the place where people who live in the country put their trash-- and I had to drag a stool out into the pasture to retrieve her from the charred ashes of the previous day's food. That explains the rather charcoal-ish tinges she has her back. I am told that is one of the few times that my dad got mad at his mother. It makes me smile and feel sad at the same time to think of him taking my side over that of his mother.
I can't quite reconcile the little kid who knew how to feed and hold her doll-- and how to put a pretty plastic clip in her hair-- with the same kid who pulled her hair out. Makes me think that some of the posts on the yet-to-come sequel blog, Bundled with Joy, will be full of surprises. I can hardly wait!

Miss Blue Baby today in all her dignity and character. I am telling you right now, I want to be buried with Blue Baby, and I hope for her sake the burial doesn't involve fire!

Charles in Charge

No, that is not Scott Baio, of Charles in Charge. That's Jeff Ellis of Southern California! The young groom stands in the surf ready to conquer the great Malibu surf despite the fact he has zero body fat.

I can post whatever I want to day, folks, because Jeff is out of town in Vegas for what we are affectionately calling his Bachelor Party. I'm told there will be gambling, crank and ho's involved, but if that is the case, I will never post the truth here!

Stay tuned for updates about how I spent my last bachelorette weekend. This is what is known as a teaser.

Taste Buds

I have been trying to describe how strange this time in my life feels. There is such a surreal quality to everything that happens right now that I am finding it hard to put into words from the English language my internal thoughts and feelings. Noises and yawps might get me close, but I don't know the words that would capture what I am feeling. I was just telling someone that every little thing feels so foreign and unfamiliar right now, right down to how food tastes. When my daily luna bar didn't taste like the previous 4,000 luna bars I have eaten, I started to think "damn! Is the process of getting married changing my tastebuds too?"

Speaking of tastebuds, today for lunch we went to our wedding venue for the tasting. I probably gained 4 lbs from the garlic and oil alone. We'll start with the postive aspects of our visit. Jeff and I brought along some friends we consider real "foodies," unlike me and Jeff who think that Portillo's hotdogs are practically gourmet. Jason H and Joyce P were at the table to keep our guests from having to eat pedestrian salads or undercooked pastas. I really loved the stuffed mushroom caps and the asparagus with proscuito, which was a surprise to me because I hate proscuito. They also served little mini thin-crust pizzas that were quite tasty and easy to eat.

Before going any further I have to just give voice the dominant, feeling side of me that, at the very same moment was oohing and aahhing over the pizza, was mourning that we are not having a cutting edge foodie wedding. We aren't having a mashed potato bar or organic caviar on locally grown toast points. We're having mini mushroom caps and smoked salmon. It will be good and it will be solid, but we aren't breaking any new ground in the culinary realm. I feel shame about the things that bring up sadness for me, but someday it will be entertaining to see how my thoughts and feelings unfolded in this last few weeks. Just like with my dress there is a track of sadness and loss that runs parallel to the track of excitement and joy. I have this in all areas of my life, but the relevant tracks are those related to the wedding.

We nibbled and tasted and critiqued the appetizers (hot and cold), salads, pastas and entrees. While the food may not be avant garde, Jason H said it best when he said they exhibited a "core competency," which is really all you need for wedding food. No one will go home hungry.

And, alas, as all parts of my wedding journey, there was a dark, shadow side to the joy of the tasty ragus and luscious vegetables. I do not want to belabor the travails of today's tasting, but it was not a good sign when our "event coordintor" was not there for our scheduled appointment, and it was a positively ominous omen when she finally arrived and asked us, "now, you are just having your reception here, not your ceremony, right?" That was a little disheartening mostly because we ARE having our wedding ceremony there, and you sort of hope that after you sign contracts and send in hefty checks that the person taking care of you and your wedding will get at the very least, the big picture right. After ranting about that department store on State Street for 2 solid weeks, I thought perhaps I was overreacting and that my terror and dismay was a little out of whack because of the proximity to the wedding and the fact that my personality tends to be a little extreme and emotional. I was validated when Jason and Joyce agreed that the "event coordinator" lacked a certain "appeal."

But, Jeff took control of the situation and proposed that we just deal with the food for today and worry about the logistics of the ceremony and cocktail hour later at another point in time. I know way deep down in my heels that it doesn't matter really whether the linens match the color scheme of the invitations and people aren't coming here expecting Charlie Trotter to whip up some filets and foie gras. This is just how it feels when a perfectionist plans a wedding and had 35 years to gear up for it.

Weddings for Dummies

Since we got engaged, I have gotten lots of advice about wedding planning and married life. Now that we are in the home stretch-- these last 5.5 weeks that are positively crawling along like rush hour on the Dan Ryan expressway-- I started just asking up front for advice, tips, and experience, strength and hope on the wedding and marriage front. The responses range from cynical to mystical and some of it I am actually going to try to do.

Date night: Today at a client lunch, a man married 10 years suggested that, before everyone arrives in town the week of the wedding, Jeff and I have a date night for just the two of us. He suggested that getting a chance to have a last quiet meal before the deluge of friends, family and festivities overtakes us would be a good idea before we lose a chance to be still together for a few 24 hours. I love this idea. I am making a reservation tonight, and we aren't going to Costco for the chicken bake!

Doggie Bag: Another favorite tip I have heard several times is to have the caterer set aside two meals in doggie bags for us to take home when it's all over. My understanding is that it is hard to sit down and eat a meal after the ceremony because people have flown in from Louisiana, Texas, and Deerfield, IL to be with us so it's kind of rude to sit down and focus on food when we'll all have so little time together. Every bride has told me she ended up sitting in her hotel room starving after the ceremony, so the doggie bag sounds like a better solution than ordering a pizza when we get back to our hotel room.

Don't Pay Attention: The other day I got into a philosophical conversation with Julia, the lovely lady who gave me a manicure. I asked if she had any marital advice, and she demurred, saying that she is not married and plans to stay that way because she likes dating. Likes dating? Clearly, Julia and I are two different species of women. I hated dating because I was too neurotic to relax and maintain my sense of humor about the 137 blind dates I went on, including the meek young fellow who did not have any knee caps and the guy who told me that he hadn't ingested anything except tequila since his mother died. Two years earlier. Um, check please. Anyway, I was bored and Julia had my hands captive, so I asked her if her other clients ever offered sage words about marriage she wanted to pass on to me while painting my nails the perfect shade of Wicked. She said she has a client who has been married over 30 years who swears the secret is to "just not pay any attention." I asked if that meant not attention to her husband, or the bills, or her husband's girlfriends, or what exactly was she suggesting I ignore. Julia said, "everything. Don't pay any attention and it will all be fine."

Dieting: My seamstress told me not to diet and lose weight before the wedding because "it will cost a fortune" to re-alter the dress. Luckily, my love of cheese, chocolate, and assorted dairy products will save me from the financial ruin that would befall me if that damn dress needs any more nipping or tucking.

Don't Ask For More Pro Bono Work: This piece of advice came straight from my groom, who, though seldom stern, seemed positively fascist when I mentioned I was a little slow at work and wanted something more on my professional plate. I mused aloud in his presence about asking for a pro bono assignment to keep life lively and interesting during the daylight hours. Jeff nixed the idea of me getting more work this close to the wedding. Sure enough, I got a little missive from the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals today requesting my presence for an oral argument on December 5, 2008. That little missive just about caused a coronary conniption in yours truly. Once I recovered from the stress spasms, I realized that unless the Court was planning on sitting in Patagonia on the morning of December 5, I was going to have to request another date. I have to say I felt a certain surge of joy informing the Court of Appeals that I wouldn't be at their little chit chat because I would be on my honeymoon. Now, it's public record and I think I like that.

Stand Up For Your Rights

So, here's a tip: If you don't want me to post a picture, please just don't send it to me. It's too tempting and I have zero willpower.

It's probably wrong to post a picture of your fiance from way back in the day when he was first learning how to use the potty, but if this is wrong, I do not want to be right. I love everything about this picture. Jeff's far off stare, his cute little butt, the stylish wall paper and linoleum floor. I feel like I am there. The best part is that I am sure when little Jeff was done, he put the seat down. Kudos to Jeff's mom who raised a great son, who turned into a wonderful man and exceptionally considerate roommate. Especially in the bathroom.

Destiny's Children

Jeff and I were looking through old pictures of ourselves for our wedding slideshow and found some hilarious similarities in our respective photo journals. My favorite pose-- hands on hips-- was part of the repertoire of of both of our photographic pasts. The pose is the same, but it has very different meanings for these two little kids. My pose is part of an overall expression that exudes eager little girl who has a staring-straight-at-the-camera earnestness. This is an early flourish of the "like me - like me - PLEASE" people pleaser I was well on my way to becoming. I don't really look much like I am thinking. I look like I am trying. Trying really hard to look cute or to mug for the camera or to win the love of the photographer. My habits of trying to garner love and approval started early and they started strong.

Jeff's, on the other hand, is a pose I see probably 17 times per week. This is Jeff's signature "I am taking a survey of what is going down" pose. He's thinking. He's deciding whether the kids in the sandbox are putting the sand in the pails in the most efficient way. He's analyzing whether it's best for him to join in the sandbox project by actually getting in the sandbox or by remaining outside of the sandbox and performing more of a foreman's role. I saw this very pose last night when we were putting those little felt pads on some new bookshelves and a media center we just got. I was a little confused about how we were going to put those little felt circles on the bottom of a bookshelf that was already full of books and pictures and a delux Scrabble set, but Jeff figured out a way to jigger the shelves by propping them up on cookbooks and now our new furniture has ceased to make grooves in the wood floors every time we scoot it around.

Purusing old pictures is a really profound experience. On the one hand I can remember many of the pictures taken of me, but it can still be hard to recognize myself in them. In some pictures of myself I remember feeling fat or ugly or sad, but the picture doesn't show a me that looks fat, ugly or sad. It's strange to see how tender and fresh-faced I looked in college, which was a sort of tumultuous time for me on the inside. I feel a little fear when I see how great a disparity existed between my insides and my outsides. One of my thoughts was what if my daughters look this "normal" or "healthy" or "pretty," but are actually in pain, how will I know? Then, I thought, "Geez, I spent all that time worrying if I was pretty or skinny and I was perfectly fine." It's kind of hard to swallow how much time I have wasted on all things self: doubt, pity, hate, loathing. I could have had another major for all the energy I squandered picking myself apart. Maybe the best amends I can make to the Christie of the 1990s is to live today so I don't have to look back and feel sad I hated on myself when I was really doing ok.

And those old pictures of Jeff! Whoa. It's a little strange to see a baby picture of your fiance when he was dressed in a jump suit embroidered with a lady bug and curly hair. If Jeff had a sister, I would swear some of his pictures were of her. (I have no room to talk, there was more than one era when I was doing my own gender bending!)

Of course I know in theory that Jeff had a long life before me. Long-- as in about 3 decades. But to really see his past in all its 1970s and 1980s glory makes Jeff seem even more three-dimensional than before I found out he was a seriously fat baby. I can't even recognize the Jeff I know today with his baby pictures-- I can't see my Jeff until he's about 12.

From looking at the pictures, I imagine today's Jeff as a man who has all of those little boys inside himself-- the soccor and baseball player, the kid eating ice cream and pizza with his brother, or sitting on Grandma Ann's lap-- all of those little incarnations of Jeff live on in the man I will marry soon enough. And I carry the little people pleaser in the yellow dress, the chubby baby at Padre Island, and the little girl dressed up like Holly Hobby in the backyard-- they are all alive and well inside of me.

And here's the most amazing part. I have always heard that getting married (or into an intimate relationship) can heal wounded parts inside of myself. Now, I know it's true for me. I can see every single picture of Jeff and love each part, each age, and each expression. It's easier now to have the same love for myself-- even when I had that unfortunate too-short hair cut and would only wear overalls. Now that I have the capacity to love all of Jeff, it's a smaller challenge to spread it around. Even to myself.

Get This Woman Some Play Clothes

Is it any wonder that my sister had the intuition that lingerie may be in order to spruce up my wardrobe? Here's the thing: I love to shop; I am good at shopping; and I hope to die smiling either come to or from Ann Taylor Loft. But I typically buy clothes for work or for socializing in the more public areas of this great city. An area of my wardrobe that has never received sufficient attention is clothes for just hanging around at home after work. You can see from the above picture that Jeff took last night, that I have been single for a LONG time. My unwinding clothes make me look like an escapee from a mental institution who managed to find a cute hoodie to fly the coop in. And this is pretty much what Jeff has to look at all winter long. I believe he said to me when I stood up from the computer: "What exactly are you wearing?"

I think that's a fair question.

So, here's the thought process. I come home from work after 7 p.m., and nowadays it's dark and a little drafty, so I can't shimmy around in those little hot pants my friends gave me because I would die of pneumonia. It's also hard to cook in a teddie, or, so it seems, though I have never tried it. So, I put on my gap pajama pants. That's the hot striped number on my legs. But then I realized that those pants aren't so sexy or fashion forward. So, I put on my cotton Calvin Klein nightgown that is sleeveless and simple. But, then, I am cold. I accessorized with my new favorite hoodie from Anthropologie. And, finally, I hate walking around barefoot and I hate it when my feed are cold. Socks seem really like admitting feminine defeat so I just slipped my feet back into the shoes I wore during my day job-- black patent leather shoes with a little bow. And, that's the genius thought process behind my little outfit that I can be seen wearing around my house on week nights from 7-10 p.m. I am open for suggestions about what to wear that is a little more figure flattering and a little less like an outfit that screams, "I need more medication."

I do enjoy these high-class problems.

This weekend was intense ride for the BWJ staff. If I was the cursing type, I would be dropping all kinds of "f" bombs. Luckily, I am opting for more family-friendly ways to express how many feelings came up this weekend. I think the main lever for getting some of these long-buried feelings out of my gut was getting a contract on my condo-- the original bachelorette rose garden. I do love that condo. And while it's painful to possibly (fingers crossed) let her go for WAY less than I paid, I think it's more of the spiritual piece of letting go of my first piece of property that I bought all by myself with my hard-earned money. It was my first legitimate first footprint in the world and now it's going to be sold (at an outrageously low price) to a very nice gentleman relocating from a little hamlet called Harlem in New York. I have been decidedly raw since finding out that my little cocoon is on its way to being someone else's next launching pad. Another door to a piece of myself is being closed (at a very low price, but I am not bitter) and certainly making room for something else. I am now more attached to Jeff and our life here because there is no condo across town that could scoop me up at any moment. I have never consciously thought I would ever live there again or that I would ever live without Jeff, but somewhere deep inside of me, there is a seriously neurotic single woman dying a very slow death. I would say she's got about 5.8 more weeks to live and then it's time to say goodbye to her forever.

I have never been good at goodbyes, especially not for parts of myself that I am consciously and explicitly watching slip away.

I am listening to the perfect song right now for this contemplative mood: Strangers, most famously done by the Kinks and featured last year in the movie Darjeeling Limited. The version I found today was by Golden Smog. I love the lyrics:

So where are you going to I don't mind/
If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die/
So I will follow you wherever you go/
If your offered hand is still open to me/
Strangers on this road we are on/
We are not two we are one.

I do love a song that speaks to my fear of dying, and I love the image of the offered hand. I got a lot of that this weekend from Jeff, even though I was being a pain in the ass on several occasions. I know, I know, it's hard to imagine, but trust me. I was.

The preparation Jeff and I did this weekend for the wedding was mostly within our relationship. The shifting ground as we recommit everyday to continue on the path that will find us making a capital C commitment very soon sometimes feels like plate tectonics. Lots of energy being unleashed these days. I think it's just as important to sit down and have conversations that start with the question, "I know I am a pain in the ass, but do you understand that is never going to change?" as it is to find color-coordinating place cards. So, we're doing the the work that shows up on the calendar and the work that no one will see except me and Jeff, though you can be sure that as soon as I can articulate it, I will be sharing it.

This picture is from an art show at Linda Warren Gallery this winter in Chicago. I love it. I think it's vaguely naughty and innocent at the same time. I love the delight on the little boy's face. I love the curiosity and almost-horror on the little girl's face. I tell myself that they are little siblings at a moment in time before their life experiences are warped by messages that there is not enough (love, attention) to go around or before they are taught that the differences between them may rend their hearts in inseparable ways. Art is so good for the soul.

Bridled With Joy Celebrates 100th Post

In honor of the 100th post to this esteemed blog, Bridled With Joy is going to resort to a law school favorite: the bullet point. Sometimes, you just gotta use the bullet point format to get the information conveyed.

Here goes:

• Jeff relayed his FIRST ever wedding dream to me this morning. As I heard it, he was dreaming he was at our wedding and trying to make a connection with our officiant, Judge Milton Shadur. I haven't made it to get my psychology degree (yet), but I think Jeff may have had a little anxiety about meeting Judge Shadur for the FIRST time today, when we all sat down together to go over the ceremony particulars. (I had just had a dream about shopping at Home Depot. Talk about freaky friday-- I dreamed about home improvement projects and Jeff dreamed about the wedding-- that's the clearest case of role reversal I have never heard of.)


• Mr. Manager from that department store on State Street still hasn't called me. I left another voicemail today using my best Southern, lilting, business-pleasant voice. It may be time to LET IT GO.


• Letting go: still not my forte.


• Jeff and I went to see Boris the Jeweler today so I could try on my wedding band. It's already gorgeous, and it has no diamonds yet. I am becoming fast friends with the bling bling.


• We are starting to get some really fancy, shiny, professional kitchen gifts. I can't wait til Jeff uses them to cook something positively dee-lish!


• Wondering how to process the shiny red kitchen aid mixer we got from Jro, the shrink formerly known as Dr. Crimson Nose. All I have to say is thank God it wasn't sheets, because do I really need the stress of having to process a gift of bed linens for me and Jeff from my shrink? (NO! The answer is no!!! Thank god I don't have to.)


• Starting to get concerned about my little Facebook addiction. I now have 57 friends. But, 1 is too many and 57 is not enough. May be time for an intervention.


• I am very much enjoying how alive I feel from worrying and fretting about the economy and it's every rise and fall. I especially enjoy early morning emails from colleagues informing me about mass layoff at other legal organizations around the country. It's invigorating to start the day with the black cloud of economic hardship and potential unemployment looming ominously over my head, even if it is only in my imagination.


• In case I haven't mentioned it in this forum, time is crawling by. At the pace of a one-legged snail. I keep thinking any second now, time is going to start whizzing by and I'll find myself under a chuppah, reminding myself to stand up straight and be present while I say my vows to Jeff. But, it's not. Every morning this week I woke up thinking, disappointed, "yep, still about six weeks left." Last week and this week were the longest weeks of my life so far. It's like the agony of waiting for Christmas morning, except I am an adult and it's taking longer. I think Jeff said it best in an email to a friend he reconnected with on Facebook: "wedding planning is good and terrible."

180 Pictures of Our A**es

After yesterday's screed about Macy's (and Mr. Manager still hasn't called me back), it's time for some news on the other side of the spectrum. That would be the spectrum that includes effortless flow and harmony regarding things related to the big W, and I am not talking about Mr. Bush.

Today is a new day. Today we got our engagement pictures from our fabulous photographer, Jennifer Mordini. http://www.jennifermordini.com/. (NOT pictured above, but you get the idea.) She took 387 pictures of me and Jeff last month and the results are stunning. I am barely phased by the fact that about half of them are shots of my backside. She did something so amazing that as a non-photographer I just don't know how to do-- that is, take a picture that tells the viewer a story about the subjects' relationship. It's just amazing to see. Jeff and I looked at some of them together and laughed so hard when we saw pictures that perfectly capture a certain look we've seen a thousand times. My favorites are the ones where she has captured how Jeff's face looks and how his hand gestures when he is explaining something to me. There are some where it looks like I am concentrating on what he is saying and it's kind of a mindblowing experience to see how I look when I am thinking really hard. I love photo number 323, because I would swear on my vital organs that Jeff has just said "oh really?" to me with that tone that conveys his (accurate) perception that I am full of shit. And by photo 327, it looks like I have come clean and admitted I am a devious liar and the charade is up.

I will confess I am partial to the ones that make it seem like I have long legs (which I don't and that's why all my pants are either "A" for ankle length or "P" for petite-- meaning short ass legs)and a flat abs (which I do but only in comparison to my ample bosom), but mostly I love the ones that show me a split second of who Jeff and I are together. Chemistry, I believe it's called.

I also believe without a doubt that there is a God, because never in my life have I had a good hair day coincide with a day where a picture of me is going to be taken. Vain? Yes. A believer? I am now!

I have to read a treatise on copyright law before I can post the pictures on this blog. Let me get back to you on that one. Maybe I can get a junior associate at my law firm to read up on it as a pro bono project. I told Jeff I wanted a camera like Jennifer's, but he seems to think it takes more than a camera to make the kind of pictures we have just fallen in love with. Jeff says you need a degree, training and years of experience. I guess that's why the prints are about 12.00 each for a 4x6!

In case I haven't been clear, Jennifer's work has erased the bitter taste I had in my mouth from yesterday's unfortunate little incident at that department store, the name of which will never pass over my lips again. I would have married Jeff no matter how he looked in pictures, but I sure do consider it a bonus that he's extremely photogenic and has a great a**.

I Hate Macy's on State Street (Chicago)

I have worked hard to foster the parts of my psyche that love so it's going to be a strange experience to explain how much I HATE, and I mean HATE as much as I hate slow drivers or mealy apples, Macy's Bridal Salon on State Street in Chicago.

Just thinking about recounting the ineptitude and rudeness that me and my sister and bridesmaids have encountered there makes me feel all light-headed and woozy, like I just had a sneezing fit. I cannot believe that an institution that has the nerve to charge over $200.00 for a bridesmaid dress plus $100 plus for alterations employs salespeople who are so unkind and nonresponsive. Honestly, it's like a joke. As the latest snafu reached a cressendo, I thought I was being punked. There is no way in these tough commercial times that a salesperson is seriously acting the way that our sales person was acting towards me. Let's call her Marina, since that is actually her name.

I first met Marina on May 31, when my sister was in town (with the Party P!) and we decided to test drive some bridesmaid dresses. Debbie was on call with the bridal caboose that day as well, so I had my tallest and my petitest ladies accompany me to Macy's where they were having a Watters & Watters trunk show. I wasn't in love with Marina's brusque style and bossy demeanor. I sure didn't fall head over heels for her insistence that she "didn't have all day to help us out" when Caroline and I wanted to make one more pass through the samples before ordering a mere SEVEN dresses for the ladies. It would have been my preference to have some kindness and attention before asking my sister and friends to spend over $200.00 for a dress that, let's not kid ourselves, they will only wear once. But, hey, what do I know? I worked in retail back in 1995 in College Station, Texas, peddling skorts and trying to get poor college students to open an Express credit card. Maybe the whole notion of caring (or pretending you care) and paying attention to customers is some quaint, passe notion that went then way of the skort.

I was a little concerned about the situation and the Watters & Watters representative, who was as attentive and responsive as Marina was dismissive and rude, took over and also introduced me to the manager, who seemed capable and interested in the process. I called him later just to ask him to please be sure that my bridesmaids can come in and order their dresses without any hassle or grief from Marina. Mr. Manager said the following to me: "You know, Marina is new, and she's Russian. They are just like that." I said, "Like what?" He said, "You know...abrupt and gruff." Ok, Mr. Manager, run your bridal salon however you want, but it seems like an interesting business plan to hire people who basically suck and then apologize to the customers by stereotyping an entire country.

When Caroline came back to town for the bachelorette party, we spent another 1.5 hours in the Macy's bridal salon, since there is nothing else to do in Chicago during a beautiful fall day. Who wants to see a museum or go for a run, when you can sit in the 7th layer of hell trying to communicate with Marina and the cadre of bridal sales people at Macy's? What transpired then mystifies me as much as enrages me.

The sequence roughly went like this: Caroline got dumped into a room and there wasn't a sales person to be found. It was noon on a Saturday and I could have yelled fire at the top of my lungs and my 1st Amendment rights would be protected because there was literally no one to flee or stampede. Finally, alterations were called (Caroline had made an appointment 3 weeks prior to have alterations come and take care of her dress) and a very meek and skilled seamstress pinned Caroline's dress at the bodice and along the hem.

During the alterations process, Caroline noticed a white spot on the dress right in the front. She asked the seamstress about having the big white spot on her sapphire dress removed, and the seamstress called her manager. Now, Alicia from Alterations was on the scene, surveying the damage and discussing options. Because the alterations department apparently has no more authority than a family dog, guess who was called on the scene: Marina. Marina tells us she is not sure how to fix the blight on the dress. She says she has no idea if it can be cleaned without ruining the dress. Caroline and I are emphatic: we do not want the dress ruined. We explain calmly that the situation is a little complicated because the wedding is coming up quickly and Caroline lives in Texas. We asked about possible solutions. Marina kept saying that she can't give us the dress for free, which, incidentally, we weren't asking for. I used my feeling words: Marina, I feel really sad that my sister, my maid of honor, is going to have a spot on her dress for my only wedding. I told her I wasn't asking for a refund, I was asking for her to give a rat's ass and offer me some solutions. Might as well have asked for Vera Wang herself to appear and stitch a new set of dresses for everyone. My favorite part was where Marina blamed the whole situation on my sister: "If you had come here sooner, we would have found the spot and had time to find a solution." We thought that was a nice touch since it was her job to survey the dresses for any irregularities such as a big white spot as soon as they came in. Again, with the super creative and cutting edge customer service!

It devolved from there. Rapidly. Caroline and I implored both Alicia from Alterations and Marina to please just go ahead and alter the dress as it is and call us when it's done. We didn't think we had time to deal with getting another dress and having Caroline deal with alterations again. Caroline and I both said we would talk to Mr. Manager about how Macy's could compensate us for the (1) trouble and the (2) f*&^ed up maid of honor dress. In the meantime, we reiterated, just alter the dress and call me when it's done.

Guess what happened today! Marina called and said that the dress had been altered and then she sent it to the manufacturer, Watters & Watters, to get a new one for Caroline. Um, WHAT? I called her to find out what the plan was and it was like talking to that voice on the phone from the Charlie Brown cartoons. I stayed calm. I asked the relevant questions. I started with the basics:

Me: Marina, was the dress altered?

Marina: Yes.

Me: Ok, so the dress was altered, and my sister already paid $100.00 for those alterations, but then you send the dress back to get a new one from Watters & Watters?

Marina: Yes.

Me: Marina, when is my sister going to get the new and improved blight-free dress from the manufacturer?

Marina: In a few weeks.

Me: Ok, well, Marina, how will we handle alterations when Caroline lives in Texas, and moreover, has already paid for alterations on the dress you just sent back?

Marina: Well, you said you wanted perfect dress. You here practically crying about your sister's dress so I sent back to get perfect dress.

Me: I see. Why did you send it back after the alterations?

Marina: You said you want perfect dress.

Me: I am still confused about why you didn't call me as soon as it was altered as we requested? We also mentioned that little fact as my sister was giving her credit card to Alicia from Alterations, what about that?

Marina: You said you want perfect dress.

From there, I don't remember much because my head exploded and my brain matter went missing. Paint me pink and call me bridezilla but I am pretty sure there is something not quite right with the Macy's Bridal Salon approach. I haven't found much that was right, although I will say the ladies that picked up the phone this afternoon were really pleasant and professional. I am dismayed that Mr. Manager hasn't called me back either. I would just like to let him know that I will never ever step foot in Macy's again. NEVER. I will never recommend it, and if I ever run for President of anything, my platform will be comprised of anti-Macy's propaganda. I mean, Mr. Manager, I have a blog and friends who are engaged (Joanna) and those who will be soon (Trish) and to the extent that friends have any influence over friends it's a bad move to not at least pretend to care when something gets screwed up because I will spend 45 minutes of my next lunch with Joanna convincing her to register at William Sonoma or Bloomingdales. I will because I care about her. If anyone asks my advice for planning a wedding, I will say that she or he should go for smaller, locally owned businesses wherever feasible. (Get your dress at Wedding Belles!). I will say DO NOT register or get any part of your bridal ensemble at Macy's on State Street.

Yes, I am bitter and yes, I am hormonal and stressed, and the Fiber One isn't working properly, and my bra is too tight today. But I don't care. My friends and I deserve better treatment than what that team of scoundrals at Macy's dished out. I shouldn't have to point out how much money I was sending to Macy's-- it shouldn't matter how much I spend.

This experience makes me excited for the recession because maybe Macy's will have to shape up to win customers' hard-earned dollars. Not mine, not ever, but when I see the retail numbers tanking in the months to come, there will be a bright side in my mind. I hear the bridal industry is going to be hard hit. Good. I have a suggestion for a target.

FACEBOOK Strikes AGAIN

Wow. I mean, WOW. I can't believe I am about to blog about what I just learned from Facebook. But, hell, it's a happy, sunny October day and I am feeling that kind of dangerous.

I have a friend from law school who has a busy and full life-- as in, two small children and an almost-full-time law practice with a commute to and from the suburbs several times per week. Jane Doe, as we'll call her, has a hectic life and we're all headed in her direction as soon as we get our brood conceived and whatnot. Understandably, she is a little busy and hard to pin down when we all get together, but we cut her slack because it's hard to manage everything on our plates and if your friends can't give you some latitude, then who can?

Here's the funny part. When my sister sent out the invitation for my bachelorette party via e-vite, she was the first to RSVP that she would indeed join us for the hip hop fest. I was surprised at the speed in which she responded, but assumed I would see her. You know, in light of her RSVP that she was coming and all. So, the the night of the party, right before we struck up the O.P.P. and got jiggy and all, my other law school friend, Cindy, asked me if I had heard from Jane Doe, and we assumed when she never showed up that something must have come up. Sick kids, baby sitter woes, a serious second thought on dancing around a room to Beyonce with the Bridal Caboose.

Fastforward to Sunday. We got an announcement that our friend Allison had a healthy baby boy, so the emails were flying among the law school peeps. I saw an email to the group from Jane Doe and I just sent her a little note saying, essentially, "missed you at the bachelorette party. I hope all is well." She responded instantly saying, "I can't catch a break....the babysitter cancelled and my husband was out of town. We'll def see you at the wedding. When I realized I couldn't go, I changed my response on the e-vite." I literally didn't think twice about it from there. What the hell do I know about trying to get a Saturday night babysitter for two kids under the age of 6? Maybe I had a second or two of thinking about how strange it would be to log on to an email account and then scroll back to an evite sent 4 weeks prior to tell someone you are, after all, not coming to a party. Maybe I had a split moment when I thought to myself, "hmmm, she could have just emailed me or Cindy or Allison. We're all glued to our blackberries, so we would have gotten the message."

But, really that's all.

Then, Facebook, that fickle mistress changed the game. Last night I got a message from Jane Doe asking me to be her friend on Facebook. I confirmed she was my friend and spent a few minutes this morning looking at pictures of her very adorable children. But, then I scrolled down and saw an update she posted on October 4, the day of the bachelorette party. It said, "Jane Doe is going to dinner with old friends-- sitter and all."

Hmmmm. It's so weird to feel like you caught someone in a lie. Initially, I felt a rush of power, like I knew something about her that she probably didn't want me to know. It's like the power I feel for the three seconds I know gossip no one else does. The powerful feeling is fleeting, mostly because I am a big mouth and can't hold gossip of any kind more than 3 seconds. Then, I felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh-- a full on, head-cocked-back laugh that really came from deep in my belly. I assume that the feeling underneath that laughter is joy. But why joy? Why would I feel joy about finding out a friend from law school told a fib about her plans and bagged on the bachelorette party? What's so freaking happy about that?

Maybe there is joy because I feel a very deep sense of freedom that this little discovery lead me to realize consciously. I feel free because I don't really care. I don't care if Jane got a better offer or totally forgot and then lied to cover her tracks. It feels exhilerating not to care. The party came and went without her and I was surrounded by 15 dear, brave, and selfless women. I wanted for nothing that night-- except for maybe slightly more core strength and a touch more rhythym. I hope the same is true for Jane-- I hope she got what she needed and wanted that night. I looked up the restaurant where she ate that night according to Facebook: It was "ecclectic seafood in the French-American tradition." I don't exactly know what that means, except I assume it's somewhere between Long John Silvers and fancy pants scallopes and fruits de mer. Maybe she had the squab roasted with foie gras and spinach.

The point is: WHO CARES? In my younger days (like 6 months ago), I would feel all stirred up and hurt and wounded that someone "dissed" me or I would get worked up feeling betrayed by a lie. Now, I just think I am a clever, clever girl for following the clues like Daphne on Scooby Doo. The clever part is actually debatable because all I really am is a woman who was procrastinating at work by reading other people's Facebook walls while waiting for legal inspiration to strike.

To be clear, I am not a stranger to the lie-- sure, I tell them when I don't want to hurt someone's feelings or I don't want to face the truth of a situation-- like the fact that a friendship may have seen it's sunset a few years ago. So, I get it, I really do. What's new is that I have a sense of humor about it all. I think it's funny. It would be a transformative experience to bring this out in the open next time I talk to Jane. But, you know what, this isn't group therapy-- we certainly get plenty of that-- and the state of our frienship seems clear from this whole sequence of events. That's the other part of the freedom: I am free to let this go and not make an issue out of it. I can laugh about it to Jeff and Cindy and harbor some perhaps unwarranted moral superiority, even though I can imagine making similar choices in certain circumstances.

And being free to just laugh and move on is the greatest freedom in the world. I wouldn't trade that option for pointing out that I know the "truth" or demanding an explanation. I would rather be laughing and enjoying myself and learning the lesson: if I want to be close to other people, and some days I honestly do want that (however ambivalently), I have a choice about being honest about who I am, what I want, and what I choose. I am free to lie or evade or make up stories, but then no one will never know me, they will just collect an empty series of facts and will make up their own stories in their own heads without any true input from me.

No thanks.

I gotta say, Facebook is complicated, but I think I am falling madly in love with it.

Win Some; Some are Stolen

The presents are coming fast and furious over here. My goal is to get the thank-you notes out within 24 hours of gift receipt. So far so good. The trouble comes when someone sends a gift that comes in two parts in two different shipments on two different days. Then, I have a quandry. Because I had already sent the thank-you note for the first shipment of, say, wooden spoons, what do I do when the second shipments arrives 56 hours later with the placemats? Well, I have decided to just send two thank-you notes. I am pretty sure Jeff thinks I am nuts, but if you want a control freak to hold down a full-time job, get to the gym, and plan a wedding, then you are going to see some erratic behavior. If the worst I do is have a somewhat inefficient process around thank-you notes, I think there is a saying about counting your blessings that it's not pulling out my hair or buying vintage tiaras, though I still have 7 weeks to bulk up my tiara collection and was just perusing on-line....

The present situation lends itself to little gaffes and blunders. When we registered we decided to have them sent to my office so we wouldn't have to worry about packages being left on the door step of our new home in the charming, but up-and-coming neighborhood. Jeff did some registering on-line for items that he knew we needed, but I was unaware we needed considering many of the items were things I had never heard of. Today we got the "grinder" for our Kitchen-Aid mixer. If I had to say right now what the grinder was for I would only be able to come up with coffee beans, but I am pretty sure you aren't supposed to put coffee beans in the big red mixer. This makes it slightly more challenging to write a good thank-you note, when you had no idea the gift was coming and you don't know what it's for. Today's shipments inspired the following lines for me: "Dear F______________, thank you for the grinder attachment to the mixer. We love it and promise not to stick our limbs in it." It's honest and expresses gratitude, even it is a little inappropriate.

Further complicating matters is the fact that there was a serious security breach in my office last week. Yes, that was me standing on the 14th floor of my office building screaming, "it's [bad] enough to work here without my stuff being stolen." And that professional little plea was a reference to a darling J.Crew herringbone jacket (color: sweet potato; style: Fiona) that arrived here on Monday, but disappeared from my office by Wednesday morning. Said pilfered jacket still had all the tags on it and was in a see-through garment bag with J.Crew emblazoned all over it. In any case, it's gone. I hope whoever took it reads this blog, can see me sticking my tongue out at him or her and praying for a hex to be put on his or her fashion sense for the next 17 seasons, and enjoys my sweet potato all winter long. Actually, I hope someone who really needs a stylish and warm orange blazer took it from me and finds the winter a little less chilly and the wind a little less bitter as fall slips away from us. Anyway, this security breach has made me paranoid about leaving anything I care about in my office over night. If someone is going to take a ridiculous sweet potato-colored jacket, why not a Calphalon 5-quart pot? Why not a meat grinder apparatus? Why not my pictures of my newphew or my student loan bills? It's a mad, mad world. I don't pretend to understand.

My Husband-To-Be is a Mensch

This weekend the Bridled With Joy staff got many opportunities to connect with friends and support the people we love doing the things they love to do. One of the things I love most about Jeff is his loyalty and his ability to follow through. When he says he will help someone do something, he shows up 100%. This weekend was a microcosm of the way that Jeff generally lives his life-- looking out for others and offering support and guidance wherever he can.


Jeff with Krista B.B. working on student loan exit counseling. Jeff and Krista made their way through the government's website meant to illuminate student loan issues and options. I am proud to report that Krista and Jeff together took the quiz at the end and earned an impressive 100%.
Jeff holding up a sign at the Chicago Marathon (mile 14) for our cardiovascularly superior friends, Leon and Fran, who are married to one another, though they do not share a marathon pace. Jeff held that sign up over his head for about 20 minutes as we looked through the crowd for Fran. Incidentally, Jeff and I had a little teeny tiff about the sign this very morning. The tiff went something like this: The damn sign was my idea, but then I was just about to drop the ball on it, so Jeff picked up the ball and the first thing I said when he grabbed it could very understandably be construed as a criticism at worst and and unhelpful observation at best, so we had to discuss our respective concepts of "teamwork" and "communication" and "how best to paint a sign for the marathon" this morning. There is no doubt in either of our minds that the stress of being close to wedding day and all we have on our plates exacerbated the Sign Situation this morning.
Jeff and Dr. Fran running this rather hot morning during the Chicago marathon. Jeff has a fine form and made it about .2 miles. He reports feelings sore in his calves and in his arms from holding the infamous sign up for so long. Fran ran an awesome race and we are proud of her accomplishment. We are proud of Leon too, though I couldn't get the camera ready in time to catch him in action.
I insisted on getting more pictures of the sign as a symbol of our communication woes this morning. Jeff is a whiz with that big black marker that smells like toxic fumes. I do love the smell of that marker. I have to admit that Jeff was right: doing the sign was important because we told Leon and Fran we would have it and Jeff leads the way on follow through at our house.
Jeff is also good at grocery shopping and remembering what cleaning products we need in order to keep our house habitable. We haven't made the leap to environmentally friendly cleaning products, but it's on my list of things to do. We made the mistake of watching An Inconvenient Truth, and all it did was scare the bejesus out of me with regard to all things environmental. I was too freaked out to finish watching it, having just recovered from a steep, downward spiral regarding the economy. Maybe after the wedding I can become more educated on the manifold ways in which our planet is turning into a cess pool.
Yes, that's Jeff under the kitchen sink endeavoring to fix a leak that he discovered a few weeks ago. The resolution of this situation is still underway, though we have a new Kohler faucet that is going to make its way to our sink very soon. I am in awe of what Jeff can fix around the house. My M.O. is to remain oblivious until there is water knee-deep in the kitchen, though I can see the many virtues of stopping a leak under the sink before it becomes a flood.

Sea Change

I found this picture while Jeff and I were doing some wedding-related tasks on the world wide web tonight. It makes me laugh and cringe at its morbidity. I did a little research on the painting American Gothic, and it turns out it was, and still is, ambiguous whether the woman in the picture is the farmer's wife or his daughter. It's violent and appalling, but I am still drawn to this reinterpretation of the image. What can I say, we are 7.7 weeks out from the wedding.

My fascination with this picture is slightly ironic because there has been a shift in moods on the Bridal Caboose. The defining event of the weekend was meeting with Mindy and Lindsey, our new wedding coordinators (aren't those totally wedding coordinator names?). They are both low-key, attentive and seem competent on nuptial matters. They both took notes and asked the pertinent questions and exuded calm and confidence. When I got in the car with Jeff after our meeting with them, I felt for the first time, a sense that this wedding could be a seriously fun event. Not just for our guests, but even for me. It helped so much to just envision getting my claws off the process and turn it over to the people we are paying to coordinate the band, the food, the cake, the pictures. I let out little yelps of joy in the car on the way to dinner after the meeting. It's the best thing we have done for ourselves. It's like that final 10% that will be so critical in determining whether I have a good time the week of our wedding.

Other important tasks include measuring the taleysum (plural of "tallit"--the prayer shawl worn during Jewish services) to make the chuppah under which we will be married. Jeff collected a tallit from his brother, his father, and his grandfather, all of which, along with his own, will create a canopy that we will stand under when we say our vows and step on the glass.

We also finalized some details on the party favor we will give our guests. It's a bit of an artistic endeavor, so it may take some time to align our respective visions. I literally just learned about 17 minutes ago that Jeff has a design background. It was a funny conversation, because Jeff asked me if I knew about his design background as if he was asking me if I knew he had a secret mafia past. I thought he was kidding, but it turns out he built websites and did some very high level design projects during college. See, our relationship is full of surprises and "Gee, I never knew that" moments.

Judicial Greatness Presiding

Bridled With Joy is highly in favor of having a day off in the middle of the week to catch one's breath, lunch with friends, and order bridesmaids' gifts. Rejuvenated by the day off I took on Thursday, I approached life today with renewed vigor and stamina. The items on the "to do" list that sounded like items that would one day be very close to the actual wedding, have now been scheduled. Today alone, I scheduled the tasting at our venue, which will be on October 23, 2008. I also called our officiant, the Honorable Milton I. Shadur, Senior District Judge for the Northern District of Illinois, to schedule a time to sit down with him and discuss the particulars of the ceremony. Jeff and I have both drafted the vows we want to say to one another-- and yes, if you want to see me cry have Jeff read them to me again-- and now it's time to sit down with the man that will give the imprimatur of the State of Illinois to our blessed union.

Let us pause for a moment to reflect on the greatness that is Judge Shadur. I had the privilege of working as a judicial law clerk in his chambers during 2006-2007. That is the same period when Jeff and I started dating and also happens to be the point in time where I realized that I am really going to be a lawyer for the foreseeable future. I have never met a smarter man who has accomplished more in his life that Judge Shadur. At 80 plus years young, he still works every single day, including Saturdays. His mind is razor sharp and, even better than that, his heart still beats to its own liberal and compassionate drum. The year I worked for Judge Shadur was the most professionally satisfying and stimulating year of my life. I am overjoyed that he enthusiastically agreed to marry me and Jeff. When I went to his office to ask him officially, he told me he would have to sit down with both of us and find out about our relationship so he can preside over the ceremony with some intimate details about who we are. He also offered some practical advice when he told me, avuncularly, that I should be careful about incorporating red wine into the ceremony because "people get nervous and red wine spilling on a white dress would be unfortunate." He's the most prolific writer on the federal bench today, and my secret heart's desire is to follow in his footsteps. All I need is a photographic memory, a slightly stronger grasp of civil procedure law, and a quadrupuled work ethic.

If you would have told me back then that Judge Shadur would be marrying me and Jeff in November of 2008, I would have probably screamed in your ear and pushed you down an elevator shaft because I would have thought it would be too cruel to tease me like that. I would have felt bad about your injuries, especially that burst eardrum, only when it turned out to all be true!

Bride and Groom

People say Jeff and I look alike. I can't see it.

Bridal SURRENDER

The Bridled with Joy staff is tired. Down to the bone tired. Maybe it was that 3:30 a.m. wake-up call yesterday for my day trip to Denver. Since when is it proper to do a day trip for a location 2 states and 1 timezone away? Who the hell invented the Age of Jet Travel? I'd like to give her a piece of my mind. Luckily, I made it back from my day trip to the Rocky Mountains by 9:30 last night, just in time to see some good old American debating. Didn't help my mood one bit to see the posturing and bickering between you-know-who and the ELDER you-know-who. I f*$&ing hate politics and what I perceive as the LIES LIES LIES. All of them, every single one. And this country has a serious fetish with What's Her Name with the Bangs and the Illegitimate Grandchildren. I will NEVER EVER read Newsweek again. I was almost done when it did its insulting sexist cover asking the question "What Women Want" with the lipstick on the cover. You would never see a cover that said "What Men Want," because the idea that men are homogenous or may all want one thing is absurd. But women, well, women are all alike so it makes sense to pose a question about what 50% of the population wants. It's so absurd and essentializing that I want to scream. Then, she's on the cover again this week. So much for that liberal media we are always hearing about.

Seems like the Bridled with Joy staff may be a in a bad mood!

This fatigue and growing neurosis has been put to good use on the wedding planning front, however. I've channeled this temporary mental illness into A-C-T-I-O-N. Yes, we are meeting with a wedding coordinator on Friday night. I am so excited I may spontaneously do a round-off flip flop down the hall at work. Next to finding Jeff, I think finding Pink Tie Wedding Planners is the next best thing to this wedding. I don't care if Mindy Shafer, our prospective coordinator, is the most incompetent woman on the planet, if she will show up for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding and allow me to project all of my misery and control and personality defects onto her, it will be the best money I have ever spent. Seriously. If I had to choose between getting my make up done and my hair done or having Mindy keep the Caboose on the tracks, bring on the do-it-yourself foam rollers and the L'Oreal mascara. I need help and I am woman enough to admit it. And, I am employed enough to pay for it.

Wanna see me cry? Ask me how we are handling walking down the aisle for the wedding. Go ahead. Ask me and watch my face contort and my eyes well up. Ask me how I feel about being true to myself and my Beloved's vision of our wedding as a partnership between two people who found each other and together made a decision to plan the rest of our lives together happily (as long as we have two sinks in the bathroom, that is) and start a family and join our bank accounts and make all future Big Life Decisions together. When Jeff and I got engaged-- which we did by proposing to each other and asking one another for a hand in marriage-- I asked him that night if there was any aspect of the wedding that was truly important to him. I remember him saying that he wanted us to walk down the aisle together. Both directions.

And it seems so fitting. For Jeff and me, who want our wedding to be a true expression of our values and beliefs and vision for ourselves, it is perfect that we would do it together. All the big parts of life, including the wedding ceremony, we want to do together. Maybe he won't be at the my pre-wedding waxing, which will be a big deal for reasons I will not recount here and now, but the aisle portions, we are doing together.

But, here's the part where I cry: What about my dad? What about that iconic moment when you are supposed to be walking with your dad and looking at your husband-to-be while you try not to trip? What about that? I plan to only have one big fat wedding, so the stakes seems sort of high. As a feminist I never loved the idea of one man handing me over to another one, even if I love them both. Chattel I am not. I don't want to be some passive baton passing between the first man whose name I share to the second one who will reconfigure all of my monograms. It's impossible for me to see that short walk-- and in our venue it's actually very, very short-- as uncomplicated because there are layers of history and fantasy and culture and "shoulds" that are clamoring louder and louder for my undivided attention. These days I just don't do undivided attention.

Wanna see me cry harder? Ask me what I want. Wow, get out the Puffs. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I want to be able to make decisions outside of feeling lots of pressure. I can't think of how to get out from under the pressure without telling myself I get to do this as many times as I want. Well, that thought is NOT consoling because this has been stressful, consuming and expensive. I want to be able to be close to my dad and honor all the ways in which he has shaped me through his life, his love, his sense of humor and his recovery. I want to be able to honor my relationship with Jeff at the same time in a way where we are not enslaved by all the conventions and mirages of history and tradition. I want to acknoweldge the past and move towards my future by being present. I want to feel sure, way deep down in my tired and frazzled old bones, that no matter what I do, I will be Beloved and honored and celebrated with the people who love me. I want be free of the small, tryannical voice in my head that is telling me that I have to do what other people want me to do or I will be kicked out of the club of people who are loveable. I want to stop taking everyone else's temperature and reading everyone else's mind before I honestly say or admit what I want. I want to be more in touch with Christie and less in touch with my fantasties and projections about what other people-- people I really love-- want. I want to lean into this. I want to be the Bride. I want a little more Bride and a little less zilla in my heart. I want to breathe.

My friend Robert says that I will be a miserable wreck no matter what happens. Strangely, I took so much comfort in that. I felt like that somewhat dreary (and likely correct) prediction lifted me right up off the hook I hoisted myself on years ago. I can see that I have set this up as either I let my dad down or I let Jeff down. I can't win that race. It's my specialty to set a race that is impossible to win.

So, here's me, tired and waving the white flag of surrender. I told Jro today that I suck at being a bride. I told Jeff last night that I suck at being a bride. Both of them sort of did that infuriating shrug of the shoulders and the looking at me as if my angst is sort of cute and endearing. Is that supposed to make me feel better? I am not sure, but I can report with veracity that it doesn't. Then, again, I am not sure what would. So, til then, I'll take my flag and wave it as proudly as I can.