I Wish EVERY Day Could Be Princess Day

So I am going to cheat today, and just post some more pictures. Because I am still reeling from the weekend, my throat is still sore, and I still can’t feel two of my toes.

And I’d do it again, it was awesome.

Angela, since you asked, here’s the closest thing I have to a full-length dress picture, hopefully there'll be more to come:



(Also goes to prove, if you pay enough people enough money, anyone can look like a princess! New motivation to seek my fortune… lotto counter, here I come!)

LilyCurly, here’s what the lights and fake flowers that hung down from the ceiling looked like close up:



Kind of creating this effect in the evening:



Also, did I mention we had a floating couch at our wedding? Because we so did, and it so rocked. Mostly because it was filled with champagne, spanikopita, and a tux-ed up Funasaurus.

That's MRS. Funasaurus to You!

Hello, there! Sorry for the delay, I know I've been absent, again. But I went and got m'self hitched and was just a little distracted! It went amazingly well, I actually got to be a princess for a weekend and I ate up every second of it with a silver spoon.

The ceremony went really well, despite forcing all of my guests to sit through a little fall rain shower (read: torrential downpour) as I sat in my cozy little cabin, waiting for it to stop so that it wouldn't mess up my pretty updo. At one point the pastor came back and asked if perhaps it was time to move things inside, what with the thunderhead clouds rolling in, and I tried to look as serious as I possibly could as I pretended to ponder the decision before saying, “I think we should stay outside. I've always wanted an outdoor wedding.”

And that's the story of how I got my dream wedding and made all my friends hate me all at the same time.

We started off the morning at 7:00 AM at the salon (whoo hooo, my bridesmaids already hated me even before I made them go stand outside in the rain!) but we got the champagne flowing, so it softened the blow.




The Funasaurus and I had an amazing time, circulating, drinking, dancing, and eating The Most Amazing Cake Ever.




If I haven't already explained, The Funasaurus proposed by hiding my ring inside a copy of Pride & Prejudice. Only the most awesomest love story ever. And somehow we found a baker who was just open-minded enough (and talented!) to recreate the moment in a cake.



Blow me, Carol Wilkens and anyone else who said my desserts weren't good enough to trade for in 2nd grade. You're sorry you didn't stay in touch now, aren't ya?

Photos courtesy of the lovely Mrs. Shooting Star, who not only doesn't hate me, but bought me and the bridesmaids bagels on the morning of the wedding. Many kisses to you!

The day was a success. I can't believe it's over, after all that planning. But thanks to everyone for their support, and Meno, here is our most bizarre wedding gift to date, that I thought you would appreciate as my cyber maid-of-honor.



(It's a dragon rain-gutter-attachment-thing-y. Because my mom's friend was high when she went shopping for us. [Seriously.] And because nothing says, "Romance" like a ceremic reptile enema. Not that I'm complaining. It's awesome.)

Ahoy, Landlovers. I Be Crazy Busy.

GAH! I know I have been delinquent in posting, but things are getting rather hectic around here. Starting with the fact that I am vaguely sick with something mysterious and large amounts of AirBorne and chicken soup are keeping it at bay but not getting rid of it, completely. It probably didn't help that I spent Saturday night on a ghet-to party bus going from club to club for a bachelorette party. (Not mine, someone else's.)

This bus. Oh y'all. You cannot even imagine, but it was GHET-TO! We started out the evening classily enough, with some jungle juice and a penis pinata in someone's backyard. But then things went downhill. The bus arrived. And it was basically a run-down city bus. Except the seats had been reupholstered (sometime circa 1974) in BROWN CORDUROY and had not been cleaned since, thus forcing you to choose between the seats with crusty stains and seats that had significant holes and forced you to sit upon a spring.

I went for the spring up the butt. If you had seen the stains, I don't doubt you would have made the same decision.

The party bus also had some of those revolving colored light things, except one side was missing, so instead of creating a continual effect, a twirling red, yellow, and blue pattern kind of search lighted its way around the bus.

Plus, the floor was sticky.

Plus, the driver was this very large dude sporting a mountain man beard and OVERALLS. The kind that makes it look like you just came back from baling hay. Who the heck wears farmer overalls? Especially to drive a party bus? He was fairly surly, too, and I was pretty sure he'd don a hockey mask at some point and slaughter us all out in a corn field before the night was over, because that was the exact look he seemed to be going for.

So that was Saturday. Sunday we ran errands, Monday my French friend got into town, and after a few laps around DIA I retrieved her (how the hell did society ever function before cell phones????) and yesterday I worked while The Funasaurus took her shopping and to the movies. Then I died of jealousy and bailed on work to go join her at the mall. Because no one should have to shop alone, I thought, selflessly.

Yar. It be National Talk Like a Pirate Day.

My new favorite joke, stolen from E:

Q: What kind of socks do pirates wear?

A: Arrrrrrr-gyle.

Heh.

Gifts Worthy of Royalty. AKA Me.

A little note from your neighborhood vaguely-green-minded-when-it's-convenient-Princess....

If you are invited to a wedding and generous enough to go out and get a gift for the couple, perhaps from their registery, please think twice about having it shipped to them. Yes, it's convenient for you (hey you can even do it from your computer while eating Cheetos before getting dressed in the morning... hypothetically speaking) and it's convenient for the couple because it arrives at their home and they can open it whenever they so choose. But you must know that stores with names that sound kind of like, I don't know, Grate & Carol, or Head, Half, & Heeyond, hate the Earth.

They will wrap your gift in crazy crumbly wrapping material that is rather like paper but with a weird, plastic-y wax-y finish that makes you think it's not really recycleable and use enough of that stuff to wrap a beluga whale three times over for, oh, two wine glasses.

However, not to sound like an ingrate, (because I am not! I love gifts very much! Thank you to anyone who has ever gotten me a gift, ever! Lots of kisses to you!) we have been delighted by the small trickle of boxes that have come in over the past couple of weeks. What I find funny is that we now have the complete collection of red, white, AND champagne glasses that we registered for and exactly ZERO of the knives, forks, and spoons that we had also put on our registry. Apparently my alcoholic tendencies are a little more, erm, well-known than I had realized.

But. GREAT! Now y'all don't have to drink Chateau-Neuf out of coffee mugs, anymore, when you come to visit me. (Because yeah, I serve Chateau-Neuf all the time.)

You will still have to eat the mashed potatoes with your fingers, though. Sorry.

This weekend will be full of joyful activities such as cleaning. And creating space for aforementioned new army of stemware. And paying vendors more money, because apparently our accounts are not sufficiently drained. And borrowing baby stuff because somewhere in my giddy, oh-I-just-got-engaged-life-is-wonderful-perhaps-I-will-even-feel-maternal-one-day state, I somehow managed to offer our only guest room to my friend who is bringing her six month old baby to stay with us for a week. From France. Because I must have been high when I thought a six month olds adjust to an eight hour time change gracefully.

So, wish me luck. And at the very least, I shall be able to drink quite a lot of wine before having to ever do a load of dishes. Life really could be a lot worse.

Sappy Stories About Home

Last night The Funasaurus and walked through a model house. Because that is what we do for fun. Because we are fly like that.

It was a very pretty house, and sent my mind all a-twirlin' with thoughts of columns! And built in bookshelves! And pretty cabinets! And somehow, between fantasies of cherry hard wood floors and shower big enough to have an orgy in (complete with seating!) somehow I was able to ignore facts like: The Funasaurus is between jobs. I am going back to school to further plunge us into debt. We are about to have a wedding, which has already sent us down the debt spiral.

But why should I worry about those little details when there are nickel-brushed faucet heads to be had?

I have always fantasized about my dream house, and it has changed over the years (read: no longer PINK!) but overall there are some consistent features. Warm colors, lots of wood, a place for a huge-ass Christmas tree, comfy furniture, a closet the size of our current house, an attached garage, and secret passageways. Oh, and goats in the back yard.

Is that really so much to ask?

The house we saw yesterday had the potential for some of those things (though the goat would have to be ridiculously small and not very hungry with the 4 square feet of yard we'd get) and I deigned to get my hopes up.

My brother and I were raised in an amazing house, and I still see it just about nightly in my dreams. I've always kind of wanted to have a house like that, although with today's market and my distinct lack of a winning lottery ticket, that is a pretty far-off dream. But it was the kind of house that felt magical, built by an architect and his crazy botanist wife who deep-root-fertilized the heck out of all the trees on the property to the point where one of the “ornamental” dogwoods had grown so large we could climb it as high as our roofline, and a weeping cherry tree (nicknamed for me because of the PINK flowers that tended to bloom around my birthday) was actually larger than the entire house. No exaggeration. It was enormous. I remember crying desperately when it was pruned because I thought it had gotten a haircut, and I revered long hair more than just about anything else on this planet.

I have always been rather... girly.

We didn't have goats, but we did have an orchard that would attract deer, including baby fawns with spots, and there were tons of wild rabbits that I adored, I think because their ears reminded me of long hair (do you see a theme?) and which I could admire much more closely once my cat had killed them and brought them to a door as a trophy. The blood was a bit off-putting, but they'd never stand still long enough for me to touch them when they were alive, a la Sleeping Beauty, which is always how I saw it going in my head.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this tangent. Just reminiscing. But I think most people have a tendency to have some really special memories from their childhood home. Does anyone else have these kinds of stories?

Seasons of Love

So life is fairly much back on track, a little bleach taking care of the towels (that does not mean you should stop protecting your groin from my steel toed boot, Funasaurus friend. It's the principle of the thing.) and The Funasaurus generously gave up a couple of precious PlayStation hours to take my clattering car up to the mechanic's to see what the damage was.

I am still trying to work, though it is hard because I am continuing to obsess over manicure appointments and centerpiece logistics.

What have I become?

The weather has shifted, (although I hear it was just a cold front, and we are due for some nice 80s later this week) and so I turned on the heating pad, yesterday. Neither cat showed any interest at all. Tatum was busy obsessing over his mouse, what with our morning routine being purely a game of not squashing Tatum who insists on wrapping himself around our ankles squealing in anguish a meow that is as close to “meooooouse!” as possible. (The “s” is apparently tricky, in feline speak.) So I picked him up, and OH NO MUTHAFUCKA he was having NONE OF THAT, and all ten claws and 70 million little teeth were bared in a PUT-ME-DOWN-LEST-SOMEONE-HAPPEN-TO-BE-HEADED-DOWNSTAIRS-RIGHT-THIS-VERY-SECOND-TO-GET-ME-A-FAUX-MOUSE-BEEE-YATCH!

And then I set him on the heating pad, and it was like his little butt had a magnet in it. The crying stopped, the bared teeth were put away as his mighty kitty derrière swung down for full heating pad contact.

He may have had a little kitty orgasm, I'm not sure.

Sugar continues to be pissed at us all, and so our fall has begun.

Hello, Autumn! When Did You Get Here?

Sorry I wasn't around much last week. Wedding planning is slowly sucking out my soul. Fortunately, it's a it's a sparkly, flowers and tiara-laden soul-sucking, thus making it slightly more bearable.

I would have written something over the weekend, but it was my bachelorette party, so... I wasn't really sober enough to type. Plus, I was up in the mountains, drinking pink champagne and sitting in a hot tub and watching chick flicks, so I was a soggy, sappy mess, as well. And in one of the few moments of sobriety (10:00 AM, post Starbucks run, pre-liquor store run) I decided we should go on a little hike and be healthy and get some fresh mountain air and whatnot, so I drove my car up to this trail head and went over a tiny (crater-sized) pothole and bottomed out quite badly and then there was a horrible cracking sound a couple moments later and then it sounded like I was driving a hot rod. I got out and concluded that I had indeed crumpled my muffler to the point that the large metal can had a hole TORN INTO IT, and so, you know, not good. Of course, there aren't too many mechanics open on a Sunday morning in the mountains, so I got to drive my screaming Honda Civic back down to Denver, where I pried the keys out of a moaning Funasaurus' hand (he also had his bachelor party this weekend, and was curled up in the fetal position on the couch when I got home) and exchanged them for his nice, not-so-noisey car and went to a bridal shower for another friend.

When I got home, The Funasaurus had managed to order himself some Pizza Hut, so we cuddled and watched Terminator 3 and compared stories. The Funasaurus had a quite excellent time playing volleyball all day with a bunch of stinky boys, and then they showered and went out to sing karaoke, (as you may remember, a favorite pastime of The Funasaurus) whereupon they bequeathed him prettty much the awesomest shirt ever. I don't have a picture, but it is not hard to explain. You just have to know that The Funasaurus loves Journey with unbridled passion.

On the front it says, “Steve Perry is my hero.”

On the back it says, “Don't stop believin'”

awesome.

So anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with his whole bachelor party, right until I took my little germ-a-phobe self upstairs to get ready for bed. Whereupon I had a little breakdown upon entering the bathroom.

Whichever of you fuckheads decided that it would be a good idea to wiped your grass-stained stinky man feet on my NEW WHITE TOWELS FROM MY BRIDAL SHOWER THAT HAVE CUTE LITTLE KITTY FACES EMBROIDERED IN THE CORNER should feel warned that you will die a horrid and misery-filled death as soon as I find out who you are.

Also, thanks for not rinsing out MY SHOWER with all the dirt you somehow still had on you, despite the vast quantities tracked in over my bedroom carpet.

There's an extra special hell just waiting for you. Just FYI.

...

And me and my Lysol wipes will be waiting for you there.

Otherwise, great weekend! Now it's back to running and switching the air from air conditioning to the heater because suddenly the 90 degree days are gone and Sugar was a bit shivery this morning when the household temperature crept under her comfort threshold of 71.

Happy fall!

Weddings and Assholes

My friend Shooting Star's wedding was this past weekend, and while she was a gorgeous bride, and the wedding went perfectly, there is some danger in attending weddings so close to your own. You end up thinking crazy thoughts like, “Dammit, why didn't WE think of having a watermelon carved to look like a bouquet of flowers? I wonder if there's time to find a local... fruit sculptor?”



Fortunately, Shooting Star and I have spent the last, oh, FIFTEEN months going over most of our Very Important Details meticulously. So while the watermelon bouquet threw me for a bit of a loop, the fabulous favors did not. In fact, I sat there sniffing smugly, thinking, “Ha HA, I am totally copying her on this fantastic idea.”

Seeing as how the only duplicate guests we will have will be us (me and The Funasaurus) and Shooting Star and her new husband (husband!) we figured it'll be o.k. Plus, we went with different... scents. So it's not totally the same. Sheesh.

Meanwhile, today is The Funasaurus' first glorious day of freedom, aka total bliss, aka transitional time-off between jobs. With visions of total slovenliness dancing through his head, he spent the weekend playing volleyball, watching football, playing video games, and going to his fantasy football draft and not showering once. His life is good.

And like the good little wife-to-be, what did I do on his first delicious morning of nothing to do? I woke him up at the butt crack of dawn to go running with me, is what I did! Because I'm an asshole. A lonely, I-don't-like-to-run-alone asshole.

Then I got in the shower, and The Funasaurus decided to run to Target to get the new season of The Office on DVD, because he's pretty sure that's the best way to spend his first day off. While there, he picked up a box of my beloved Uncrustables, because he noticed I was out and was not going to have any for my lunch today.

I am the most undeserving asshole, EVER.