Wedding Barbie - perfect synthetic hair. perfect painted on makeup. perfect smooth plastic skin. PERFECT barbie white wedding dress.
Cinderella - Gorgeous shimmering ball gown
Little Mermaid - a bit eighties with the huge shoulder poofs but hey, that was her style and that made it her perfect dress
Snow White - I don't think I ever saw her in a wedding dress. She probably eloped - smart girl
Anyway, the list can go on and on. Little girls grow up dreaming about their wedding day and it is always magical, stress free, and, let's be honest, simple. There were no wedding planning woes and there was definitely no sleep lost over picking the perfect dress. It wouldn't be the first time but girls, we have been LIED to. Wedding planning is not magical and it is definitely not simple. There are budgets to deal with, vendors to choose, dates to juggle, and the worst part: if you are a jeans and sweatshirt wearing casual attire bride like me, wedding dress shopping proves to be more of a stressful challenge than you could have ever imagined.
I knew that it would be difficult planning a wedding when none of the key players lived in the same area. I thought the difficulty would be due to my fiance living in WA but, after reading a groom's guide that my mother bought for him, he is the most easy going piece in this puzzle.
No, by far the hardest part of the wedding planning process is proving to be picking the perfect wedding dress. Heck, let's throw out the word perfect. I am not sure such a thing exists. I have tried on a multitude of gorgeous gowns and feel like a princess in all of them but still, I have not been able to settle on a single gown that I want to walk down the aisle in. Who knew that I would have to take venue into consideration?
Anyone who knows me, understands that I would be completely unable to pick out the perfect dress on my own. If I were left to my own devices I would end up being one of those brides who people quietly ask each other "who let her walk out looking like that, didn't her friends tell her she looks awful?" No, it is crucial that my mom be there (as she is making the dress) and I have the support of friends confirming that the dress I pick does not look like a burlap sack on my rectangular body. This means that dress shopping is an expensive and time consuming experience. I have to take time off work and school to fly to L.A. so that my mom can be there. Or she has to take time off work to fly to San Francisco. We have made the trips twice and still, no dress. Third time has to be the charm. I fly down on Labor Day Weekend for our final wedding dress venture.
To be honest, I thought I had found the "perfect" dress. I saw in on a television show and fell in love. I immediately grabbed my laptop and when searching for this gown that had a little bit of elegance but a fun flirty flare. When I found it, I could envision what it would look like on my wedding day but then I hit the inevitable snag. I sadly realized that it would not look right because of the shoes I would have to wear due to our ceremony taking place on grass would not go with the gown. You may be asking what do shoes have to do with it but, trust me, they played a significant role in why this dress looked amazing.
Then there was the dress that I thought we had agreed upon only to run into a snag of not being able to find it anywhere as it was a year old design.
DO I want to feel sexy or do I want to feel flirty? Is the feeling more elegant or casual? Strapless or spaghetti straps? The questions go on and on and when you don't have clear answers, the stress lines grow deeper.
No wonder Mike is loving the "groom's guide" advice that says "sit back, show up, and look pretty." Sounds pretty good to me right now.
Mom, in advance, I apologize for any additional stress I may cause you in this process. It is definitely going to be a crazy ride.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Organic chemistry
Specify which atoms, if any, bear a formal charge in the Lewis structure given and thblah blah blah . . .
It isn't my fault that my attention span is that of a goldfish. I have been sitting in Barnes and Noble for the past three hours and I have to pat myself on the back for being able to concentrate this long. I should admit that the credit is not entirely mine but must be shared with the makers of Monster Energy. Of course it is the zero calories, zero sugar version. My brain may need the boost but my waistline does not need to suffer for it. I have been out of the gym the past two days and before that I have only been a total of three times this week after a three week hiatus that I am obviously going to blame on my fiance's return home from deployment. Who would expect me to stay on schedule when I finally had an excuse to cook those delicious albeit fattening meals that I would never have spent the time on when it was a table for one lonely nightmare.
It is utterly depressing to cook for one's self. Well, depressing may not be the right word. In all honesty, depression had nothing to do with it; laziness was definitely the culprit. Every weekend I had these ideas of grandeur each time I went to my favorite produce market. I still can't believe that I could walk out with two bags of delicious fruits and vegetables for less than ten dollars. Try doing that at Safeway in Oak Harbor. Forget it. You would be lucky to walk out with enough fixings for a single serving salad for that price.
I would walk up and down the aisles marveling at the signs in front of each bin, absolutely in awe that the numbers were to the right of the decimal point rather than the left. 0.45 per pound of Roma tomatoes. They MUST have written that wrong. The spelling of tomatoes was a bit off -- tomatose -- so the price must be an honest mistake as well. $4.50 per pound was a bit high but Safeway had them ON SALE for $3.50/lb so who knows, maybe Romas are considered a delicacy around here. Continuing down the aisle I saw onions for 0.30/lb and pineapples were 0.83 each. Was it really possible that every price could be wrong? Not really but neither was it probable that everything was this inexpensive. Maybe, as it was an Asian owned store and I was the only pale white girl around, that the currency was not in American dollars. That must have been it. Not knowing what the conversion was as I had no idea the currency that these numbers reflected, I picked up the bare minimum-- a bell pepper, one bunch of spinach, a single tomato, a few loose carrots, a red onion and a cucumber-- and headed to the register.
Standing in line I took note of the wall behind the cashier covered in different pieces of currency. Many I recognized from the ports I visited on deployment and just as many proved unfamiliar. That's it, I was right. The currency on the signs was definitely not the dollar. Now the problem became whether or not they would accept my credit card for payment. I could not remember if there was a Visa or Mastercard sign in the window when I walked in. I definitely did not have baht or euros in my wallet.
Finally reaching the front of the line, the very warm woman standing behind the counter signaled to a paper or plastic bag and mumbled some words that were not clear to me. I pointed to plastic and watched as she scanned my items. The final total rang to around 2.75. Uncertain as to how much that converted to, I showed the woman my credit card. She then turned and pointed at a sign that said minimum credit card purchase $5.00. That was clearly written in English with an American dollar sign. Shocked, I looked at the woman and asked "my total is two dollars and seventy-five cents? Are you sure about that?" She looked confused and so I turned to the gentleman working the register behind me and asked him, hoping that he would understand me. To my amazement, and his annoyance as he was helping another customer, he confirmed that my total was indeed $2.75 and went back to work. I opened my wallet and handed the woman a five dollar bill and tried to pick my jaw up off the floor. I had died and gone to produce heaven.
No longer would I have to wait for the Albertson's 10 for 10 sales and then settle for items I didn't really want in the first place but refused to spend a fortune on what I did crave. Frozen vegetables were a thing of the past and I didn't have to take a loan out if I wanted to make myself a real summer chef salad instead of one that consisted of a few lettuce leafs, a handful of spinach, a few slivers of tomato and maybe a few cucumber slices if I was feeling generous. No, I had died and gone to rabbit heaven. I was Benjamin bunny sneaking into the lettuce patch and savoring the deliciousness of crisp summer greens and when I went home I would have a refrigerator filled with colorful specimens that would scream eat me, eat all of me in one sitting guilt free.
After paying for my bare minimum, I immediately grabbed a cart and filled it with yams, herbs, English cucumbers, yellow AND orange bell peppers, red potatoes, nectarines and the list goes on. Who needs a candy store when I have the produce market.
I returned home and put everything away, neatly in rows, organized by purpose in my 1960's apartment refrigerator. Thrilled, I closed the door and opened it again enjoying the way all the pretty colors went together. At this point I had all of the ingredients and I had the recipes, I even had the time, but when I stepped back from the refrigerator and looked at the stove and the cabinets that contained my cookware, it was amazing the way the motivation and adrenaline vanished from my body. I had no problem shopping for everything. I could easily spend hours searching for the perfect recipe but when it came time to actually prep, cook, eat and clean, I was left feeling a bit languid. So I grabbed the pint of fat-free cottage cheese that I had purchased on sale from Safeway, my box of crackers I had picked up from Costco and went straight to the couch.
So, here I am sitting in Barnes and Noble having just spent a half hour writing about delicious food and my inability to do anything with it, and I am reminded of why I originally started writing this post. The woman sitting across from me has caught my attention.
She walked into Starbucks -- located within the store where I have made my study area -- sat down at the table next to me and went about her business without peaking my interest. Who knows how long she has been there. However, a few moments ago, she stood up just as I looked up from my book and walked past my table to the register. I noticed that she adorned form fitting yoga pants, and a pair of moderately worn running shoes. As the woman was a bit husky, I silently applauded her apparent use of the gym or independent cardio workouts. If she took the effort to go out and try and get into shape, I should not bask in the glory of my current couch potato weekend state. Tomorrow is definitely another gym day and as I continued to punish myself for not doing more these past two days, I turned to go back to work and was immediately struck with a sense of irony. There, on the woman's table was a brand new pint of Half Baked Ben and Jerry's ice cream; her spoon teetering on the edge while melted drop of chocolate ice cream slowly dribbled its way to the table.
At first my anger festered due to the apparent lack of respect for the delicious ice cream that was now wasted in the beginning of a melted puddle on the laminated table top. But then, as the woman walked back to her seat with a hot panini, cheddar cheese oozing from the crisped crusts, I scoffed at myself. Here I was, feeling guilty over my chocolate muffin breakfast and carb filled red pepper pasta lunch and this woman had no reservations about the lunch she was just about to devour. While amazed at the paradoxical scene created by her attire and menu choices, I was annoyed at my inability to have a blithe indifference toward such things. But then it happened, my world was set straight. I saw the titles of the books the woman had just purchased: Women's Health Perfect Body Diet and 25 Natural Ways to Lower Blood Pressure.
. . . given and the net charge of each species. a) :N-N:
It isn't my fault that my attention span is that of a goldfish. I have been sitting in Barnes and Noble for the past three hours and I have to pat myself on the back for being able to concentrate this long. I should admit that the credit is not entirely mine but must be shared with the makers of Monster Energy. Of course it is the zero calories, zero sugar version. My brain may need the boost but my waistline does not need to suffer for it. I have been out of the gym the past two days and before that I have only been a total of three times this week after a three week hiatus that I am obviously going to blame on my fiance's return home from deployment. Who would expect me to stay on schedule when I finally had an excuse to cook those delicious albeit fattening meals that I would never have spent the time on when it was a table for one lonely nightmare.
It is utterly depressing to cook for one's self. Well, depressing may not be the right word. In all honesty, depression had nothing to do with it; laziness was definitely the culprit. Every weekend I had these ideas of grandeur each time I went to my favorite produce market. I still can't believe that I could walk out with two bags of delicious fruits and vegetables for less than ten dollars. Try doing that at Safeway in Oak Harbor. Forget it. You would be lucky to walk out with enough fixings for a single serving salad for that price.
I would walk up and down the aisles marveling at the signs in front of each bin, absolutely in awe that the numbers were to the right of the decimal point rather than the left. 0.45 per pound of Roma tomatoes. They MUST have written that wrong. The spelling of tomatoes was a bit off -- tomatose -- so the price must be an honest mistake as well. $4.50 per pound was a bit high but Safeway had them ON SALE for $3.50/lb so who knows, maybe Romas are considered a delicacy around here. Continuing down the aisle I saw onions for 0.30/lb and pineapples were 0.83 each. Was it really possible that every price could be wrong? Not really but neither was it probable that everything was this inexpensive. Maybe, as it was an Asian owned store and I was the only pale white girl around, that the currency was not in American dollars. That must have been it. Not knowing what the conversion was as I had no idea the currency that these numbers reflected, I picked up the bare minimum-- a bell pepper, one bunch of spinach, a single tomato, a few loose carrots, a red onion and a cucumber-- and headed to the register.
Standing in line I took note of the wall behind the cashier covered in different pieces of currency. Many I recognized from the ports I visited on deployment and just as many proved unfamiliar. That's it, I was right. The currency on the signs was definitely not the dollar. Now the problem became whether or not they would accept my credit card for payment. I could not remember if there was a Visa or Mastercard sign in the window when I walked in. I definitely did not have baht or euros in my wallet.
Finally reaching the front of the line, the very warm woman standing behind the counter signaled to a paper or plastic bag and mumbled some words that were not clear to me. I pointed to plastic and watched as she scanned my items. The final total rang to around 2.75. Uncertain as to how much that converted to, I showed the woman my credit card. She then turned and pointed at a sign that said minimum credit card purchase $5.00. That was clearly written in English with an American dollar sign. Shocked, I looked at the woman and asked "my total is two dollars and seventy-five cents? Are you sure about that?" She looked confused and so I turned to the gentleman working the register behind me and asked him, hoping that he would understand me. To my amazement, and his annoyance as he was helping another customer, he confirmed that my total was indeed $2.75 and went back to work. I opened my wallet and handed the woman a five dollar bill and tried to pick my jaw up off the floor. I had died and gone to produce heaven.
No longer would I have to wait for the Albertson's 10 for 10 sales and then settle for items I didn't really want in the first place but refused to spend a fortune on what I did crave. Frozen vegetables were a thing of the past and I didn't have to take a loan out if I wanted to make myself a real summer chef salad instead of one that consisted of a few lettuce leafs, a handful of spinach, a few slivers of tomato and maybe a few cucumber slices if I was feeling generous. No, I had died and gone to rabbit heaven. I was Benjamin bunny sneaking into the lettuce patch and savoring the deliciousness of crisp summer greens and when I went home I would have a refrigerator filled with colorful specimens that would scream eat me, eat all of me in one sitting guilt free.
After paying for my bare minimum, I immediately grabbed a cart and filled it with yams, herbs, English cucumbers, yellow AND orange bell peppers, red potatoes, nectarines and the list goes on. Who needs a candy store when I have the produce market.
I returned home and put everything away, neatly in rows, organized by purpose in my 1960's apartment refrigerator. Thrilled, I closed the door and opened it again enjoying the way all the pretty colors went together. At this point I had all of the ingredients and I had the recipes, I even had the time, but when I stepped back from the refrigerator and looked at the stove and the cabinets that contained my cookware, it was amazing the way the motivation and adrenaline vanished from my body. I had no problem shopping for everything. I could easily spend hours searching for the perfect recipe but when it came time to actually prep, cook, eat and clean, I was left feeling a bit languid. So I grabbed the pint of fat-free cottage cheese that I had purchased on sale from Safeway, my box of crackers I had picked up from Costco and went straight to the couch.
So, here I am sitting in Barnes and Noble having just spent a half hour writing about delicious food and my inability to do anything with it, and I am reminded of why I originally started writing this post. The woman sitting across from me has caught my attention.
She walked into Starbucks -- located within the store where I have made my study area -- sat down at the table next to me and went about her business without peaking my interest. Who knows how long she has been there. However, a few moments ago, she stood up just as I looked up from my book and walked past my table to the register. I noticed that she adorned form fitting yoga pants, and a pair of moderately worn running shoes. As the woman was a bit husky, I silently applauded her apparent use of the gym or independent cardio workouts. If she took the effort to go out and try and get into shape, I should not bask in the glory of my current couch potato weekend state. Tomorrow is definitely another gym day and as I continued to punish myself for not doing more these past two days, I turned to go back to work and was immediately struck with a sense of irony. There, on the woman's table was a brand new pint of Half Baked Ben and Jerry's ice cream; her spoon teetering on the edge while melted drop of chocolate ice cream slowly dribbled its way to the table.
At first my anger festered due to the apparent lack of respect for the delicious ice cream that was now wasted in the beginning of a melted puddle on the laminated table top. But then, as the woman walked back to her seat with a hot panini, cheddar cheese oozing from the crisped crusts, I scoffed at myself. Here I was, feeling guilty over my chocolate muffin breakfast and carb filled red pepper pasta lunch and this woman had no reservations about the lunch she was just about to devour. While amazed at the paradoxical scene created by her attire and menu choices, I was annoyed at my inability to have a blithe indifference toward such things. But then it happened, my world was set straight. I saw the titles of the books the woman had just purchased: Women's Health Perfect Body Diet and 25 Natural Ways to Lower Blood Pressure.
. . . given and the net charge of each species. a) :N-N:
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