A Love Letter To Pepto-Bismol

Dearest Pepto,

Thank you. You’re lovely.

We first met when I barfed at the very top of a moving Ferris wheel. I lost a friend and corn-dog that night. But you were there, in all your pink splendour. I don’t like pink as a colour, but I can certainly drink it.

Fast-forward to yesterday. All those emails. Hopefully we’ve seen the last of them. Not counting the actual replies to said emails. Which would be really useful. I can read emails, I’d just like a break from writing them. Perhaps for the rest of my life.

The emails. And then the dentist. The hygienist asked me about my dress and the honeymoon. All these questions while poking around in my mouth. Gag. Actual gag.

After my teeth seemed to be blasted right out of my head, it was date night.

The last calm, unmarried date night before craziness descends next week. Sarge and I toasted each other. With burgers.

On the way to the movies, Sarge bought some sandals for the honeymoon. Now. I have the opposite of a foot fetish. Gag. Actual gag.

With the sandals safely in the box, we went see The Big Wedding. Bit too close to the bone just now, methinks.

Around the time Robin Williams hit the water, my stomach spoke up, and I tasted the burger. Again.

And at about ten last night, I saw it. Again. Date night had turned into some quality time with Freddy, who you might remember from this post. Sarge understood. And gave us some alone time. I emerged from the bathroom at midnight, and watched exactly eight minutes and 23 seconds of Arrested Development before I had to go in again.

This time, I stayed there til 3am. It was the safest place.

Now. My friends have said that I’m the most relaxed bride-to-be they’ve ever seen. But I’m thinking the nerves had to show up sometime. Like last night. Or early this morning. At 8, 10 and from midnight to three.

We’ve established that I’m not nervous about actually being married.

And so.

Maybe it was the dentist, or the movie. Or the fact that my mother arrives next week. Or maybe it’s because someone called me Mrs Sarge’s Surname last week. And that’s not my name.

Maybe it was just a bad burger.

I traded in my morning coffee for a few swigs of your pink loveliness, Pepto. It’s been a while since we last met this way.

You’ve still got it, and thanks to you, I still have my insides.

Help a girl out for the next ten days, and then I’ll be your best friend.

Love,

Lorna xox

Just look at them, vying for my affection.

Wedding-Planning Is An Endurance Test

Just when you think you’ve gotten through your to-do list, there’s another list. And damn if there isn’t more to do on it.

People say that marriage is a marathon and not a sprint. I believe that. I’ve also started to think of wedding-panning as a test of endurance. To get you ready for the marathon. Last week, I failed that test.

But I got a lot of reading done. In bed. While drinking coffee and pretending I was 12. The 12 year-old me was home sick from school with a cold, but without a wedding to plan.

She didn’t care about cake-toppers or declines. Because really, those declines are like ripping band-aids off, and who wants to do that?

Unless you’re 32. And planning a wedding. And it’s courtesy for other people to tell you they can’t make it. You get to the point where you don’t want to look at the postcards that come through the door. Your heart leaps with a yes, and the same heart is ripped out with a no.

And then you eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

These are just some of the questions I asked Sarge last week: Did we tell the cake people I hate marzipan? Did we thank them for the gift? Wanna elope? Do we have any beer?

That’s where we are. But at least I’m sharing my Ben & Jerry’s. My Maid of Honour got some on Tuesday when she came over and asked if there was anything left to do.

‘Get married,’ I said.

And so, to use another metaphor, as we enter the final stretch I’m visualising the look on Sarge’s face when I get down the aisle. Because at that moment there won’t be any guests, or cake. There will be butterflies. And some penguins. That’s what matters. That’s what I’m looking forward to, the official stuff. The real stuff.

That, and the honeymoon. Because, y’know, ‘book honeymoon’ has been checked off the to-do list.

That’s a big one. Any couple that still wants to get married after planning a wedding deserves a honeymoon.

Bruges and Barcelona, here we come!

Dues cerveses, si us plau…

Does it look like there are 53 flowers in this box? I’m afraid to count them. I hope I can cross flowers off the list now, too.

My Inner-Child Needs A Paper Bag

Picture it: Levittown, 1980-every-summer. A young girl is watching the sun sink lower in the sky and waiting for someone to take her to the carnival down the block. Her grandparents and her father have probably drawn straws. Who gets to hold her hair back this time? Because she’s gonna barf. But she’s too excited to eat. So it’s the dry heaves. And full on gagging, how attractive. And she’s barking. That’s a nervous cough. But she could be doing a duet with the dog. Because she loves him like a brother.

Point is, she’s so excited, she’s gagging. How attractive. She leaves the house clutching a paper bag, breathing into it on the way. Except she’s not co-ordinated enough for counting and breathing, it makes her dizzy. She gags. Again.

That little girl was me.

Fast forward to a few nights ago. I’m sitting at the computer, kinda obsessively checking my email.  Impatiently waiting for a response from our videographer. Yes, we have one of those.   Because I’m American.  Apparently.  Who knew?   You can tell because the one thing I’ve insisted on is a wedding video.  Everyone has said ‘that’s because you’re American.’  It’s just that I want to remember everyone’s faces.  Especially my husband’s.  I want to share the looks and the thoughts and the moments with people I love who won’t be there.  That list is getting too long.

But anyway.  There will be a video.

There’s a menu now, too.  My mother and I even, shall we say, had words over the food.  Which turned into a cultural debate. Which reminded me again that I was a third-culture kid, who is now an adult planning a multi-culture wedding.  If you want to see if we pull it off, there will be a video.  Of course.

And there will be flowers.  Because I wrote some more emails. The first one went like this: My husband-to-be is severely allergic to all the flowers that have ever grown, and I only like a few of them anyway.  I would really like The Dude to enjoy our wedding, and not sneeze/wheeze through it.  Tearing up is fine, even encouraged.  But we must avoid the very loud Sneezes of Doom.’

And so, most of our flowers are paper.  I can’t link to them because that could be filed under Cart Before Horse.  But they are awesome.

The list so far is video, menu, flowers.   And freaking table linens.  I haven’t thought of table linens since my Nana had an actual linen closet.  Because that’s how she rolled.

Anyway, there’s linens.

And a cake. On Saturday, Sarge and I went looking at paint samples to bring the cake people and say, match these. Yes, really.  This was not a fake mission.   And it looked like this:

Purple Polka, anyone?

And after the beer:

This happened.

Video, menu, flowers cake…and linens.

There’s even been some movement on the shoes.

There’s favours, too.  But we don’t want to give them away until the wedding. Because that’s how it goes.

And  I’ve spent a lot of time putting together a playlist.  And crying.  And that’s before Sarge vetoes half the songs.  Except maybe this one.

I’m also camped out and waiting for the postman every morning.  Doing my best Olivia Twist with ‘Please Sir, can I have some more (RSVPs).  You can keep the Nos.  Because there will be no depression in this house.’  Or something.

I’ve even had my second dress-fitting, followed swiftly by my Bridal Crew Weekend.  Where I spent a lot of time telling my future sister-in-law, ‘I love your brother A LOT.’  I s’pose that’s a good start.  And I wasn’t even drunk.  OK, maybe that one time.

And that looked like this:

My head is no longer too big for hats.

As I write this, there are 38 days, 20 hours and 16 minutes til Sarge and I get married.  And I’m not sleeping well.  I’m in bed thinking about the video, the flowers, the cake, the favours.  Last week Sarge asked me why I couldn’t sleep.
‘My inner-child needs a paper bag to breathe into.’  I’m nervous.  And excited. And a little bit more of both.

But the list of things making me hyperventilate at three in the morning have nothing to do with being married.  I have the best future-husband on all the planets.  The vows and the rings and the life thing, bring that on.  I’m good with that.

As for the wedding, I must remember to breathe, and enjoy it.  And if  I cough/bark/gag, it just means I’m really happy.

Thinking Outside The Shoes

And so, I’ve kinda spent all day looking for wedding shoes.

It’s no secret that my original ‘bridal vision’ involved Doc Martens. I got one of those visions after I figured out what exactly a bridal vision was, and I’m still not really sure. Anyway, wedding Docs. Problem is, I don’t really like white. Or flowers.

But I saw myself in wedding boots for a few reasons. I need the support, and I can’t wear something that I step out of while dancing. Because it may fly across the room and hit someone in the head. And that would be dangerous. For them.

On my wedding day of all days, I’d like to avoid slippery shoes. I also don’t like heels, and the feeling is mutual.

Another reason I was thinking boots is because I don’t like white. Or flowers. Or ivory and flowers. Or peep toes. And I always thought kitten heels sounded like cruelty to feet. Or animals.

I’ve always had a weird relationship with shoes. When I was a kid, I would go around clicking my tongue, pretending my sturdy, practical rubber soles made the same sound as ‘grown-up shoes.’ The tongue thing was not a nervous tic, just a six year-old’s wish.

Saying that, I had other wishes back then.  When I listed my wishes, Clicky shoes, as I called them, came between ‘Siblings’ and ‘a midnight blue Mazda’. That’s how my mind worked. Still does.

Most shoes I coveted back then weren’t designed for someone who wore braces up to her hips and then her knees. I got that.

It wasn’t all bad. At all. My red sneakers were cool. And my Rainbow Brite sneakers were bitchin’.

But I can’t help but think there’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t like girlyshoeswithsixinchheels because they are inaccessible to me. That tiny part of me may be six-years old.

There’s a bigger part of me that just loves boots. Feels powerful in boots. Rocks the boots.

She wants to wear Docs to her wedding. Plan was to buy plain ones and have butterflies painted on them. That’s turning out to be a giant pain in the ass. With too many weeks involved. Or something.

I can get bespoke ones. My friends have offered to paint them. My mother has offered to paint them. But my thoughts are in words. Not vines and swirls and butterflies, as much as I love them. I can’t design stuff. I can’t tell anyone what I want. I don’t know what I want until I see it.

I’m seeing lovely non-white Docs with satin laces. They aren’t purple. They might pass for purple, though. Are they, forgive me, special enough to get married in? Maybe not.

I went shopping with my bridal crew for their shoes. I might have looked for myself. I didn’t see anything I wanted. Or anything that would stay on my feet where someone else puts them.

‘I need straps! Rubber soles!’ I said in one shop and then another. And then another. ‘Straps are too thin,’ I might have said in one place. ‘Those straps are too strappy.’

‘Mary Janes, court shoes,’ I listed. ‘Think outside the shoe.’ Nothing.

Today’s search was ‘purple Mary Janes’. Lots of ‘sold out’ and ‘No results found’, too. There was even a White Screen of Doom. I was on the phone with my Mom and then my Dad, volleying product numbers and styles back and forth until I said, ‘You know, it’s a good thing I’d get married in bare feet if I had to.’

‘You won’t,’ said Dad. ‘What you need is a pair of ruby slippers.’

That’ll be tomorrow’s search, then. Maybe Dorothy’s shoes will be Lorna’s shoes, too.

I’d strap that. (Image via shoewawa.com)

Numbers 51-52

A dear friend just sent me this list of The 50 Most Romantic Things That Ever Happened. Because, y’know, stuff like that makes me melt, these days.

Anyway, Sarge walked in as I was scrolling through.

‘I’m going to leave the room while you look at these,’ I said.

When I returned, Sarge said, ‘I’d build you a ramp for those 6,000 stairs. And then I’d push you up the ramp. Just so people would know we’re together, you understand.’

P.S. The Daily post asked: When was the last time you shed tears of joy?  My answer: half an hour ago, after the above exchange.

Which was only two hours after crying over seeing what will be engraved on our wedding bands:

Weekly Photo Challenge: Forward (Planning)

For Christmas, Dad bought me a copy of The Ultimate Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.  Because that’s the kinda guy he is.  I think it was a joint present.

‘You can skip the bits on dating and breaking up.  I have, however, highlighted the section on BABIES!’ he said.

Since then, the book has sat on our actual coffee table, used as a handy reference guide/random writing prompter.

On Friday, I found the book open to this not-so-random page (73):

How To Avoid A Nervous Breakdown Before The Wedding (Click to enlarge)

A gentle reminder from Sarge, after he spoke to the ring engravers and I met with the florist.

I like the last suggestion on the list: elope.

(Post inspired by life, love, good mental health and this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge.)

 

 

 

 

It’s The Little Things

Some of you may remember I have a thing for beautiful and nostalgic short films.

This is my new favourite:

Imagine emails and 2,853 text messages flying around and you’ve got the first 5 months of Sarge and me. Complete with trains and shyness.

And now I want paper airplanes at the wedding!

What made you happy today?

The Bridal (Hair) Hump and The Sneezes of Doom

As he pulled me backwards down the ramp and on to the street, the taxi driver asked what I was doing there. On a Monday. In the rain. In Glasgow.

‘Wedding make-up trial.’

‘Are you going to be a bridesmaid?’

‘No. I’m the bride.’

‘Really?’

Yes, really.’

‘Congratulations!’

‘Thank you. Have a nice day.’

As I made my way up to Dad and Anne’s flat, I thought about how much I live to surprise people. Not really. Maybe a little. Remember this?

When I arrived upstairs, Dad might have been Googling wedding video people. Sarge and I had two must-haves on that front. Unobtrusive cameras and a grammatically-correct website. After three phone calls, and some squealing from me, we found someone. I sent Sarge a link to the website, and his usual ‘Cool!’ was upgraded to ‘Awesome!’ And so, that’s another thing off the to-do list.

At about ten that night, Dad, Anne and two of my bridesmaids were eating pizza and watching me get transformed into Eddie Izzard, um, a bride. The beauty therapist was very patient. And the one-sided conversation went something like this: open, blink, stop, no, open…DO OVER. And did I mention I’m not co-ordinated enough for liquid eye-liner? I’m not. Pencils SAVE. Or something.

As for my hair, I had only two stipulations. 1. My hair and I must fit through any doorway at the same time. b. We must avoid what I call The Bridal (Hair) Hump.

As I slapped myself with make-up remover before getting on the train to go home, I thought my hair and I were safe.

However, I was having doubts about my hair in a way that I’ve never doubted my future husband. And so I showed him my hair. In a way that I’ve never shown him my dress.

‘It makes your head look tall,’ he said. And I understood him completely. The Bridal (Hair) Hump. Number (2) on my list of Things To Be Avoided.

That means I’m back on Pinterest looking for hair inspiration-even-though-I-hate-that-word. Pinterest is also good for dessert porn while I’m actually eating fruit and frozen yogurt.  Because that’s what my personal trainer says I should eat. Did I mention I have one of those? I do.

In the midst of hairspray and crunches, I’ve heard back from the florist, too. In my original email to her, I might have said, ‘ My husband-to-be, (Sarge), is severely allergic to all the flowers that have ever grown, and I only like a few of them anyway. I would really like (Sarge) to enjoy our wedding, and not sneeze/wheeze through it. Tearing up is fine, even encouraged. But we must avoid the very loud Sneezes of Doom.’

The Sneezes of Doom are right up there with The Bridal (Hair) Hump. In case anyone is keeping score.

We talked about paper flowers and brooch bouquets. Apparently our wedding will be a little ‘different,’ but she is happy to work with us. I was ecstatic to hear both of those things. From someone who isn’t related to me or Sarge.

That leaves us with only a few more things on the to-do list and five months and one day to go.

For now though, I need to eat grapes and do some laps.

I think I’ll stick with these!

2012: The Year That Was

I began 2012 feeling out of sorts. We came home from a party in the dark. Left the house for dinner the next day, in the dark. Mostly about why my left ring finger was still naked. Seriously, though. I felt bad that we slept through January 1^st.

As I sat backwards on the bus on the way the second party of the year, I vowed not to waste another day. By the end of that week, I’d written a few thousand words, and read three books.

Toward the end of January, I might have mentioned to my Dad and some friends that I was planning to propose to Sarge. Because of that trusty extra day in February. And because I love him. So much. That, too.

I originally thought I’d take him to the zoo, point out a ring around the neck of a very well-behaved penguin during the penguin parade. And I’d ask him amongst strangers and more penguins.

Then I thought I’d book a table at the Russian place where we had our first dinner date.

In the end, which was really the beginning, I opted for some pebbles and a candy ring. And by the grace of the angels and Sadie Hawkins, he said yes. And then we went back to the scene of our first coffee date, he got down on one knee, and I said yes. Again.

A few weeks after that, I submitted my Masters application, which was subsequently rejected. I believe for a very split second, I forgot the all-important Show, Don’t Tell. This mistake sent me into a darkened room for a while. I came out to go venue-shopping and to process what happened, I wrote this.

During the first flourishes of wedding planning, I missed my grandparents. I do every day, but this was a different kind of ache.

We found a venue, I found a dress. On the day Dad and Anne saw both of these, Dad said he had cancer. My worst nightmare. Really. I had no words for awhile. And then I found these.

Our engagement party also saw the beginning of Dad’s treatment. We burned things to celebrate both. And part of that treatment involved writing our invitations. Thank you, Daddy.

Other stuff happened. I visited a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, I became the cat’s Aunty, the contract ended on a job I loved and found another one I loved not so much. And I contemplated a career-change. Only to realise again, I can only do what my heart says.

I prayed to all my good ghosts this year. Really hard. And to be honest, not all of those prayers were answered. But the best ones were. My Dad is well again. And Sarge kindly accepted my proposal.  Everything else leaves room for better things.

As for next year, I know where I’m going and who’ll be with me for the next adventures.

And I can’t wait.

Is This Real Life?

I pride myself on the fact that I’m not really a Bridezilla.  I’ve been quite laid-back about this whole wedding thing, and actually more into the whole being married thing.  Bring that on.

A few months ago, I did have a blip about envelopes, of all things.  And then I got over myself.

Other than matching paper goods, the only stipulation I’ve made is that the bridesmaids’ outfits don’t go all the way to lavender on the purple spectrum.  And then there’s the hat thing.  But that was a joint decision.

OK so, other than matching paper goods, no lavender and no hats, I just want to party.

When I chose my dress, I wondered if my two ‘requirements’ meant that I was too picky.  I was later deemed to be one of the easiest brides the shop has ever dealt with.  We shall see if that lasts through my fittings.

My point is this.  I’m cool.  I’m calm.  Everything is (really) fine.  On the outside.

I used to be really into dream interpretation.  Obsessed with ‘symbols’ and ‘themes’.    Did dreaming about a bakery mean I wanted my own business?  Well, I kinda do.  But it also meant I was hungry and needed a doughnut.

I’ve been thinking more about what dreams mean.  Because on Monday, I had my first wedding disaster dream.

My bridal crew is already down the aisle and I can’t find my shoes.  I’m searching in my old room, and find my favourite purple boots, which I put on.  (That part might not be far from the truth.)  On the way to the door, which is locked, the chair splits in half.  And I end up having to knee-walk down the aisle, with my Dad carrying the wheels behind me.  Did I mention the back of my dress is tucked into my underwear?  Yep.

And the processional music has been switched to Ecuador by Sash!:

I don’t know why.  But after seeing the video, maybe it’s because we toyed with the idea of having the best man’s hawk fly the rings in.  That won’t be happening, either.  (Even though I’ve heard that it’s good luck if a bird shits on you.  Don’t ask me how I know).

Anyway, and then I woke up.

I’m cool.  I’m calm.  It’s funny now.

However.  If on the day, the actual processional music is somehow mixed up with Eurodance from the 90’s, I will go all Bridezilla.