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.

When Lorna Met Netflix

Image representing Netflix as depicted in Crun...
Image via CrunchBase

Last week, Sarge wandered into the bedroom, where I was reading and minding my own business.

‘I just bought something,’ he said.

‘What?’  I expected him to name some official noise-making device with numbers on the end of it.

‘You’re going to hate me.  You’re never going to speak to me again.  It’s terrible.’

‘Whut?’

‘I got an internet TV box.  Blah, blah, blah (some numbers).  And it has Netflix.’

I looked at him over my book.  ‘It has what now?’

‘Netflix.’

‘Real Netflix?’

‘Aye, and some fake ones as well.’

‘You’re kidding.  Don’t toy with me, dude.  I have PMS.’

You see, I have been voting that we get some sort cable TV for years.  It would have saved us money on movie tickets and allowed me to join in on some conversations at work when I had a job.

We couldn’t get Sky because Sarge is diametrically opposed to Rupert Murdoch.   I’ve forgotten why we couldn’t hook up Virgin TV.  But still, it was one vote for and one against cable TV of any kind.  And the cat’s gone, so there was no tie-breaker.

And so, when Sarge came in and said ‘Netflix’ and ‘we have’ in the same sentence, I might have said, ‘You love me, you really love me.’

The first day it was here, I forgot we had it.  Since then, I have watched the following:

Movies:

The Deep End of the Ocean – I believe I borrowed the book version from my mother, it’s so old.

Return To Me – I actually have this movie, but the disk was scratched by someone who wasn’t me before I got to watch it.  Now I have.  And I’d forgotten how much I like Bonnie Hunt.

Mallrats – Because I like Kevin Smith.  And why not?

Everybody’s Fine – This was one I wanted to see in the cinema, but didn’t.  Deeper than I expected, but good.

TV Shows:

Lilyhammer – on BBC iPlayer.  Nice to catch-up on a screen that isn’t my laptop.  This one is helping me deal with The Sopranos withdrawal while adding another of my favourites, Norway.

Weeds – Suggested by my Mom, ages ago.  Haven’t gotten further than the pilot.

Modern Family – Three episodes in, and this could be my new favourite show.

Damages – Glenn Close is more scary than she was in Fatal Attraction.  Rose Byrne is less annoying than she was in Bridesmaids.  Full of win.

The Killing – 10 minutes of the Danish one, and 5 minutes of the American one, to figure out yes, they are that alike.

Fear not, I’m still reading and writing and job-searching.  Next month, I even get to go back to school.   In my pajamas.

But for tonight, Sarge and I have a date with Breaking Bad.

Are there any other shows or movies I should be catching up with, now that I can?

Dancing On The Tables

The first and only time I danced on a table it buckled underneath me.   My friends lifted me, in the chair, onto the table because it was the only free space on which to dance.  I was 18 and liked to dance.  I was also drunk.  All other space that night was taken up by girls dancing around their handbags and boys dancing around girls.

On a crowded dance floor, I am usually considered a fire hazard.  A fire hazard with a perfect view of other people’s asses.  I can’t look at my own without a mirror, but I spend a lot of time looking at other people’s.

Some security guards, who take their job really seriously, have suggested that ‘she might want to stay off the dance floor.’  Not because I’m a bad dancer, I’m actually quite good, but because if there was a fire, those same girls dancing around their handbags would trample me on the way to the exits.  This line of thought has never made sense to me.  I can bust out of a room faster than anyone running on high-heels and swinging a fugly Louis Vuitton handbag.

Before I settled down, which involves staying in more than going out, I’d been going clubbing since I was 18.  Most nights ended with me feeling happy, if slightly claustrophobic.  And even happier to leave The Sea of Asses.

These days, Friday nights consist of Indian food and a revolving collection of somewhat-nostalgic boxsets.  Sarge and I did go out last Friday, though.  To a pub to watch a band play.   Because the band is going to play at our wedding.  So really, you could say, we went out on Friday night to celebrate never having to go out on a Friday night ever again.  Or something.

We got a table up front.   No handbag dancers or asses in sight.  As people got more into the music, they began to dance around me.  Behind me, next to me, in front of me.  And so, I asked Sarge if he wanted to dance.  No.  There wasn’t enough room for me to twirl around myself, so I counted the number of times a stranger leaned on/got caught on the back of my chair.  I call such people Personal Space Invaders.  Sometimes, I need to ask them twice to back off.  I ask them nicely.  The third time, if needed, is not so nice.

A few years ago, a woman was so close that she actually fell into my lap.  I slapped her, and blamed my reflexes.  It was the first and only time I put my hands to anyone in anger/bewilderment/to deflect a fugly Louis Vuitton handbag.

On Friday night, I found myself touching a stranger again.  I elbowed her while getting my jacket on.  It was a reflex.

Next time will be at my wedding!

10 Reasons I Love Pinterest

1.  It complements my healthy-eating plan.  When I’m eating grapes or rice-cakes and therefore hungry, it helps to re-pin cake recipes.

2.  I can keep wedding ideas together without glue or paper-cuts.

3.  It’s a source of my daily Zen.

4.  And sometimes it tells me what to do next.

5.  It’s shown my that broken books can be beautiful.

6.  It tells me I’m not the only one.

7.  If I pin a project, I might actually try it.

8.  It helps me visualise.

9.  It’s trying to entice me to eat vegetables.

10.  And I can pin all of the above without jabbing my fingers, dropping the pin, driving over it and getting a flat tire.  It’s accessible that way.

How do you use Pinterest?

Write Taller

OK, so.  You know where I mentioned that I made a list of things to do before I turned 30, but this blog is not about that list?  I’m 31 now.  And it still isn’t.  However.

I’ve been thinking about my life.  And where it’s going.  How 31 isn’t exactly what I thought it would be when I was 21.  Or maybe even 25.  Except for the part where I have indeed met a wonderful man who is weird in all the right ways, and who I sometimes think loves me more than I deserve.  I can’t tell you how much I love him.  Because there aren’t enough words.  So, that’s the good part.

But there’s also the part where I thought I’d be a therapist by day and a writer at night.  With my own shingle hanging on the door of my house in the country.  A house that included a husband, who happened to be mine (nearly there), kids (we’ll be working on one of those on the honeymoon.  There, I said it.  Make it so) and a non-yappy medium-sized giant of a dog (my initial dream did not account for allergies.  I’m now thinking a nice tranquil fish tank.  0 to Zen in 3 seconds).    The house would smell of nice things like Yankee Candles and coffee and finger-paint.  But not apple juice, because it makes me barf.

Somewhere between my copy of The Developing Child and The Norton Anthology of English Literature would be copies of my own books.  One of which would be being optioned by Hollywood.

I would nearly drive over the dog’s tail on the way to the phone, an old-fashioned one.  My brother would be on the other end of the line, someone who looked like the best bits of my mother and my father put together and therefore like me.  He’d be calling to take me out for ice-cream, just because.  Like that old commercial.  (OK, that’s pure fantasy.  One that gets me through the day sometimes.)

After ice-cream, we’d go to Dad’s house for dinner and everyone would be waiting there.  We might have pancakes and beer, and then I’d beat everyone at Poker.

I’d sneak my Grandma a draft of my new book.  She’d take off her shoes and put them under the coffee-table before reading it.  She’d speed-read a la Johnny-5.

‘It’s good.  Keep going.  And make me taller,’ she’d say.  And then she’d wink.  With that, I would know I’d won.

Then Sarge (because he’s always been the man of my dreams) would carry our kids, upside-down by their feet, out to our stylish yet big enough mini-van.

And tomorrow, we’d go around again.

Now.  This post was going to be a list of things I want to do to get there.  Things I still haven’t done.  But words are better than bullet-points and lists.   I will get there.

If some things are beyond my reach, I’ll just write in the gaps.

Keep going, yes? (Image: Johnny-Five.com)