A Snapshot of Marriage

As some of you know, I’m married. As those of you who are married know, marriage is defined as “a relationship wherein you are yolked to a person until one or both of you dies, characterized by vacillating feelings of intense love, disgust, and loathing.”

Last night, I was making gravy. As those of you who make gravy know, gravy is defined as “an amalgamation of starch, fat, and liquid which, if you turn your back, will congeal or break and ruin your f*cking day.”

It’s not the easiest thing to accomplish. The fats must be right. The thickener must be right. It must simmer and reduce for the right amount of time. It’s not difficult per se, but it requires finesse.

Enter my husband.

CARTER: I’m gonna stir it, babe!

ME: It doesn’t need to be stirred.

CARTER: It’s fine. I’m gonna whisk it.

ME: Please don’t touch it. It’s reducing. It doesn’t need to be stirred.

CARTER: I’m gonna do it. Babe, you just don’t have the culinary instincts that I have.

ME: Dont. Touch it.

CARTER: Give it a little whisk, a little stir, babe. I’m gonna.

ME: I’m gonna crazy person murder you.

CARTER: Well that seems a bit harsh.

ME: Will you hand me a knife?

CARTER: What kind?

ME: A sharp one.

CARTER: Well, not now.

ME: Babe, I need a knife. I have to cut this broccoli.

CARTER: You just told me you were going to, and I quote, “crazy person murder” me and now you’re asking me to hand you a sharp knife.

ME: I can’t right now. You know that. You don’t have any money to dig.

CARTER: Ah, yes. Your plans to dig my gold. You know you’re the worst gold digger ever, babe. Right?

ME: It’s the long con, my love. I’m in it for the long con.


Disclosure: I would never harm this man. Well, I would eat the last piece of Havarti on purpose and I hope to live to be in my eighties just to spite him. But I would never, ever harm him and he knows this. I may be prone to theatrics and exaggeration. It’s my nature. Don’t you dare judge me.

As for the gold digging, contrary to what he says, I am not the worst gold digger in the world. After all, I get to sit around in my satin pajamas stained sweatpants while I eat bonbons do homework and start a home business and sip on champagne all morning lukewarm coffee all day. So, yea, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself.

Marriage. Lifetime Original Movies, you’re doing it wrong.

Get Your Mitts Off My Tight End, Sir: A Fantasy Football Story

So this post may be more for my male readers. Yep. All three of them. (Two of them being Carter and my dad. Is that sad? I don’t think that’s sad. Is that sad?)

But I think the ladies will appreciate it as well because today, friends, I am writing about Hell. Yep. Hell. What is that, you may ask? Well, kittens, Hell is alternately known as “Joining a Fantasy Football League Because You’re So Freaking Competitive and Watched The League and Fell in Love with Jenny’s Character and Thought That You Could Be Like Her But Then You Joined and Realized That You Don’t Know What the Hell You’re Doing/Have No Business Playing Fantasy Football and Will Probably Get Your Ass Kicked By People You’re Friends With But Because You’re So Competitive You Won’t Be Able to Be Friends With Them Anymore Because So Great Will Be Your Shame.”
Yes. That is Hell. And Hell is Real.

This is Jenny. (Her husband in this video is also just like Carter. Just so you know.)


There must be something about the name because my dear friend Jenny (Yes, my real life friend) is apparently a Fantasy Football Goddess. She is also a March Madness Goddess and won lots of money this year. In other words, she is the ultimate package – a tall, gorgeous blonde who knows sports, runs marathons, tells jokes, and markets the shit out of things. And for this we hate her. (I kid, I kid. I love you, Jenny!)

I am not a Fantasy Football Goddess. I, historically, have always been the one to bring entirely too much food to football gatherings just to make up for my lack of football prowess. (As in “Kate really made an ass of herself when she asked if they were on the 7th down yet or not but these bacon wrapped water chestnuts are to die for!”)

(Note: I really do know that there are only 4 potential downs ….now.)

But I watched all of the seasons of The League in roughly a day and a half with Carter and became so enamored with Jenny on the show that I decided to join. I was bolstered in this effort by another girl friend who is the girlfriend of a friend (See what I did there?) joining this league as well.

My team name? Chunky Monkey.

My draft strategy? Panic and cower.
(Kind of like stop, drop, and roll. … Ok it’s not at all like that. Basically my strategy is to drink pumpkin beer in my pajamas with my hoodie pulled up to my eyes like I’m watching SAW or something and screech at the computer while picking the guy who has the coolest first name and typing obscenities into my Gchat with Carter.)

Remember that sad, sad hair I blogged about yesterday? Yep. This is me at my neurotic worst.
What? Carter wasn’t there to lovingly guide me through my first Fantasy Football Draft?

No. He was not. He was working, leaving me home alone to suffer in near hysteria.
(Note: If this were the 1800’s, I would have been institutionalized for such behavior. They called it Melancholia. Look at everything you’re learning! I learned that from a book called 1,000 White Women. I am not joking. And it is not about anything that you could glean from the title.  You really should read it – it was an entertaining and informative book. It’s about the US Government taking all the crazy women out of the asylums and sanitariums and shipping them west to intermingle with the Native Americans. And it really happened. Wacky, right? Then the US Government was all “Well, Native Americans, I hope you’ve enjoyed our women. I know that we technically sold them to you but we’re going to take them back now. Is that ok? Because we totally reserve the right for take-backsies. Oh, and while we’re at it we’re going to take all of your land and buffalo and make you live in 15 acres square. Cool? What? You don’t want to give us back our women? No, gentlemen, they were never your women. I know, I know, we said they were, but they were really just on loan. Now we’d like to take them back to their asylums and move you off of the path of our railroad. It’s really quite pesky you being here. What? You white ladies like your Native American husbands? What?! You’re having his baby!?!? Oh, no, that won’t do. BANG. BANG. BANG.” …Ok I guess you don’t need to read it now that I’ve given you the entire synopsis. My bad.)

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes. Hysteria.

So Carter left me to fend for myself in the draft. I’ll share with you some excerpts of our Gchat conversation. (I cut out all of the bits that were just typed profanities on my end. That man is a saint for putting up with me. Then again, he did abandon me in my hour of football need. So we’ll call it even.)

(Note: If you couldn’t tell by this intro that I have no business in this league, my excessive use of smiley face emoticons in this chat will confirm it for you.)

ME: Holy shit why does it keep playing the NFL theme song!!???!!!?!?!?

CARTER: It does that whenever someone joins the draft. Super annoying.

ME: It’s freaking me out!

CARTER: You ready for this? Calm down.  You’re fine.

ME: I’m freakin’ out, man. I’m freakin’ out. I should get a beer! That’s what you do during a fantasy draft, right? Drink beer and scratch yourself?

CARTER: You need a beer bad. Or open a bottle of wine. Or have some bourbon. Pour yourself some angels envy or michters.

ME: OMG!!!! 4 effing minutes!!!!!

CARTER: Calm down. You’re fine.

ME: I am not. I’m an infant. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to lose fantasy. I’m going to fail the GRE.

CARTER: No you’re not. On either. Also, I’m 100% gonna have to take the GRE again,so you can do it with me.

ME: Gah!!!!! NOT HELPFUL!!!

CARTER: Did you get booze?

ME: Beer. Please help me.

CARTER: Ok. The fact that there are so many people on autodraft is good for you.

ME: Really?

CARTER: Yea. Because the computer will automatically take whoever ESPN has ranked highest, which isn’t always good.

ME: Score for the noob!

 A Bit Later……

ME:  Mother f***ers took Drew Brees!!!!!!!!!!

CARTER: Yea, sorry.

ME: I need a QB!!!

CARTER: I dunno. At this point you would probably be better off waiting. I would take a running back if I were you.

ME: Fudge!!!! (Only I didn’t say fudge) I took Eli Manning.

CARTER: Yea, I probably wouldn’t have done that. But it’s ok. You’re ok.

ME: I pick again in 2 though.

CARTER: Well now you get to root for Eli while watching the game tomorrow night. I will be rooting for him double now. I was going to anyway as he is playing against the Cowboys, but now I will root for your fantasy team. (Because he is literally the best husband ever.)


A While Later…

CARTER: Your team doesn’t look too bad.

ME: Really? 😀

CARTER: Yea. I think the Eli pick wasn’t great.

ME: I panicked.

CARTER: Haha. At least you have a quarterback.

ME: I panicked, but I got it out of my system. Now I’m collected.

CARTER: It’s ok, it could have been a lot worse.

ME: It was my first draft pick EVER. Cut me some slack, man! He’s a Superbowl winning QB! I could have done a LOT worse!

CARTER: I know. He is a solid QB. He doesn’t put of flashy fantasy numbers but he’s solid.

ME: Bitch what!!!!! I’ve got a good group of mens!


A LONG Time Later…

ME: People taking the full 2 minutes to draft is killing me.

CARTER: Seriously. 2 minutes is too much time.

ME: Look at you getting The Firm. (The man, not the exercise equipment. BenJarvus Green-Ellis is his name. Being…. a good… football player is his game. [wtf?])

CARTER: I did indeed. Also, nice name drop.

ME: 🙂 I listen!

For-Freakin’-Ever Later (People in my league are legitimately the slowest drafters in the world. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and I was faster than all the guys.) …..

ME: I really want to win, but I would settle for second place if you got first. And then we can dominate. And trash talk.

CARTER: That would be great.

ME: And I can withhold buffalo chicken dip from all who don’t bow down before us. (I make THE BEST Buffalo Chicken Dip in the world. Don’t believe me? Ask around.)

CARTER: I would love for us to both be in the top 3. We will be the “First Family of Fantasy Football.”



CARTER: That should go on your blog. (See? I listen, Carter)

ME: And one day, we will create a super baby. (This is kind of an obsession of mine. I don’t want kids yet, but the quasi veganism has made me kind of crazy. Blame the nutritional yeast. I have become determined that when we do spawn, it will be superhuman….to make up for my clumsiness and Carter’s double ankle. More on that one later.) And he will play in the NFL. And we will have tickets. And follow the team. And I’ll be the team mom. (Confession: I may be more obsessed with the idea of being a team mom to an NFL team than I am with actually birthing a kid who plays in the NFL. Think of the lording I could do in the PTA. “Oh? You’re the team mom for your kids YMCA Intermural Doesn’t Have a Trophy Soccer Team? Bless your heart! How nice! I’m just taking these orange slices and no bakes to the Chicago Bears practice. I’ll be right back!”)

CARTER: Haha, great.

ME: Oh, excuse me, Calvin Johnson. Would you like a Capri Sun?

CARTER: I bet he would.

ME: He totally would.

In the end, I picked pretty well, I think. Carter was impressed. Here’s my team:

Eli Manning

Marshawn Lynch

Frank Gore

Cedric Benson

Jordy Nelson

Percy Harvin

Fred Davis

THE GREEN BAY PACKERS DEFENSE (Carter so help me, if you ever leave me, I will have Clay Matthew’s baby.)

Matt Prater

Isaac Redman

Darrius Heyward-Bey

Reuben Randle

Andrew Luck

Davone Bess

Jermaine Gresham

For any of you who know what that means, it means I did pretty damn well for a noob. (Unless Carter is lying to me.)

I’m pushing the envelope and trying new things. And I’m happy about that. The potential for awesomeness is palpable – this year, I could be both the person that brings entirely too many food items wrapped in bacon to parties AND the Fantasy Football Champion.

Of course, if I lose, I will mourn my dignity by bringing saltines and hot sauce only to every party. So, for those of you out there who enjoy my talents, you WILL trade me Aaron Rodgers for Eli Manning or it’s crackers and crackers alone for you.

Happy Wednesday, y’all!

Clay Matthews: http://therealsportssavant.blogspot.com/2011/01/clay-matthews-nfl-all-pro-with-football.html

Hang on a second while I fish my snack out of my bra.

It’s 10:45 AM and I have already dropped not one, not two, but three articles of food down my shirt. (They were nuts [almonds to be precise], but saying “I dropped nuts down my shirt” makes you sound like some kind of pervy weirdo. …Unless, of course, that’s your thing, and then by all means have at it. But, it not being my thing, we’ll call them articles. …Even though they were nuts. Moving on!)

There is a cavernous space between by bosoms, the maw of which seems to be magnetized to attract foodstuffs, pens, thumbtacks (yes, that one hurt), and various other accoutrements.
Case in point:
At my wedding, when we were cutting the cake, Carter dabbed a little bit of icing on the tip of my nose. Think that tender scene in Superbad towards the end of the movie.
(Note: This was a compromise. I told him that there were going to be at least 7 lawyers in attendance at the wedding and that if he even so much as thought of smashing cake in my face that I would call all of them together [one of them being his mother] and strategize how to do a quickie annulment wherein I still got all of his stuff.)
It was precious. Truly. Until the tiny dab of icing fell off of my nose and into my anxiously awaiting cleavage. (Yes, cleavage DOES have a mind of its own. Ask anyone who has large bazonkas and has ever tried to play golf.)This put me in a really awkward position.
Everyone saw the frosting fall into my dress.
Everyone was waiting expectantly to see what I would do.
Now, here’s how I know that I know how to behave in formal situations. If we had been at Applebees, I would have just plunged a fist down there and fished it out without drawing unnecessary attention to myself. But this was a wedding. It’s a day full of attention. I may as well have been wearing a giant bullseye the entire day. And I was a lady! I turned around with my back to the audience and delicately fished it out and the only person who saw was the DJ……. Who may or may not have gotten flashed. I don’t know. I was overwhelmed. And focused on getting the frosting out before it started to melt down there. And worried about what to do when I turned around.
My Plan:
Turn around and jovially hold the blob aloft for a split second as a small joke before discreetly placing it on the plate and hugging Carter to distract the masses from the faux pas with our overwhelming cuteness.

What Really Happened:
I turned around and began to jovially hold the blob aloft for a split second. But what should I hear, voiced loudly, from my husband? “Feed it to me!”

That’s right, folks. “Feed it to me.”

You’ll be happy to know that I didn’t. Although in that moment I was so embarrassed that I seriously considered shoving it into his nostril to see how he liked public extraction. But, my ladyness prevailed, and I did not. I did, however, call him a perv. …fairly loudly. But anyone who willingly went to the wedding of Carter to Kate had to know that someone was going to get called a perv, someone (Ok. Everyone.) would be pretty intoxicated, and someone (Ok. Me.) would get food down their dress.
Can I just interject and say that men have it so easy? Ok, ok, unless you are a man with ample moobs. (Note: This is short for “man boobs.”)And I mean ample. No, average guy with  a paunch and some squishiness in the chest area, we’re not going to give this to you. I mean ample enough to cause you back pain. Then we can talk. So, for men, while wearing a shirt and tie, it is physically impossible to drop food down it. On it? That’s a different story. But that’s what they invented Tide to Go for. There ain’t no Tiny Tide to Go Crane for lifting peanuts out of your bra when you get a little overzealous at the local roadhouse.
My dad always used to joke when he would spill on his shirt.“Oh, that? I’m saving that for later.”
And now, as I stare down the barrel of the rest of my day, I’m fairly confident that I will be dropping at least 7 more things down my shirt, and that more than likely, one of them will be scalding hot. Because that’s how I roll.
“Why don’t you just wear turtlenecks?” you may ask.
“Why don’t you take more care when you eat?” you may wonder.
“Thumb tacks?” Don’t ask. I beg of you.
It doesn’t matter what I wear, friends. If I switched to turtlenecks, I might save myself some embarrassment from dropping things down the old décolletage hatch. But let me tell you, the next time I wore a cocktail dress, I would not only drop everything I picked up down there, but some small rodent, let’s say a squirrel, would probably follow the debris and move in. I don’t have time for that kind of problem. Do you? I didn’t think so.
And so, I’ve accepted it. My dad spills every time he wears pastels. I drop things down my shirt because I have boobs. The laws of the universe are limited and finite. (You’re a heartless bitch sometimes, universe. And I’m using this as an incredibly mild example lest anyone think I’m out of touch.)
But I guess there are benefits:
1.       If the apocalypse happens and we are all locked indoors for a period of time, I could probably salvage enough food out of my Victoria’s Secret collection for Carter and I to survive at least a day and a half. (Think about that and be impressed. I’ll allow it.)

2.       I always have a snack handy. (And by that I mean the almonds I dropped down my shirt but was too embarrassed to remove because my boss keeps walking by but I can’t go to the bathroom because if I do and they dislodge and fall out I’ll look like a walking human PEZ dispenser and they will probably fire me on the spot for being that suspicious and creepy. Meaning, I’ll probably sit at my desk literally all day and wait until everyone in the office has left before I leave. I’m really regretting that 20 oz. coffee. I might die here. )

3.      If we are ever incredibly poor and must sell all of our forms of entertainment, I could at least keep Carter occupied by playing a ridiculous low budget game of bucket toss with marshmallows or something.(Don’t you dare judge us. We had to sell Yahtzee.)

4.       If we ever get that poor, I could go work for Hooters. My waitress party trick would be retrieving change out of my cleavage. (Note: Did anyone ever do the Hooters test in middle/high school? You know, where you saw if you had big boobs by testing if they touched the wall before your nose did? Anyone? No? Well, then. Clearly you all missed out and had no way of knowing if you were developed or not. Which I wasn’t. Damn you, hormones. You’re a crazy nuisance, hormones. [I will revoke this if my hormones don’t give me the menopausal mustache. If you spare me, hormones, I will write you a freaking novel’s worth of odes cataloguing your greatness.])

5.      I will always be the most embarrassing person at a dinner party, so you’ve got that going for you. YOU’RE WELCOME. Even if you’re the person who shows up 45 minutes late and makes everyone drink 3 glasses of wine to pass the time waiting for you and those glasses turn to tequila shots and then you show up and didn’t bring anything and everyone is all like “but it was a birthday party” and you are all like “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was dead at the time.”EVEN IF you are that person, you are still not the person that dropped a portion of all 4 courses down her blouse.

So I guess I’m lucky, really.

Happy Tuesday, yall!

The Airplane Hanger Conundrum: My Wedding

Well here it is, kids. The Wedding Work-up.

As it turns out, it is possible to survive an entire afternoon and evening without breathing. How do I know? Because my dress was a really fancy sausage casing. That’s right. I was a giant, taffeta bratwurst.

Isn’t it gorgeous? No, that’s not me…as you might have noticed.
 I know, I know. How glamorous, right? Absolutely!…unless you’re in a church with spotty air conditioning. Carter was sweating profusely (And making weird-ass faces. Did I mention that?) and I was trying really hard to discreetly wipe away the sweat mustache he gave me when he kissed the bride before we recessed out of the chapel in front of everyone I’ve ever met. Only time will tell if it worked. But if in our professional pictures, or in any of your own, if you see a glistening on my upper lip, you can blame the dude in the vest next to me. I certainly will.
During our wedding photos, done by the AMAZINGLY talented, Jami Guess, I was asked to climb into a window sill 3 feet off the ground. I looked at her like she was bat crap crazy until lo, what did I see in the sill? An air vent. I don’t know that anyone has ever moved so fast before.

JAMI: Ok, guys, I need everyone to look at me. Kate? Kate?! KATE!!!
ME: Huh? What?
JAMI: Are you ok?
ME: Fine! Proceed!
CARTER: (whispering to me) Are you ok?
ME: (whispering back) There is just the most amazing draft in my undercarriage right now. It’s a little distracting. The best thing ever.
CARTER: Well I hope it’s not the best thing ever, heh heh. (creepy wink)
ME: Right now? It’s the best thing ever. Love you!!!!!
Funny, but he ignored me. I can’t imagine why. He DID set me up, after all.
But in all seriousness, other than our parents cutting and running early (they pay attention but fail to follow directions) on the unity candle, my dad nearly giving the ushers a heart attack by accidentally stepping on my train and whipping me backwards mid-stride (The dress was fine, calm yourselves. Our ushers, however, were a little shaken. They don’t cover “What To Do If Your Elegantly-Clad Bride is Suddenly Nekked Because Her Anxious Father Stepped On Her Dress and Her Dumb Ass Kept Walking” in Ushering 101.), and my new younger brother-in-law refusing to pull up his pants (I kid, I kid!), it was a beautiful ceremony! And I mean that seriously. Though the next time I get married, I’m going to put leashes on the parents to keep them on the altar!

See what I did there? I’m not getting married again. Are you CRAZY?!? Carter and I are still going to be married in 3,000 years. Mostly because we’re going to preserve our heads like they do in Futurama.

It will be glorious!
After this, we had the reception, which was equally awesome, but a hell of a lot weirder.
First of all, that thing they always say about how you can get anything you want when you’re the bride? It’s total bull crap. A dear college friend, knowing my love for it, wanted to buy me a tequila shot. And since I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t take in more than about an ounce of liquid at a time. It was perfect!
TAYLOR: Two tequila shots, please! One for me and one for the bride.
BARTENDER: I’m sorry. I can’t give you a tequila shot.
ME: I got this, Taylor. Ma’am, I’m the bride.
ME: (Looking down at my dress to make sure I’m not hallucinating) Yes. I am.
BARTENDER: Well, I still can’t give you a shot. It’s policy.
ME: Okay then. Can you put an ounce of tequila each in two glasses and then give me two lime wedges? Then it’s just tiny tequila, neat.
BARTENDER: No. I can put it on ice.
ME: So let me get this straight. You would serve me a bourbon, neat. But you won’t serve me tequila that way.
BARTENDER: There are stigmas. No one shoots Woodford Reserve, ma;am.
ME: I’m dubious about that, seeing how people defile it by putting it in Coke. But you’re serious?
BARTENDER: Yes. I can put it on ice.
(Friends, this is the first time I have ever taken a shot through a straw. I don’t recommend it.)
Then, Carter dropped cake down my dress and then asked me to feed it to him. Because he’s gross.

The toasts were amazing and my sister pulled the Hail Mary Pass of all Maid of Honor Toasts. She took 5 tequila shots immediately prior and then delivered the most BEAUTIFUL speech. I’m telling you! She was a flu-ridden Michael Jordan in the NBA finals! (I’m still wondering how she got those shots, mind you. No, no. I haven’t forgotten.) Best Man toast was elegant and awesome as well! (They like me! They really like me!)

My dad and I danced our dance to “A Pirate Looks at Forty” by Jimmy Buffett. This means that the words grass (marijuana), piss, and drunk were in my daddy daughter song. (Note: These are not GRE words) And it was glorious! I think my grandmother is still receiving regular doses of smelling salts to get over it, however.
Throughout the entire evening, I got to have one glass of wine and half of a piece of cake because people kept mauling me. Here’s the difference between the bride and groom and I’m going to come out now and say it’s not fair.
With regards to the groom, people think: “Oh, look. There’s the groom! He’s on his way to the bar. He deserves a drink, poor chap, having a ball and chain and all, now. As a matter of fact, I think I shall get him another drink to celebrate! And cake as well! Jolly good fun!” (Apparently everyone at my wedding was unaware of the fact that they were from a Monty Python movie.)
With regards to the bride, people think: “Oh, look. There’s the bride! She’s on her way to the bar! We should maul her. Now! Move, move move!!”
I may as well have had a target on my forehead.
In all seriousness, I’m glad people mauled me. (Maybe I should rephrase that?) Because I was in such a daze that I wouldn’t have thought to talk to anyone and probably would have ended up with a straw in the chocolate fountain because I was so overwhelmed, rocking back and forth and thinking what a pity it is that intravenously delivered dark chocolate would kill you.
But because my friends and family were so damned happy for me, they saved me from myself…and death by chocolate. I’m incredibly blessed to have so many people that would stand in a line to congratulate me. I’m deeply honored by it! At the time though, I’ll admit, my thoughts were, “Oh no, there’s a line of people behind the person I’m talking to. Do you think I could yell, “Minion! Bring me my wine!” and someone would do it for me?”
This “mauling” time provided me the opportunity to do what I somehow do best: be a complete and total creeper. I knew the names of every single person on the guest list, where they were sitting, and especially, who the dates were. Yes, even the one’s I’d never met. My friends would begin the introduction, only to be cut off by me exclaiming (maybe shrilly): “Oh! You’re Anastasia Beaverhausen!”
And no, it’s not at all creepy to know the names of people you’ve never met and introduce them to yourself because you have talent and were amazing at the game Memory as a child. My gift is a curse as well, kittens.
(Note: I’ve just been informed that it is creepy. Even if you’re the bride. So, I will take this moment to apologize for traumatizing the dates of any of my friends and family that I enthusiastically greeted by name, address, and table number. I’m sure you’re emotional scars are great.)

Other than Carter’s friends hurling him into the air like a beach ball at a Third Eye Blind concert during “Shout”…

This is on the landing. Terrifying.

(Carter’s friends are all large, muscular, he-men. Meaning that when I say hurled, I quite literally mean that they hurled him into the air), the wedding reception was delightful and without incident.

Oh wait. There was the moment when I peed on myself.
If you have ever worn a wedding dress, you know the very real hell it is to empty your bladder. My bridemaids and I opted for what is called “The Airplane Hanger Method”, wherein I shimmied the grand taffeta sausage casing up my body and a bridesmaid held the front of the dress up and two more held the back of my dress/train and my 7,000 foot long veil. (Granted, by the reception, the train had been bustled and the veil cast aside, but it still stook three additional people to help me pee. Even when I was in diapers I did more with less. Sigh.) Anyways, I peed twice at the church without a problem.
My coordinator had told me to bring an extra pair of underwear as a backup. Just in case. By the time I was washing my hands after the second go, I was laughing to myself about what a nervous nelly she was. Pee on myself? Preposterous.

Until I did it.
Let me tell you, friends. You don’t realize how much you rely on your eyesight when using the restroom. And when you’re blinded by 2 yards of ivory silk taffeta that you’re reaching around to pull your underwear to the side because you can’t take it off because you couldn’t bend over to put it back on even if you wanted to, well, let’s just say it’s difficult. (Read that paragraph again. It’s dense and you need to absorb every word.)
And at the reception, I failed. Call it hubris, I sure as hell am. Thank God for spare underwear and thank God too for my wedding coordinator, who is, quite literally, the most amazing and competent person ever. She saved me. Ok, well, in this specific situation, three bridesmaids and a spare pair of underwear saved me, but for the rest of the day in general, I literally couldn’t have done it without her.
So here is the gist, and what I’ll leave you with:
1.      I cannot do the Dougie. Many people have tried to “teach me how to Dougie.” It has not taken. And no matter how much he will insist that he can do the Dougie, Carter is as lousy at it as I am. (Note: for those of you who do not have hip, younger sisters that shame you into keeping “current”, I am not referring to Dougie Howser, M.D.. I am referring to a hot new dance craze that is gripping the nation. As I see it, you pretend to be Danny from Grease. For the whole song.)
 I know it’s not very clear. But there is an awful lot of awkward hair slicking going on here.

2.      I’m pretty sure there are several pictures of my attempting to do the Wobble. Which I also couldn’t figure out. But I think it’s like a really slutty electric slide. And I plan on YouTube-ing it later to learn it. I like slutty line dances.

3.      A shot on ice through a straw is not a shot. It is a drink on the rocks that you drink really, really quickly through a drink stirrer.

4.      A catheter is not a crazy idea for a bride.

5.      DO NOT FORGET YOUR PASSPORT. (Yes, I did this. Thankfully, we have amazing friends, one of whom coaxed his way into our apartment and rifled through my tank tops to find it and bring it to the wedding. You’re the best, Will!)

6.      The officiant makes the wedding. Choose wisely. We certainly did.

7.      Do NOT subrogate your stress by eating 11 bourbon balls and expect to remain sober. You will not. Which, depending on your angle, may or may not be a good thing.
8.  A friend of ours asked to have a blog written about him, but didn’t give me anything to go on. So, Alex, until you do – here you go.

9.      The best tidbit I received is this. Relax and take it all in. After all, it’s about the marriage, not the wedding. The Wedding is frosting. The Marriage is the cake. If the cake isn’t good and exactly what you want it to be, no amount of frosting will fix it or make it better.
And I have to say, I think Carter and I have some pretty good cake to look forward to. J

(And now it the part where I realize, in some amount of horror, that I just told however many people read this blog [probably 9] intimate details of my potty routine on my wedding day.  The sad thing is, I’m not nearly as mortified as I should be. I liken it to Ginny Weasley snogging Dean Thomas in the Gryffindor common room in front of wizard and country and not being embarrassed. Only, whereas I was participating in an absolutely necessary activity, Ginny was just being stupid. And dating a git. And she should be ridiculously mortified for both. So maybe it’s not the same thing at all.)

Why yes, Sun Shower, that is General Sherman’s army marching down the ridge

It’s 3 days ‘til the wedding, kittens. It’s a funny time in my life. I’m up to my metaphorical lady-balls in stress and I may as well be delivering caffeine through a hypodermic needle. (I’d like to say I’m kidding, but….  Seriously, though. Do they make coffee IVs? If so, sweet mother of cheese, where can I get one?)

One of the more enjoyable things this past week, though, has been putting together the wedding slideshow. This means that I get to pore through pictures of Baby Me and Baby Carter, right on up to Current Me and Current Carter. I have determined that we went through this progression of development. (You know like bugs? Eggs, Larvae, Chrysalis, Adult? Didn’t you all take 6th grade science? Anyone?)
1.       Freakin’ Adorable Baby
Tell me I’m not the cutest baby ever to grace OshKosh B’Gosh with my body.
2.       Even freakin’ more adorable toddler

3.       Sassy and precocious child
“Bitch, please.” (I seemed to say.)

4.       Buck-toothed awkward “middle stage” (that is, quite literally, the best, kindest way to put it)
5.       Chrysalis (i.e. cocooned, but promising to emerge triumphant, i.e. “hot”)

6.       “Hot Damn, I’m the best looking highschooler I know”

7.       “Maybe I drink to much” (i.e. the first two years of college)

8.       I’m too old for this shit.  (i.e. the last two years of college)

9.       “Long distance relationship has made me sad. I will have a 4th brownie.” (i.e. I’m in a Long Distance Relationship and will therefore shame-eat anything that crosses my path. And now I’m chunky.)

10.   “Oo, oo, looky! I’ve been running lately and now you can see that I have a figure and am not smuggling hams out of the Piggly Wiggly under my shirt!”

(Note: Stage 10 began like a week and a half ago.)

Ok, so looking through pictures puts in perspective that yes, we all were ugly ducklings at some point. If you weren’t, you either need to:

a.       Smack some reality into yourself. HARD. (Do it. Do it now.)

b.      Stop reading this frickin’ blog right now because I don’t have time for your perfectness!

(Please don’t stop reading. I take it back. Maybe you are like Sofia Vergara and went from in utero to “OMG, OMG, I would kiss a girl if the girl was her” without any awkward phases.)

But what those pictures have done for me more than anything is remind me of some pretty awesome times.

(Note: in this picture, Kara is really into those Cheerios and I am having a stroke.)

Which brings me to the subject of this post. (I never get right to the point. You should know that by now. I like to tease it out, make you wait. It’s the least you deserve.)

There is a picture, which I am not posting in case the other people in the background read this blog and sue me.  (A girl can dream, right?) Anyways, in this picture, I am standing, staring at the camera, while  The American Civil War (War of Northern Aggression for those of you south of the Mason Dixon line) is raging behind me. LITERALLY.

How is this possible, you ask?

I have one of those dads that is obsessed with the Civil War. And, for the real ironic kicker, he’s a yankee. A proud yankee, I might add.

And what do Civil War buffs do? They go to reenactments.

And what do they do when they don’t want to go alone? They bring their spouse.

And when their spouse flat out refuses? They bring their kids.


They bribe the little suckers with My Little Ponies.

Remember those?

That’s right, folks. My dad has taken me to nearly every Civil War battlefield within his grasp. And until I turned 10, he did it by bribing me with My Little Ponies. (After that, we just worked in cash.)

But, being the precocious (this means “pain in the ass” too.)little person that I was, I LOVED it. I loved it so much that I verbally harassed the other kids who were bribed similarly. It was like freakin’ Lord of the Flies out there at Antietam.

KID: Daddy, I’m scared. There are a lot of dead people out there. And what if we get shot. (Kid is sobbing, btw.)

6-YEAR-OLD ME: It’s not real, dummy. It’s called a re-enactment. It’s just pretend.

KID: How do you know?

6 YEAR-OLD-ME: Because I know everything. (Duh!)

I’m sure that at this moment, my dad was torn between lecturing me on why we don’t call people “dummy” and being so stinkin’ proud that his buttons popped off and blinded someone. (There are no middle grounds in my stories, remember? I paint in extremes.)

I would lean on the fence, clutching my new Pony in my hands, watching as the Confederate 7th Arkansas held down Peter Hill while Union Colonel Dan McCook’s Brigade moved forward along the Springfield Pike at the Battle of Perryville. (See that? Knowledge.)
(By the way, DON’T Google “Civil War My Little Pony” looking for cute pictures of Sea Winkle in a Confederate uniform. There are those pictures, don’t get me wrong. But they’re posted on white supremacist websites. LESSON LEARNED.)

We would watch the “dead” men baking in the sun and suspend our disbelief when we could see them sucking on a cigarette like the Rapture was coming. The cavalry was always spectacular, even though Sea Winkle was vastly superior in skill and beauty to the colonel’s horse, Trigger. (I have no idea if that was his real name. But it seems like a Civil-War-horse-y enough name, right?)

It’s one of those quirky things my dad and I did when I was a kid.

Most people thought it was unbelievably weird to take a 6-year-old to a re-enactment.

Other people thought it was inappropriate, that all of the fake violence would rot my brain. (Don’t you DARE say a word.)

But here’s the thing. I respect my dad for not giving a rat’s ass what those people thought. I sure as hell didn’t. I was something special that he and I did together that literally no one else I knew could say that they did with their dads. And that means a lot.
That, and it gave me one hell of a My Little Pony collection.
Okay. Okay. That’s not my pony collection. It’s this woman’s. But if my ponies were not in a Rubbermaid tub in the basement, that’s EXACTLY what they would look like. Flutter! Flutter!

 (My captions aren’t working to day, but this one says, “Hurry up, Dad, we’re going to miss the cavalry charge!)

Pony pictures were borrowed from these lovely people: