I Shoulda Majored in Womyn’s Studies

10

You may ask yourself…

October 14, 2010

…well, how did I get here?
–Talking Heads

—-

That’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot in the past several days: How on Earth did this happen?

How did I go from the (self-appointed) champion of single women everywhere to a BRIDE in less than a year?

How did I go from spending the grocery money on shoes to pinching pennies in order to pay for a WEDDING?

How did I go from Bachelor Girl to WIFE?

Well, how DID I get here?

Until just a couple days ago, I didn’t really have a good answer.

—-

Like Katie said, I felt a definite yearning last year. I loved being single; loved it. I even loved the parts most single people hate – living alone, sleeping alone, figuring it out alone. Heck, I even loved dating! (Well, most of the time.) But I won’t lie; there was something missing, though at the time, I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

In the couple of months before I met The Guy, I had come to accept the distinct possibility that I might be single for the rest of my life. This conclusion didn’t exactly trigger a pity party, but there was some grief over it. I mean, I knew I would probably have relationships – maybe even some really good ones – but I came to terms with the fact that I might not end up married.

The hardest part of that was the idea that I might never get to share my life with someone. And that was a bittersweet moment, because I realized that I didn’t long for a partner so much when times were hard as when times were really good. My family and friends are so supportive. Seriously, if I told them I decided to go to the moon so I could write a travel piece on it and try to sell it to Texas Monthly, they’d help me pack, throw me a bon voyage party and start arguing amongst themselves about where in my apartment I should display my forthcoming Pulitzer. And if I started writing now and didn’t quit until the day I die, I could never fully explain to you how much that kind of love means to me. But let’s face it – it’s just not the same as sharing those ambitions and successes with a life partner.

So once I accepted that I might never be Mrs. Bachelor Girl, I had to decide just what, exactly, I planned to do about that. Finally, I said to myself, “Well, then you have to make sure your life is as fulfilling as possible in every other way.” And I set out to do just that.

And that, my friends, is when it hit me:

I know now EXACTLY how I got here.

One day, my friend Ryan called me and told me about a job opportunity. I thought about it and decided it was something I really, really wanted to do. However, I was completely and utterly underqualified for this particular position. No matter. Ryan said he would teach me everything I needed to know, and he did. I became more familiar with The New York Times and the Internet Broadway Database than any human being should ever be for any reason.

And long story short, I met The Guy, like, a month later.

Luck? Of course. Blessing from God? Sure. But I think there’s a less metaphysical explanation, too:

I got busy pursuing something I loved, and I met someone who shared that passion. I wasn’t focused on “meeting someone,” so ironically, when I met someone, I was much more myself than I probably ordinarily would have been. I wasn’t fretting about whether or not he would like me or think I was good enough (because I had already decided I am likeable and “good enough”), so I could evaluate very clearly whether or not he was the right person for me. Interestingly, because I wasn’t caught up in analyzing his every action, I felt freer to simply do nice things for him and make him happy, because I liked him.

I still do like him. Very much, actually.

Are we perfect?

AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

What? Oh. Ahem. Sorry. Uh, NO. No, we are not.

(For one thing, he loves British comedy, and I have tried, SWEET JESUS YOU KNOW I HAVE TRIED, but dude, I just don’t get it. I guess. Because he’ll be about to wet the sofa laughing and I’ll be sitting there going, “What? What’d they say? Rewind it. Was that supposed to be funny? Did they say something about Tories again? Huh?” And he wants to stab me in the face. Because if it’s not Ricky Gervais or Eddie Izzard, then it’s going right the eff over my little American head.)

But we ARE perfect for each other.

(Either of us just has to utter the words “book,” “report,” “Peter” or “rabbit” in any order for the other to burst into song.)

And in two days, I’m going to MARRY him!

And I’ll know exactly how I got there.

Your soon-to-be-wed
Kel

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44

The Dreams That You Dare to Dream

September 23, 2010

I am so proud of my friend Erik.

Several years ago, he wrote a play called Pangaea, and tonight at 8:00, that play makes its world premiere at Marjorie Lyons Playhouse at Centenary College.

I’ve written a play before, and it was one of the most frustrating and frightening but magical experiences of my life. I can only imagine what it would feel like to have my creation come to life onstage, especially if, like Pangaea, one of my oldest and dearest friends was directing it and some of the people I love most in the world were in it.

Shreveport is justifiably busting our collective buttons over our hometown boy. You can read all about it here, here and here (page 44).

The only downside is that Pangaea runs for one weekend only, so make sure you come out and see it. Show times are Thursday, Friday and Saturday at 8:00 p.m. and Sunday at 2:00 p.m. Tickets are $10 for adults, $7 for seniors, $5 for students and free for Centenary students and faculty.

GO ERIK!!

——–

In other news, I’ve had two things on my mind lately:

1. How/when are The Guy and I going to put away all these shower gifts before Saturday night, when we will have another shower and another influx of gifts?

What a problem to have, right?! Believe me, I’m NOT complaining, I’m merely perplexed. Fitting this much stuff into a house the size of The Guy’s requires, like, math and whatever, and y’all know I’m really bad at that. It’s also complicated by the fact that we want to stop and play with everything (the creme brulee torch* is a particular favorite), which doesn’t exactly speed up the process.

In short, we’re like a couple of four-year-olds on Christmas morning who have been tasked with cleaning up our room before Santa comes again. It’s pretty much blowing our minds.

2. What to do about my name?

The Guy’s attitude is this: “It’s completely your decision. I will be honored if you decide to take my last name, but it’s YOUR name, and if the tradition went the other way, I don’t know that I’d be too keen on changing my name after all this time.”

(This kind of outlook is totally one of the reasons I’m marrying him, by the way.)

I know I want to take his last name. Some feminists have strong feelings about this, but I really don’t. I love The Guy, I consider it an honor to share a last name with him, and I want everyone in our family (however many of us there may one day be) to have the same last name. And I know I don’t want to hyphenate. It’s a good idea in theory, but those names always end up being a mouthful, and as someone who’s lived her entire life with a last name that almost no one can pronounce correctly the first time (in part because it’s spelled BACKWARD), I’m not of the mind to complicate things any further.

Aside: Our last name is Irish, and though it’s spelled Phelan, it’s pronounced FAY-len. Originally, it was spelled Phaolain, or possibly O’Phaolain, and in order to make it easier for people to spell and pronounce, some genius changed it to its current configuration. To that ancestor, I have just one thing to say:

FAIL.

Anyway.

So I know I want to be Kelly Powell. The question is, what comes in the middle?

As I told my friend Brandi the other day, I’m struggling with this.

1. I don’t think I can bear to officially part with my middle name because it was was my grandmother’s middle name too. So one part of me says that on my Social Security card, my name will be Kelly Elizabeth Phelan Powell, and I’ll write and otherwise be known as Kelly Phelan Powell. Also, this way, I could keep all my monogrammed stuff in good conscience!

(As I said, I love The Guy, and I would marry him no matter what his last name was, but I have to be honest and tell you that I’m really happy I don’t have to re-monogram my luggage. If that makes me shallow, then so be it.)

2. Another part of me knows that Nana wouldn’t care, and even if she did, she’d want me to do the traditional thing, so stop being a dumbass and just go with Kelly Phelan Powell. Besides, do I really want to write out FOUR names every time I sign an official document?

3. Yet another, smaller part of me says give up the Phelan, not to the Elizabeth, but ALL of me knows that my dad would have kittens.

Brandi, who’s a doctor and ever practical, had this to say about it:

“Speaking as someone who has closed on a couple of houses, yes, it would be a giant pain in the ass to sign four names. And that’s also coming from someone who’s a physician and basically makes a squiggly line with a tiny M.D. beside it and passes that off as a signature – even THAT is a pain to write so many times!”

Also, she said, “I think [Kelly Phelan Powell] sounds powerful, like an attorney or something.” Never hurts to have a little oomph behind your name, know what I mean?

So let’s hear it – what do you guys think? Am I a big ol’ sell-out because I want to change my name? Should I keep Elizabeth or drop it? What did you do? Would you do it differently if you could?

Your renamed
Kel

*How many of you have already placed bets that The Guy and I are going to end up either a) with third-degree burns or b) setting the house on fire with the blowtorch?

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16

No Plastic Tiaras, Please

September 13, 2010

This weekend, my friend Mere, whom I’ve known since college and who is the Maid of Honor in my wedding, came to town for a quick visit and to help me tie up a few loose ends, wedding-wise. For dinner Saturday night, The Guy and I wanted to take her someplace that is “quintessential Shreveport,” and after much discussion and debate, we settled on Superior Bar & Grill, which is as famous for its party atmosphere as it is for its delicious Mexican food.

There was a girl there – she looked to be in early to mid twenties – having a bachelorette party with a bunch of her friends. How did I know it was a bachelorette party? Well, you couldn’t miss the fact, really. The whole group of girls was dressed in short, tight cocktail attire and teetered on dangerously high heels, and they were doing shots amidst a fair amount of what we refer to here in the South as “hootin’ and hollerin’.” Lest the evening’s purpose escape anyone with whom they came in contact, the one in the middle of all the action was wearing a plastic tiara, a veil and a sash. So either she was taking her First Communion at St. Margarita of the Salsa Bowl Holy Roman Catholic Church, or she was a bride signing off from singledom with a bang and, most likely, a wicked hangover.

Mere said, “Aw, Kel! Are you excited about your bachelorette party?! Saying goodbye to your single days forever?”

I thought about it for a minute. “Not really,” I answered. “I’ve been doing that for years.”

Don’t misunderstand me – I am BEYOND excited about my bachelorette party. Katie and Jessica are in charge, and as far as I know, the plan involves going away for a couple days. But what I’m really looking forward to is spending uninterrupted, extended time with my girlfriends. What with planning this wedding and all, I haven’t seen ANY of my friends as much as I’d like this summer, and the idea of relaxing, hanging out, catching up and telling stories in the eye of Hurricane Wedding sounds like heaven. I don’t know exactly what the girls have planned, but I know for sure that there are no clubs or bars involved, and the preferred dress is yoga pants and t-shirts, which is exactly the way I want it.

But as far as “saying goodbye to my single days”? As I told Mere, I’ve been single for a long, long time. It was mostly pretty fun, and I took full advantage of it. But I won’t be sad to see my single life go, not at all. I feel like I did everything I needed to do while I was on my own, and now I’m ready to begin my life as One of Two. I guess I don’t see it as the end of anything; to me, it’s the start of a brand-new adventure, and what’s more exciting than that?

(The Guy’s bachelor party, for which I am making the food because we are exactly that boring, involves a poker tournament, good Scotch and probably a few cigars.)

There will be no strippers at either party. Katie and Jessica know me well enough to know that some spray-tanned, spiky-haired douchebag who looks like a Cheeto in a banana hammock and who probably can’t spell his own name is pretty much the Anti-Kelly.

I can’t speak for The Guy, but I know his taste in women, and I’m reasonably certain that Maggie Gyllenhaal won’t fly to Louisiana just to take her clothes off to Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl” playing on the stereo in somebody’s living room no matter how much you pay her.

—-

The other night, The Guy asked me if I could think of anything, anything at all, that I wanted to do while I was single that I still haven’t done yet. I thought and thought, and finally, I came up with two things:

1. Buy a convertible.

2. Travel to Europe by myself (just to see if I can do it).

The Guy assured me that we can trade in Fiona Fit for a convertible any time I want to. At first, I was excited, but then I realized I actually really like my car and don’t want another one right now.

(Unless Honda starts making a convertible Fit. Then it’s goodbye, Fiona.)

(What? Loyalty will only get you so far.)

And frankly, Number 2 doesn’t sound like much fun anymore. Dealing with delayed flights, cramped seats, jet lag, currency exchange and a language barrier all by myself? No thanks.

So I think I’m ready. Bring on the bachelorette party.

Just leave the plastic tiara at home.

Your marriageable
Kel

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16

Mad Women

August 18, 2010

A few weeks ago, The Guy and I made a grave error.

We watched the season premiere of Mad Men.

And now we’re hooked, damn it all.

Neither of us are big television people. I mean, sure, we watch it sometimes, but we mostly watch the History Channel, Food Network and the Travel Channel. Frankly, we just don’t have a lot of time for TV series, and we’d really rather watch movies or read anyway.

But this show has brought out an interesting dynamic in our relationship. For one thing – and he’ll never say this – I know he wishes I had a rear end like a Christmas ham like Joan Holloway does. More than once, he’s sighed, “I wish women still dressed like that.” “They are wearing some serious underwear under those costumes,” I remind him. But though I don’t relish the thought of wearing a girdle every single day (my Kymaro Shaper and my Spanx squeeze my stuffing out as it is, thankyouverymuch), I actually kind of agree with him. When my mom and I started discussing my Christmas in the Sky dress, we didn’t even consider going shopping – she went straight into the attic and pulled out a Vogue pattern from about 1962, a copy of the dress and coat Jackie Kennedy wore on her first state visit to France, when President Kennedy famously remarked, “I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris.”

More fascinating is the way he reacts to the early-60′s sexism that’s (realistically) rampant in the show. With very few exceptions, the male characters completely dismiss the females. At best, they view them as powerfully sexual creatures; at worst, they treat them like children. Every time it happens, The Guy’s jaw drops, and I’m always quick to say, “That actually happened.” Which I realize sounds sort of ridiculous coming from someone born in 1977, but thanks to my mom, my grandmother, college professors and countless other women who lived through it and told the tale, I know it’s true.

My mom, perhaps the greatest feminist influence I’ll ever have, wanted to be a veterinarian when she was a little girl. (I won’t tell her age because she’ll kill me, but suffice it to say this would’ve been in the early to mid 50′s.) She definitely could have been one, too – she’s great with all animals, even ones I won’t touch, and she’s good at math and science. Her grandmother, though, told her to get that idea right out of her head. Ladies, she said, did NOT become veterinarians. Which was true, I guess, at least in Shreveport, Louisiana. Mom’s only viable options were Nurse, Teacher, Model, Stewardess or Secretary.

Well, Mom likes people a lot less than she does animals; she likes children even less; she’s about five feet tall in her stocking feet; and she doesn’t particularly like to fly.

Secretary it was. Starting in about 1965, right smack in the middle of Mad Men territory.

She wore a hat and gloves to work every day, along with the ubiquitous girdle. She hated to miss work for anything, because when she came back, the men (and almost everyone she worked with was male) would tease her about having her period. She was a damn good secretary – over the years, she got promoted to work for a series of increasingly powerful men – but like most other women at the time, she was largely looked over, disregarded and ignored.

—-

That’s why it irritates me so much when people – especially women – claim they’re “anti-feminist.” They blame the feminist movement that started in the 60′s for the decay of morality and the erosion of “family values.” But if you have a college education, if you own your own business, if you can get a prescription for birth control pills without the doctor lecturing you about becoming a slut, if you can report a rape at the police station and get taken seriously, if you can divorce your abusive husband without being ostracized by your entire community and if you can have any career you want, INCLUDING Secretary, then you have the feminist movement to thank. It’s exactly that simple.

Mom didn’t burn her bra or anything, but she sure as shit made sure I knew who Gloria Steinem, Camille Paglia and Betty Friedan were. I like to say I knew who Helen Gurley Brown was before I knew “Jesus Loves Me.” That might be a slight exaggeration, but neither of us are entirely sure.

—-

I’ve been wearing my red lipstick a little more often, and this fall, I might buy a few pencil skirts and tight sweaters. Heck, I may even get myself a pen necklace.

But all things considered, I’m pretty glad my bosses are women, and they’ll never ask me to make them martinis unless I’m making one for myself, too.

Your refreshingly retro
Kel

P.S. The Guy asked me to tell you all that he doesn’t care if a woman never makes him a martini at work.

He doesn’t care if it’s a man OR a woman. He just wants a martini at work.

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20

On Kitty Litter

August 10, 2010

I think a person’s ability and willingness to deal with kitty litter is sort of like paper towels: You’re born with a roll of a certain size, and every time you’re faced with kitty litter, you metaphorically tear one off, clean up the kitty litter and throw it away.

I used the majority of my roll before first grade.

In fact, that’s the code phrase The Guy and I use whenever we encounter a kitty litter situation: “Honey, do you need more paper towels?”

“Yes, my love, I do. We better go to Sam’s, because this is about to use my ENTIRE ROLL.”

Seriously, you can ask my mom; I was an unnaturally self-aware child, and I could identify kitty litter from a mile away by the time I was old enough to focus my eyeballs. To be honest, it made life difficult for me. In circumstances in which other kids would happily go with the flow, I resisted, because I could tell, in some very basic way, that whatever some dimwit adult wanted me to do was kitty litter and therefore unimportant. I guess you could say that’s pretty egotistical, because it’s not like children have agendas and to-do lists and calendars, right? The upside, of course, was that I also realized as a wee Kel that time was precious, and I was not about to waste mine engaging in some kitty litter activity just because the teacher or whomever couldn’t be bothered to give me something worthwhile to do.

For instance:

–When I was about three, the preschool teacher at my private school asked us to draw pictures of our families. I loved drawing and coloring, so I took up my sheet of manila paper and happily complied. I drew my grandfather, my grandmother, my aunt Carol, my mom, my brothers and myself. When it came time to draw Dad, though, I faced a conundrum. My dad is very dark-skinned, with black hair and green eyes. That side of my family is what’s known as “Black Irish” – they have dark features rather than the fair skin, pale eyes and red hair typically associated with Irish people. The overall look is very unusual, and I didn’t know what color crayon to use for my dad’s skin. He’s not Brown, but he’s not Flesh, either, nor is he Indian Red. Not finding any of the colors in my 64-pack suitable, I figured it was better to leave him out than risk inaccuracy. So that’s exactly what I did.

Well, you would’ve thought I drew a picture of myself strangling a cat while setting my parents’ house on fire. The teacher, the principal and the school psychologist had my parents on the phone faster than you can say “family conflict.”

That night, my parents sat me down, very concerned indeed, and asked me why I left my father out of my family portrait.

I explained myself, and thus my relieved family very seriously started considering public school.

(Years later, I told this story to my ex-boyfriend’s mother, who presented me the next Christmas with my very own box of Multicultural Crayons so I would never run into this particular difficulty again. I still have them. Better safe than sorry, I always say.)

–Maybe a year after that, around the Thanksgiving holiday, another teacher gave the class mimeographed pictures of turkeys. We were to color them then cut them out, and the teacher promised to hang them all on the bulletin board.

I took my time coloring my turkey, and after I was completely satisfied, I began to cut him out. When I was about halfway through, I looked up and realized that almost everyone else was finished with their turkeys. Knowing full well that this turkey business was kitty-litter busy work, I simply ripped the rest of my turkey from the page and handed it to the teacher.

Guess who spent the entirety of the Christmas holidays cutting out construction-paper rings to make garland for the Christmas tree because the teacher was concerned about my “motor-skills development.”

I did not yet know the acronym “FML,” but I can assure you, that’s how I felt my fourth Christmas.

–Kindergarten.

Oh, Kindergarten.

In Kindergarten, we little kids had our first real homework. My brothers were well into their college careers at this point; college kids obviously have quite a lot of homework and studying to do, so because I wanted to be just like my big brothers in every way (except that they didn’t take ballet and never wore hair bows), I was pretty excited about having homework of my own. I thought it a very sophisticated and important responsibility indeed.

The first homework I can remember (for reasons which shall soon become obvious) is yet another mimeographed sheet of paper with pictures of farm animals. Our assignment was to color each animal, then write its name below the picture. I distinctly recall being very concerned about getting my homework absolutely correct and perfect. I wanted to make an A.

Every day after school, I went to my grandparents’ house. That afternoon, I took out my homework folder and showed Nana my worksheet. We read the directions together, and I sat down at the dining room table to get started. First up: the noble pig.

Right away, I hit a stumbling block.

“Nana, should I make the pig this color pink or this color pink?” I asked, holding two crayons out to her.

My grandmother, a wonderfully artistic soul, declared, “That pig can be any color you want it to be!”

Well, that opened up a whole new world of possibility for me. Suddenly, an idea crystallized in my mind: I would make the worksheet an EXPLOSION of candy-colored animals! The teacher would marvel at my creativity! Surely I would get an A! My brothers and my parents and my Nana and my Papa and my aunt Carol would be so proud!

So I set about coloring a purple pig, and an orange cow and a blue goat. I neatly wrote their names underneath the brilliantly-colored animals, and I carefully put my homework back in its folder, very eager to show the teacher my handiwork the next morning.

You know exactly where this is going, don’t you?

Yep.

For a long while thereafter, I had to study a book about farm animals. I insisted to my teacher that I knew what colors cows came in; my other grandfather in Texas was a cattle rancher! But it didn’t matter. She was most concerned about my lack of contact with nature, not to mention reality.

—-

I’ll spare you any more stories, but I think those three sum up my entire school career quite nicely.

—-

Difficult though my school years were, they gave me a very critical view of the world around me. And I don’t mean “critical” as in “pessimistic;” in fact, I consider myself an eternal optimist. But they made me carefully consider the things people told me and asked me to do. Sometimes, I came to the same conclusions they did, and others, I realized they didn’t have my best interests in mind. In other words, it made me exactly the kind of adult I am now: one who evaluates people, situations and tasks for herself.

They made me independent.

And I still believe that pigs can be any color you want them to be.

Your headstrong
Kel

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11

One Flew Over the Guestbook

July 29, 2010

According to our wedding website (and, I guess, the calendar, but I’m really bad at math), The Guy and I have 79 days to go until our wedding.

I’d be lying like a dog if I said I hadn’t experienced any stress. Both our lives are really busy right now, and it’s hard to find time for the stuff we NEED to do, let alone the stuff we WANT to do. But we’re trying to keep it in perspective: As long as we both show up, say yep when the preacher asks us the important questions and nobody catches on fire (always a possibility with us), the day will be a rousing success.

I suppose it would be fair to say that the majority of our stress stems from money worries. There’s an upside and a downside to having a short engagement:

Pro:

There’s less time for things to get completely out of hand. Let’s face it, when you’ve only got a four-month-long engagement, you can’t really start dreaming big dreams about Cirque-du-Soleil-type aerialists dressed up like big flaming gay lovebirds serving canapés by bungee-cording down from the ceiling.

(Wouldn’t that be cool, though?!)

Con:

You have FOUR MONTHS to come up with ALL THAT MONEY. And no matter how frugal you are, weddings are just plain expensive. It simply costs a lot of money throw a fancy party for 150 people.

And man oh man is it ever hard to pinch pennies where weddings are concerned. Part of the problem is that the Wedding Industrial Complex (WIC) would have you believe that without a $100 unity candle and a $50 guest book pen, your marriage simply isn’t valid. Even worse, you may look back one day and – dun dun DUUUUUN! – regret that you didn’t spring for the matching heart-shaped etched-crystal Champagne flutes.

Tanya the Wedding Planner is pretty good about keeping me on track. I’ll read about something I hadn’t even thought of, like maps to the ceremony location, and say, “Do we need…?” and she’ll say, “Dude, no. If they don’t have a GPS, they can Google Map it. Come on.”

(If you want a perfect example of the WIC at its worst, check this out.)

Still…

…it’s tempting.

The other day, my friend Amy posted a link to this very disturbing article on Jezebel.com. The author, a self-proclaimed “feminist,” nevertheless details her obsession with all things Wedding. She has the whole thing planned: She wants “a Maine wedding, with blueberry pie instead of cake, a royal blue vintage dress and forsythia and lily-of-the-valley everywhere.”

Here’s the thing: SHE’S NOT ENGAGED.

Uh.

I think most women fantasize about weddings to a greater or lesser extent at certain points in their lives. Hell, just listen to the conversation around you at any wedding reception.

“These peacock-feather centerpieces are gorgeous, huh?”

“Yeah, love them! My cousin had something similar, but hers had fall leaves and pheasant feathers.”

“Pretty! But you know, if I ever get married, I think I’d like those really tall centerpieces, the ones with the crystals dripping off of them.”

“Oooh! I’ve always thought a silver-and-black theme would be really dramatic…”

Most women like to plan stuff, from Christmas dinners at home to baby showers at the office. It’s just something we do. But this chick has gone a little bit too far down the rabbit hole.

There’s one part of the article with which I can DEFINITELY identify, though:

“[A wedding is] the tasteful, impeccably crafted and ingeniously designed display of one’s aesthetic leanings…As someone given frequently to pouring over the pages of Real Simple magazine, and doing daily checks of websites like Design Sponge and NotCot, the wedding is just another way to obsess over a certain type of self-expression and reflection. It’s design porn, only with the added bonus of being able to share my vision with my family and closest friends…And I think that’s really where the root of my obsession lies – in the ideal blend of public and private, personal style and manicured design. Like all elements of ‘personal style,’ we like to pretend weddings represent our individualism, our taste and our experiences. In the end…I just want to show the world a polished version of my innermost chaos.”

That is SO ME, people. And I didn’t even realize it until I read this article. As I told Amy, “I totally want people to show up and exclaim the following (in this order): 1. ‘Oh, they’re perfect for each other, and they’re so in love. I hope they’re happy together forever.’ 2. ‘HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, they’ve got the best taste I’ve ever seen!’”

Our wedding is going to include the three things The Guy and I love most in the world – music, literature and theatre. The decor incorporates a lot of vintage elements (skeleton keys, an old typewriter, an antique Singer sewing machine case, buttons) with photographs (Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, John Prine), books and scripts. I want our guests to get a clear picture of who we are as individuals as well as who we are as a couple, and yes, I WANT TO CHARM THE EVER-LOVING PANTS OFF THEM. I want them to marvel that the bride is organized and efficient enough to make 200 cupcakes for her own wedding; I want them to coo over the banner hanging on the dessert table; and I want them to marvel at the hand-calligraphed “Just Married” sign on the back of Fiona.

And you know what?

I fully recognize that that’s UNBELIEVABLY egotistical.

But I don’t think I did until I read that article.

It made me see that while I scoff at the notion of buying a $100 set of engraved cake-cutting utensils, I’ve still, as Amy would say, “got the hook in [my] lip in a major way.” I think I had really started to believe that our “Big Day” – God, I hate that phrase – would be lacking somehow if I didn’t, I don’t know, EMBROIDER a bunch of shit.

So I’ve decided to calm down a little. I truly enjoy my crafty pursuits, and I plan to employ a lot of them in the wedding. But if I end up running out of time and having to write “WE DONE GONE AND GOT HITCHED” on Fiona’s back window in shoe polish, that’s OK, too.

WE WILL STILL HAVE A GREAT MARRIAGE IF I DON’T HAND-FELT CONDOM COZIES FOR THE HONEYMOON.

I must remember this.

Your less-obsessed
Kel

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18

Here He Comes to Save the Day

July 27, 2010

The last time I used anatomical terms in a Bachelor Girl post, my mom wouldn’t speak to me for two days except to tell me how disappointed my grandmother would be. So I’m going to try to do this…gracefully.

STOP LAUGHING.

—-

So yesterday evening, I had to send The Guy out for…supplies. Of the “feminine hygiene” variety. It was, shall we say, an emergency.

As I approached The Guy with my request, I did so somewhat apologetically. Not because a woman’s menstrual cycle is anything to be embarrassed about, MOM, but because, not having grown up with sisters or anything, I figured The Guy might be somewhat embarrassed.

Boy, was I wrong.

“Really?!” he said excitedly. When I looked at him like he’d just suggested that we cancel the wedding, sell all our earthly possessions and use the proceeds to buy hallucinogenic drugs and a VW bus in Amsterdam, he explained, “It’s my first Boyfriend Mission!”

“Your first what-the-hell?”

“My first Boyfriend Mission! You know, to the drugstore. Except, since we’re engaged, I guess it’s more like a Fiance Mission. Why didn’t you ever send me on a Boyfriend Mission?”

“Because I never ran out of tampons before?”

And with a few basic instructions, off he went.

He came back half an hour later, a little sweaty and with a dazed look in his eye. “There’re just…so many options,” he muttered. “Light! Maximum! Overnight! Super! Super-plus! Wings! No wings! It’s…it’s…daunting.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, taking the plastic bag from him.

He did well on the tampon front, but this is what he brought home in the way of pads:

Maximum.

“What the eff?” I said. “‘For Sizes 14+’? What does that even mean? The size of one’s [REDACTED FOR MOM] is completely independent of the size of one’s jeans.”

“Oh God. I didn’t see that,” The Guy said. “Will they still work?!”

“I guess so,” I said and opened one up to look at it.

CHEESE AND CRACKERS. PEOPLE, THIS THING WAS A FULL 12 INCHES LONG. A foot long. A foot-long maxi pad. The Sonic Coney of maxi pads.

(And I know this for certain, because I just measured one. Which, in my world, translates to: The Guy just walked in to see his fiancee sitting on the sofa with her laptop balanced on a throw pillow and measuring a maxi pad with a Stanley LeverLock 16′ tape measure.)

(And you all wonder how I stayed single this long.)

“Uh, I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” I told The Guy.

“I FAILED!” he cried, fish-flopping onto the sofa. “I failed you! You sent me on my first Boyfriend Mission, and I FAILED!”

(Actors. They’re tres dramatic.)

“You didn’t fail,” I said. “You just…got the wrong size. Who is this thing made for, anyway? A menstruating hippopotamus?”

And you know what the worst part is?

THEY DIDN’T WORK WORTH A DAMN.

I guess I could fashion diapers for the cat or something.

Ideas?

Your perplexed
Kel

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