All-stars

Tonight I got a phone call from an old middle school teacher, which I realize doesn't happen to most people, but that's just because most people aren't the shit, like me. Anyway, he wanted to confirm that I was actually getting married (as I had hinted in an earlier e-mail) and asked if he could tell various attendants of a Harmon Middle School retired teachers lunch the following day.

I asked him who was going to be there, and it was a cavalcade of old favorites-- Mrs. Hayes, Mrs. Wolfe, and others. And as he was listing them off, it hit me how strange it is that, while pretty much unknown to the rest of the world, the teachers you have when you are young are like your first encounters with celebrities-- like when I freaked out when I was nine and saw my old second grade teacher, Mrs. Mills, at Heinen's, which made no sense, because teachers do not go out in public or appear anywhere other than in their classrooms.

This is a feeling I was never able to shake-- I once ran into another teacher, Mrs. Brookhart, out at the same Heinen's (only in a different plaza now, so can that really be considered the same Heinen's?), while visiting home from graduate school when I was 24. And I was still like: "Wow. Mrs. Brookhart. In Heinen's."

Maybe this isn't a phenomenon common to other people, as I was freakishly attached to my teachers growing up (which might explain why I still consider the original aforementioned sixth-grade teacher one of my favorite people). I do remember that some of my own (male-- just to clear up the coming confusion) students seemed totally freaked out to see me at the beach one day when I was a TA, but I think that was more because they didn't have their shirts on and felt totally grossed out that their TA could see their nipples.

But still, I couldn't help but feel sort of proud that news of my impending marriage was being carried back to the all-star crowd at the Harmon reunion lunch tomorrow. I just hope a certain gym teacher doesn't ruin it by doing his hilarious impression of the way I run.

I don't run like that anymore, ass! And I'm marrying a hot guy. So bite it.

Fergie's Insecurities, brought to life

So I borrowed Fergie's CD from the library, because not unlike the rest of the nation, I apparently find her "tastey". And I have to say, there are some pretty interesting songs on there-- I hope this does not diminish whatever little amount of music cred I have garnered by being an Elvis Costello or Cake fan for all these years. But there is one song in particular that irks the shit out of me, which contains the following lyrics:

Would you love me if I didn't work out/

or I didn't change my natural hair/

And I could be the/

One you want to grow older with baby/

I'll give you all that I got-t-t-t

There are several issues with this:

1. Fergie, if your boyfriend doesn't love you because you don't work out, then boyfriends across America must be living shams of lives.

2. What do you mean by your "natural hair"? Are you refering to the color? Or is your natural hair actually a matrix of snakes, a la Medusa? In that case, I, too, would be apt to leave you if you did not change it.

And, most importantly,

3. THAT LAST LINE DOESN'T FUCKING RHYME WITH ANYTHING! This isn't free verse! It's GOOD for things to rhyme in POP SONGS! It is ENCOURAGED! And for no apparent reason, that bothers me above all else.

Anyway, I thought I should make this lyrical gem available to everyone else, so we could discuss its badness. Meanwhile, I am off to go listen to Warren Zevon's greatest hits, so as to counteract whatever Pop Music Haters I may be attracting here.

(By the way, pop music RULES! There. I said it. Just not this song.)

The following activities were performed in my car between the hours of 5:05 pm and 8:15 pm yesterday, when I was caught in a really bad traffic jam on my way home from work.

1. Called Ben to find out the situation: overturned cement truck at E. 140th. Minor annoyance.

2. Called Megan to find out when I will be going to visit her and her husband and their new baby! Fun times! Too bad I'm not moving at all. Urge to pee rising.

3. Called Kelly to discuss the newest BNL release, which I had planned on buying when I got home. Not only was it beginning to look like I wasn't going to get home in time, but Kelly infomed me it's not even that great, anyway. Then, phone begins to die. Must hang up with Kelly. Distance traveled: 1.3 miles in 30 minutes. Urge to pee rising.

4. Called Ben despite dying battery. Began to cry. Not good. Cut off old woman to get in far right lane, which I have learned from the radio is the only place to be to pass the overturned truck. Looked forward to seeing truck in flames, with cement volcanoing out from every direction.

5. Listened to Blue Collar Comedy on Sirius. Blue Collar Comedy is not really that funny, so I listened to a CD I made to take to Wilmington. Upon three consecutive listens, decided that I really don't like the song "You Can Call Me Al." Who knew?

6. Sobbed uncontrollably for about 15 minutes for no reason. Urge to pee reaching deathcon-4.

7. Popped massive zit on cheek, only to discover too late that it was one of those zits that is filled with blood, which made me look like a crime victim and thoroughly freaked out the people in the lane next to me.

8. Did more crying. Wondered if a pack of travel tissues would absorb at least a little pee if needed.

9. Finally approached the location of the so-called overturned cement truck, only to learn that it had been removed several hours before, and that absolutely nothing remained to impede the flow of traffic. Immediately began going 60 miles an hour again. Cried over lack of flaming truck. Cried bitter, bitter tears.

Unfunny bop

So, I haven't been feeling very funny lately.

This scares me, because it makes me feel like I was only given so much funny, and squandered it all in my youth, so that by the time I have children, I'll be the mom who makes inane banter about cartoons that went off the air years ago and encourages my kids to join a social group like Scouts, but not even as cool as Scouts, more like Indian Princesses.

Not that there's anything wrong with Indian Princesses. If there even is such a thing. If not, I could found it, which would give me even more humorless crap to talk about.

I don't exactly know where my funny has gone, but if you read back over the last few weeks of blog, you'll see that it's been sadly lacking. Could it be due to:

1. This shitty weather, which went from blizzardy cold to unseasonably warm, causing the two feet of snow here to take on the consistency of florist's styrofoam-- the kind you like to touch at the craft store because it so willingly accepts thumb prints?

2. The presense of TiVo in my life, which makes it so I don't have to come up with funny things to entertain myself?

3. My slow but persistent transformation into The Bride, but not the cool ass-kicking bride from Kill Bill, but rather the kind of bride that wonders if post cards or magnets would make better Save the Dates? (We're leaning toward magnets.)

I don't know. But I am so unfunny right now, it kind of hurts. Do you guys still love me?

Pepzilla

In an effort to prepare for our overnight journey to Charlotte this evening, I have already drunk one 24 ounce Diet Pepsi (left), and have moved on to a comically oversized 1 liter Diet Pepsi (right).

My entire upper lip fits in the mouth of the bottle. It is madness!

Never Mind

There are only two ways to get to work from my house, and they're both closed. Snow day!

To those of you out there in the thick of it, please don't think I'm a wuss, but I am just not the kind of person who is cut out for Great Adventure. PLEASE BE CAREFUL!

If I die on the freeway on my way to work

Please

*Call my parents and Ben and tell them I love them

* Don't read my journals-- ever

* Make sure someone feeds Mamie

* Try to forget all the times I freaked out and cried or screamed for no reason, and remember as someone cool and socially acceptable

That, by the way, is not my house, but is somewhat similar. I took a half day from work and am now steeling myself to head out. I also broke Ben's coffeemaker this morning in an attempt to make him some coffee while he so graciously and uncomplainingly shoveled us out of our driveway. So if I die on the freeway on my way to work today, also make sure he knows I really am sorry about that.

The Blizzard of Aught Seven

Once, 29 years ago, Cleveland was hit with a blizzard, commonly known as The Blizzard of '78, that people still talk about to this day. I, being young and vibrant, was not alive then, but have heard much of its fury and anguish.

But let me just say, that blizzard was probably pansy-esque compared to this.

After finally being released from work today at 4:30, it took me three hours to complete the normally 30-minute drive home, including an unscheduled and most unwelcome stop at a BP to chisel free my windshield wipers from their awkwardly-frozen ice prison, which caused them to seize up and completely stop functioning about ten miles from home. Finally, after prizing them free ("THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, MOTHER FUCKER!" was, I believe, the exact phrase I used once they finally began moving again-- Ashley can corroborate this, as she was on the phone with me at the time-- on my hands free, of course, as I do not have a death wish), Ben came and rescued me, and I followed him the rest of the way home.

I would like to thank the manufacturers of my intensely oversophisticated ice scraper and the makers of Orbit Mint Mojito gum (it really tastes like an alcoholic beverage!) for helping me survive this ordeal.

In the meantime, I thought it would be prudent to announce, for those of you who don't know, that I WILL BE IN WILMINGTON THIS WEEKEND, and expect to see all my Wilmingtonian friends while I'm there. Please tell me the temperature is about 18 degrees, and I will be able to get the car wash I so desperately, desperately need.

Drama, deferred

At work, we have Fox News playing in the lunchroom at all times (not because we are particularly interested in the thoughts of Greta Van Susternen, but because we don't know where the remote is, and therefore cannot change the channel), so it didn't take us long to find out about the death of Anna Nicole Smith. And soon, the entire office-- men and women both-- were abuzz with the information, speculating on cause of death (TrimSpa? Was it TrimSpa?) and remembering our favorite ANS moments.

I have to admit that, even as a well-educated woman of literate aspirations and supposedly lofty life goals, I am utterly fascinated by all celebrity disasters. For instance, I wrote a paper on the OJ Simpson civil trial verdict that got me a scholarship to my undergraduate university-- and I wrote it not to make an ironic statement, but because I was genuinely addicted to the OJ trial.

And now the death of ANS gives me a whole new stable of things to obsess over-- was it suicide? Did someone kill her? Does this have something to do with her dead son? Who is the father of that baby? Things I never would have really put any thought into otherwise-- ANS was not particularly high on my Celebrities To Watch list, despite her being batshit crazy.

But the question remains-- why do these things so interest me, when in theory, I am supposed to be reading up on literary theory and paying very close attention to the political climate around me?

I have two theories on this:

Theory 1: I. Love. To Gossip. But yet suffer from a crippling fear of fully gossiping about anyone for fear of being caught, and also, yes, because it's really just wrong to do so. I try to limit my gossiping to only well-trusted sources, whom I know will not repeat my gossip; I try also to stick with gossip I know to be true, not things I heard or thought possible. But my thinking is, celebrities sign away full gossip rights by stepping into the spotlight, and I am free to gossip about them with impunity. So now, I am free to go buckwild with my theorizing, and to share my speculations with anyone I see fit.

Theory 2: I also love drama, but as anyone who has attended an MFA program (or any school, for that matter) can tell you, too much personal drama can lead to very bad things. Celebrity drama, however, can be enjoyed at full-strength, because while you know Anna Nicole Smith, you don't actually KNOW Anna Nicole Smith, which enables you to delve as deeply as you want into the sordid details of her death without any personal emotional repercussions.

This, of course, does not mean I'm glad Anna Nicole Smith is dead; it's never good to hear that anyone has died. But am I interested in her death? Indubitably.

Death to Scum

I highly recommend that you all go out and buy this Scumbuster RIGHT NOW. If, for example, you have a scummy bathroom, like I do, it will allow you to destroy scum in a most satisfactory manner, as well as unidentified blue-black smudges of what can only be Super Scum, various types of mildew, and other nastiness.

You can also use Scumbuster to clean:

*sinks
*toilets
*the lid to your perpetually scum-covered metal garbage can
*windowsills (which get very, very dirty, in case you haven't noticed)
*carpet (or so the packaging says, although I can proudly say that at least my carpet is free from scum)
*the other heads of the Scumbuster

and so on.

All I know is, my bathroom is a million times cleaner than your bathroom. At least a million. Which is why it pains me so that, immediately upon completion of Operation Scumbust, Ben suggested that tomorrow, we wash the dog in the bathtub.

The prodigal poster returns

So, I know I haven't been the best at keeping my "blog more and comment more" resolution, but I have to admit, this whole wedding planning thing is a real ass-kicker! But we now have an official date (after visiting the worst location ever for a wedding reception-- in the worker cafeteria at the BP building), a dress, a caterer, a cake, and possibly a DJ. So it's all coming together quite nicely.

But on top of that, I have been:

• working with the Aurora High School Class of 1997 Reunion Committee to pull together some semblance of a reunion. So let me just inform you right now that if you are a member of the Aurora High School class of 1997 and you read this blog, you will be attending this reunion. There's really no way around it. Jeremy. Thaddeus. I will come to your homes and get you and make you dance. We'll be doing the Macarena. Oh, the joy, the joy of it all!
  


• returning all the e-mails in my inbox. This does not include the seven bazillion e-mails I got in response to my "I'm getting married!" e-mail of 12/26. Those of you who sent one of those e-mails, I greatly appreciate each and every one of you, but I must declare e-mail bankruptcy regarding those messages, lest I be found dead at my computer.
  


• working out with my new arm and ankle weights I got for my birthday, in an attempt to not have big scary flappy underarms on my wedding day. Thus far, I have accomplished only Looking Like a Supreme Idiot, as I tend to talk on the phone while wearing the weights and walking the dog, so I can often be found standing in front of various neighbor's houses, pumping my arms wildly and apparently talking to myself while my dog sniffs around in the garbage.
  


• attempting to overcome my fear of the woman who runs the place where we're getting married, because she totally hates me, and I think it's because my mom mentioned to her that I drank too much at a party I once attended at the same party center, thus securing my reputation, in this woman's mind, as "the girl who will almost certainly get drunk and ruin her own wedding."

And so on.

So, I must apologize, but it seems likely that my posting and commenting will be sporadic, at least until we get past this initial phase of wedding planning. But I am reading everyone's blog, and thinking of funny comments in my head. Which has to be worth something.

If it makes you feel any better, my hair is turning gray at a fantastic rate, which is alarming not only in and of itself, but also because I cannot resist the temptation to rip all the gray ones out, which will only ensure that, while I may have tight toned wedding underarms, I will probably be bald.

Also, please enjoy this picture of myself as a seventh-grader. Please note that yes, that is my dad's shirt I'm wearing. And I'm out in public. And those really were my glasses.

I feel that this display of naked humility should excuse me from all further anger at my not posting very much. Thank you!

I can't stop scanning things, so this might be the bulk of my blog for a couple days. But, I feel that the things I'm scanning are excellent insights into my life. Life this weird modge-podge journal I kept for a few weeks in grad school:

My only good halloween costume

We finally got the scanner I got for Christmas working, and so, as a belated Christmas present to you all, I offer this picture of me as a Killer Bee, circa 1988. What made me a killer bee was that I had a machine gun, sadly not pictured here.

Considering I now have an insatiable urge to scan every flat thing in my house, you can expect to see many more images as compelling as this one in the days and weeks to come.

Hot off the presses!

Had another column in the Dispatch today-- those of you who knew me while I was in Wilmington will recognize the story of The Great Potato Fire, as detailed here. I'm really proud of this one, mainly because I've been dying to tell the story of the GPF since the day it occurred.

I'm going to be writing a few more for them to keep in the hopper, and while I don't want to scavenge from my blog, I might need some suggestions to get the creative juices flowing (that is SUCH a disgusting phrase). Your thoughts?

Sad box

So.

I've been trying to figure out how to tell you about the resolution of my wee box problem for about a week now, and I'm not really coming up with anything. So instead, I'll just tell you in the least grody way possible.

So after the "you're just wiping too hard" incident, I went to my lady parts doctor for a second opinion. His first opinion? "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He is the stupidest urologist ever. What is his name? Dr. Stupid Urology?"

After this spite-filled (but quite true) rant, we got down to business. One exam later, I finally had the answer to a question that has been burning (yes, pun intended) inside me for almost a year:

Vulvodynia.

I have vulvodynia. Which, apparently, is a fancy term for "depressed lady parts."

Long story short, something in my brain short-circuited after that first bladder infection-- apparently, the only bladder-related issue of this entire ordeal-- and caused my lady parts to go all out of whack, simulating a bladder infection, but not actually being one. They are, in short, depressed.

The best way to treat this problem, apparently, is with extremely old-school anti-depressants from the seventies. Because the new anti-depressants are too weenie and smooth-jazz to snap my lady parts out of their funk.

In addition, I am now required to wear only white cotton underthingies, refrain from using fabric softeners and harsh soaps, and keep horse-back riding to a minimum.

Also, I am expected to blow dry my lady parts with a hair dryer, to avoid the harsh contact that apparently comes from use of a clean fluffy towel.

I'm not doing this part. I don't even blow dry my hair.

So far, things have been going quite well. My lady parts seem to be cheering up quite nicely, and I no longer have to worry about my wee box.

I do, however, have to worry about the fact that I just willingly wrote the word "vulvodynia" on my blog, in reference to myself. A blog that my thirteen-year-old cousin reads.

Sorry, Katie!

Okay, seriously...

...I WILL be back to blog about my wee box problem. I realize that the problem is no longer of any interest to anyone, but believe me, it's super funny, and you'll die when you hear about it. But I have been very, very busy doing the following things:

• Buying my wedding dress (it's the greatest!). I so desperately want to show it to you, but I can't, for fear of The Ben Factor. I also really, really, REALLY was hoping that I'd be able to post at least one picture of me in a shockingly ugly dress, but really, I couldn't find any. Either that, or a lot of them were ugly, but they just looked good on me because I am so hot.

• Going to my first bridal show, which was a terrifying event of terror, even though I did get all the information I will need to actually pull off this wedding. At one point, though, I had a woman's elbow in my ear as I tried to walk past a "spin to win" booth that could net you either 14 nights in Jamaica or 5% off a night with The World's Most Annoying DJ.

• Staying up late at night worrying myself into nausea over my guest list, which isn't even slightly official yet, because my third grade teacher might find out about my pending nuptuals and feel really badly that she wasn't invited. (But sorry, Mrs. Brunswick. You were a bitch, and I never forgot that time you knocked over Leva's desk because she wasn't paying attention to you during math).

and many other wedding related things.

I know I promised not to be a crazed bride-to-be on this blog, but really, we're putting almost all of this behind us by the end of this week-- we're looking at one more site, auditioning photographers and DJs, and even securing Super Awesome Favor ideas. So once we enter that time where it's just list-making and envelope-licking, I will definitely have more time to talk about my wee box.

So, in short, stick with me! It will totally be up this week! Please?

Not to fear...

...the wee box story is coming-- I'm just thinking of the best way to phrase it without being totally gross. Here's a hint for those of you who watch Sex & The City, though-- Charlotte had it.

Vera Wang Terror Dress

I went dress shopping today for the first time, and felt very thin and sassy, which is actually the exact opposite of what I thought would happen. I realize, of course, that my thin-and-sassiness was mostly due to the corset and slip that actually left me dizzy for several minutes after removal, but I do not actually care, because even though I couldn't breathe, I was so. Hot.

Of course, for security reasons, I can't post any pictures of the actual dresses I tried on here-- while I do regularly inform Ben of my every move, including my need to poop, I am trying to keep him in the dark on this one. So if you'd like to see me in any thin and sassy dresses, just let me know and I'll e-mail some pictures over (but please be warned-- my mother did not tell me before she took any of the pictures, so in a fair number of them I look like a slack-jawed yokel).

So instead of posting actual pictures of me, I will instead share with you this picture of a Vera Wang dress model, whom I find very scary and upsetting. There are multi-page spreads of models just like these in every bridal magazine I pick up, and they all give me the heebie-jeebies. Why is she all hunchy like this? Why is she holding a stick? Is she going to attack me? Did she just fight a stag for superiority? Is that why her hair is so messed up, and she appears to be sporting the defeated stag's horns?

The dress I like does not look like this one. But I am so preparing my Big Stick bouquet.

2006: Angel or Demon?

Before I begin my annual year-in-review, I must share with you my make-your-own-South Park lady, as I was challenged to do by my Peruvian Girlfriend. I think she's pretty badass-- check her wicked cape:



Now, for the big review!

Up until about ten days ago, I was getting ready to give 2006 a relatively bad grade, although now for the life of me I can't figure out why. I do have a bias against even numbered years (2002, anyone?), so that might have had a lot to do with it, along with

• the thousands of dollars spent to cure my wee box problem
• the near-burglary of my home
• the continuation of my now two-year non-essay-writing streak
• the lack of visiting with my good friend Alan

But really, on the whole, 2006 was quite rad, offering such highlights as

• getting engaged to the man of my dreams (move over, George Clooney!)
• having three columns published in the Columbus Dispatch
• making not one but two trips to Wilmington
• the pregancy of my best friend Megan and my friends Deidre and Diane, along with Daren's wife Cassie and Ashley's sister-in-law, and probably at least three more people I forgot (I like babies. So sue me.)
• the marriages of my cousin Jennifer and my friends Karin and Dan (along with several others which I unfortunately could not attend)
• my first real vacation with Ben

And, to top it all off, I finally learned the real solution to my wee box problem, which was not, as previously suggested by The Worst Urologist Ever, "wiping too hard." However, I am reluctant to share it with you all, mainly because I happen to know that at least three guys from my high school class read my blog, two of whom I have known since we were little, and I totally think they do not want to know about it. But if they do, I'll totally tell you, because it's really about the single most hilarious thing that could possibly be wrong with you.

So, overall, I have to give 2006 an A+++ (there would be at least two more pluses due to the whole "I got engaged situation, but I felt the wee box had to negate at least one of them).

My resolutions for 2007? I generally don't make them anymore, because I used to be one of those people that would make impossible to reach goals and then bum severely when I did not meet them, but I think this year a few are in order:

1. Lose 10 more pounds, in order to be hot hot skinny bride

2. Immediately regain 10 pounds after wedding by eating nothing but sloppy joes and astronaut ice cream

3. Go to dermatologist to make preventative measures against future returns of the Evil Zit

4. Buy vitamins and actually take them every day, not just when I "feel" iron-deficient

5. Blog more and comment more

6. Write an actual essay

7. Get at least two more columns in the Dispatch, or maybe even the Plain Dealer

8. Kick ass in all life arenas

Happy New Year!

Sorry I've been away for so long-- I've been out of town visiting Ben's family, and then heading to Cincinnati to spend New Years Eve with some friends.

Oh. And GETTING ENGAGED!

(Oh, God. I'm such a girl.)

Ben proposed to me on Christmas, after all the presents were opened-- he reached into the tree and pulled out one more, noticeably ring-box-shaped box, which was addressed "To Ben, from Santa."

"Should I open it?" he said.

Come on, man! Open it!

Which of course he did, and there was a ring in it, and he got down on one knee and proposed and I said yes and then cried my face off and ran around screaming for about half an hour, when I finally calmed down enough for him to point out that he hadn't actually even put the ring on me yet. I called my mom and screamed at her about it for awhile, made a few more calls, and finally passed out around two in the morning.

Here, for my own greedy edification, is a picture of the cry-and-scream-inducing ring:

So, that having been said, I had just about the single greatest Christmas of all time. And as if that weren't enough, I got TiVo, too! You're so jealous. Mostly of the TiVo. I can tell.

Anyway, consider this blog post to be the end of my weeklong blog absence (blogsence?). And I hereby make a solemn vow not to talk about my wedding plans on my blog. Too much. Very much.

Seriously.