Flotsam

When creating our wedding ceremony, I started with a prototype—a sample ceremony, one of eight provided by the judge. I added things here, subtracted things there, and rearranged entire sections. One of the first things I dispensed with was a line about the day of one’s marriage being “the happiest day of your life.” I cringed when I read it, and crossed it out with a flourish.
First of all, it was a cliché. Second of all, I was three days away from my wedding, and barely sleeping—if I was this nervous merely anticipating the event, surely the day itself would be too nerve-wracking, too emotionally strenuous, to be “the happiest day of my life.” Exhilarating? Sure. Ultimately joyful? Of course. But “the happiest day?” It seemed unlikely that my happiest day would involve girdles and Ativan.
As it turned out, however, I could have left that line in.

Well, probably not. It was a pretty bad line, and it is still a cliché, after all. But in my case it turned out to be true: May 26th, 2007, was the best day I have had in all my twenty-seven years of days. And even though I have been back from my (idyllic, wonderful) honeymoon long enough now to have emptied a litter box, discovered an unpaid bill that had fallen behind a dresser, confronted a beetle the size of my palm, and been woken by a cat stepping on my hair, I still feel goofily, grinningly happy. I don’t know how long this feeling will last, but I am enjoying it while it does.

Scott (formerly known as the Actually) and I were touched to return to the world of Internet access to find so many of you wishing us well. I hope to have pictures to post soon. I haven’t seen any yet myself, but I can predict that all show me smiling—especially the ones taken outdoors, in the city park across the street from the venue.
The benches were populated with vagrants, who alternately urged me to hold up my dress to keep it from dragging along the ground and quarreled amongst themselves. During a particularly loving and sun-dappled moment, my new husband and I stood under a tree with our arms around one another. We smiled into the camera, and in the background someone screamed: “FUCK YOU, MICHAEL!”
I don’t know who Michael is, but he will always be a part of our special day.

Everyone should have a best friend who is an emcee and will thus WRITE AND RECORD a rap song about you and your fiancé as a wedding gift.

It is even better if that same best friend is a former salsa teacher, because it means everyone can spend the last two hours of the bachelorette party dancing to Omara Portuondo and practicing dramatic turns.

Four bottles of champagne are actually not too many for five people to finish.

Sushi is the perfect food, but after a few glasses of champagne, you might as well give up on chopsticks.

If you listen to songs you haven’t heard in a few weeks, you may notice that the lyrics are different than you remembered. For instance, in Back to Black, Amy Winehouse does not, in fact, opine that “Life is like a pie.” Rather, it is like a pipe. The fact that I was on a diet when I misheard this lyric may or may not be a coincidence.

If your fiance tells you that he is going to watch The Deerhunter again, in honor of the wedding, and you ask him if that isn’t the depressing movie about Vietnam vets, and he explains that yes, it is, but the first forty-five minutes are about a wedding— “Well, and steel factories,” he adds—just smile and tell him that sounds like a lovely idea.

Meteorologists are shifty, horrible persons who cannot be trusted. One day they will assure you that the afternoon of your nuptials will be all sunshine and cool breezes, and the next they are predicting The End Times.

More than two years of infertility has the unexpected result of rendering one entirely unembarrassed by a stranger pulling one’s labia taut in order to better remove the hairs growing upon it. And by “entirely unembarrassed” I mean I did not stop talking and joking the entire time, even when asked to lay on my stomach and hold my ass-halves apart under a bright light.

Brazilian waxes truly are painful. So painful that I sweated profusely and involuntarily during the procedure. However, while the pain does not last, what does is a delirious sense of accomplishment (and a Lady Area soft as the inside of a kitten’s ear). After the appointment, I was so flushed with pride at my formidable pain tolerance that I went straight home and plucked the few stray hairs the waxer had missed. And then I put a cigarette out in my thigh and bit the head off a live rat.

I have reached the point where I am unable to hold any data in my head or make decisions of any kind. I went shopping on Saturday intending to purchase three items: brown eyeliner, concealer, and a pair of jeans. I was completely unable to decide upon either the eyeliner or concealer, despite sampling umpteen formulations of each on the back of my hands. I found a lovely pair of jeans in my new (smaller!) size, but was unable to make the commitment to actually purchasing them, for reasons passing understanding. I ended up buying a skirt and a tube of lip-gloss, and when I paid by check, inadvertently left the amount blank.
“I think you need some coffee,” said the salesgirl.
“No,” I said, “It’s just that I’m getting married in a week.”

{Five days}

Monday was my last dress fitting. My seamstress was rather tetchy about the weight I have lost and I have been sternly reminded that I am not allowed to lose any more. This means I am on “maintenance” until after the wedding, which means more points, which means CHEESE. Oh, cheese, how I have missed you! How I have longed for your creamy embrace!
I must say, however, that I was quite annoyed with my seamstress for being so stroppy about the fact that she will have to take in the hip seams one measly inch. What part of the job description for “seamstress” did she not understand? It’s not as if she is a slave, after all—she is being paid (handsomely!) for each alteration she makes. And surely I am not the first bride to have lost a bit of weight before her wedding.
And yet she scowled and huffed and pinned and I bit my tongue to keep from telling her to bend over (her sewing machine) and take it (in).

The wedding is two weeks from this Saturday, and I hope you all find this as alarming as I do. Most things are taken care of—last night I walked the diplomatic gauntlet of assigning guests to tables, and emerged battered but triumphant. The menu is completed, the rings purchased, and the reservations confirmed. Of course we have yet to finish WRITING THE CEREMONY, but hey! Don’t sweat the small stuff, I always say!
(I have never said that. I sweat the small stuff like it’s my job. Which come to think of it, it is).

Sunday I started a package of birth control pills to suppress my unruly polycystic ovaries in preparation for next month’s IUI. I will take the last dose the day of my wedding, which makes the three rows of tiny yellow pills a rather chilling visual reminder of just how much time I have left until the big day. When I broke open the pack I could not help but feel a tiny thrill: “This is my last package of birth control pills,” I thought dramatically to myself. Then I realized it is only my last pack if this cycle works. I may very well need to be suppressed again before another IUI, and I will certainly be using said pills for suppression if I have to move to IVF later in the summer. It was a nice thought while it lasted, though.

Last night we signed a lease for a new apartment, and put down a monstrous deposit that we cannot really afford, what with the wedding and all. The apartment actually made a tear form in my eye, it was so beautiful and perfect in every way. It even has a dishwasher, the unicorn of appliances, a device I had heard of but never seen.
We will start moving July 1st. So, to recap my schedule for the summer:
May 26th: Wedding
June 14-ish: IUI
July 1: Move
Mid July: Take up residence in Debtor’s Prison

I am not sure how the new apartment relates to the ostensible theme of “lasts,” except that I have probably eaten my last dinner out, bought my last new book, and purchased my last bag of groceries that contains anything but Ramen noodles and sharply discounted legumes. I have been sitting at my desk shuffling through my vendor invoices for the wedding and thinking of money-making schemes. Here is what I have come up with so far:
–Sell furniture
–Sell books
–Sell cat (Irma?)
–Sell body (Am thinner now, so would possibly fetch higher price? Well, higher price for sex, lower price for cannibalism. Though selling self for cannibalism would make entire enterprise moot, obviously)

Any other ideas?

And finally, the best news I have had maybe ever:
Schnozz is flying in to watch the last ever episode of Gilmore Girls with me next Tuesday. This will be a bittersweet visit, as while I am delighted to be spending an evening with a dear friend, I imagine there will be much crying and rending of garments and holding one another while the credits roll FOR THE LAST TIME. Probably cocktails will help. And I am thinking I might put up some streamers, or something, to make it feel festive, and to make the Actually fear for my mental state. Apparently he thinks there is something “weird” about having a friend fly into town for one night to watch a television show. But I told him that if he mocks me, there will be no pet crow (this was Schnozz’s suggestion, and it has been quite effective).

P.S. I just spell-checked this entry and it keeps trying to change “IUI” to “Inuit.” Because the phrase “next month’s Inuit” makes SO much more sense. Spellcheck also wonders if by “Schnozz” I mean “Schnozzle.” Which…I don’t even know where to begin.

Well, thanks to all of your advice and encouragement, I made an appointment to be waxed from stem to stern about a week before the wedding. I will, of course, tell you all about it, provided I am not at the hospital having my labia surgically reattached.

Saturday morning I had an acupuncture appointment, and if I had the money, I would have that woman stick needles in me every day. I was so relaxed afterward I wasn’t sure I should be driving. My head was oddly quiet, and a bizarre feeling came over me…a sort of calmness, I think, though to be perfectly honest “calm” is not a state with which I am very familiar. I imagine it was a little taste of what life must be like for people without The Crazy. Of course, the calm only lasted until that evening, when my father called to hint darkly about suicide and ask me to be executor of his will. But I have acupuncture weekly from now on, so at least I will recapture the feeling soon. It is terribly expensive, however. I am tempted to stick myself with a few straight pins to see if that has a similar effect.

If you have not planned a wedding before, you would be surprised at the level of neurosis it inspires in the people around you. I remain fairly blasé about many of the details, but not so other family members. Below is a partial list of items that have spawned debate and/or controversy in the past few weeks:
–Tartness of piccata vs. Heaviness of cream sauce
–Beef prepared medium rare
–The Actually’s wedding shoes (new brown Chuck Taylors to go with dark brown tux/suit)
–Price of hotel affiliated with venue
–Potato soufflé vs. Garlic mashed potatoes (I stood my ground on this one—elegance be damned, I haven’t had mashed potatoes in months, and I plan to roll happily about in a pile of them at the reception).
–Invitees not being allowed to bring guests
–Choice of pink champagne for cocktail hour (I was pleased about this debate, because it meant I got to spend a pleasant afternoon sampling four varieties of pink bubbly—the overwhelming winner was also the cheapest, incidentally).
–Rehearsal dinner invitations
–Shoes for groomsmaid (I picked out the dress, but was unaware that I was expected to micromanage the rest of her attire. I told her any shoes would be fine, and this was apparently an unsatisfactory response. So I amended it to “Something that goes with the dress”).

Currently I am trying to come up with a “shot list” for the photographer. “Lots of nice photos that make me look thin” is insufficient guidance, I have been told. And if you think this issue is not rife with familial-political landmines, oh ho ho!
I don’t feel the need for lots of posed pictures—a few, sure, but primarily I would like candid shots. I certainly do not feel the need to have every possible permutation of family immortalized on film, especially as photos will be taken during the all-too-brief cocktail hour after the ceremony and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss out on raspberry-brie puffs and pink champagne just so Great Aunt So-and-So can have her picture taken with me, the Actually, and all the cousins with names beginning with letters A through K.
This is an unpopular view.

Between now and the wedding, I have only seven days without appointments of some kind. Not one of those days falls on a weekend, which means I have no long stretches of time to work with—the longest unscheduled period I have between now and the 26th is four hours. The wedding itself is in just over three weeks. People keep remarking upon how calm I seem, but I think that is only because the whistle I emit is pitched too high for human ears.