What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Oh Yeah, I Had a Honeymoon

I'm sorry, Internet. Here I've been blathering over superficial matters like the salvation of my soul when I promised to enlighten you about the fabulous trip that was Luke's and my honeymoon.

And I would, if that new husband of mine hadn't beaten me to it.

His write-up is a pretty good one, so just go and read that. However, I will say I learned more about my shortcomings in those four days than during the course of my twenty-six years of life. Like:

I am no good at driving. Frema's a very lucky girl in that, for the most part, Luke does all the driving. In this case, there were nine hours of quality car time to endure--five and a half from northern Indiana to Michigan, where we spent the night in a hotel where the idea of a continental breakfast consisted of a Frosted Flakes dispenser and a box of Hostess Donuts, and three and a half hours to Canada. The day before, halfway to said hotel, I offered to take over and unwittingly proceeded to steer us forty-five minutes in the completely opposite direction. So, not only did I tack on an extra hour and a half to the trip, it was raining on and off ALL DAY, meaning a journey that should've taken fewer than six hours ended up equaling almost the entire length of the trip. Next morning I was eager to prove to Luke I could get behind the wheel without repeating imbecile behavior like confusing I-69 with I-96. This leads directly into my next item.

I am no good at customs. Because I was driving, our safe passage through Candian customs solely depended on my ability to utilize common sense. Apparently, though, such positions of power render me unable to take advantage of my brain bank, because when asked about our citizenship, I answered Illinois, even though it's been four years since I owned a Windy City driver's license and, you know, IT'S NOT A COUNTRY, and when questioned about the possession of firearms and/or other defensive weapons, and I actually paused to stare at Luke in wonder, like, I don't know, honey, DID we pack our nine-millimeter automatic?

Luke was not pleased.

"For future reference, we are from the United States," he said, once we (surprisingly) crossed the border. "Also, if someone asks you about weapons, just say no."

I am no good at gambling. That first night in Canada, we had a nice dinner and decided to treat ourselves to an evening of fun and potential profit at Casino Niagara. It was my first time participating in gaming activity, and I didn't expect to feel so intimidated by the hoards of men and women who probably TiVo shows like The History of Poker and rip the pants off their grandmas in no-mercy marathons of Texas Hold'em. I'd been so excited at the thought of sitting in front of the dealer, maliciously stroking my piles of winning chips, slapping the palm of my hand on that luscious green table cover until I remembered professional dealers aren't as willing to answer your questions during a hand, even the most thought-probing ones, like "How much is the ace is worth again?" and "When is it MY turn?" This meant Luke represented the Frema-Useless Clutter household by default, and he actually won thirty bucks at Black Jack, but I was so, "Do it again!" "Again!" "Yeah, baby, AGAIN!" that we walked away with nothing. I then proceeded to whittle away another six dollars at the slots because I liked pulling the silver lever.

In my defense, I am VERY good at finishing off a quarter pound of cookies'n cream fudge, falling asleep in the car, and pouting over the the rain we experienced at some point EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. of our honeymoon. Luke is already counting his blessings.

* I had pictures to share with you, but Blogger is being a stupidhead, so I'll have to try again tomorrow. In the meantime, will wedding proofs do? Find 'em by visiting this Web site, clicking "Online Proofing," and finding our last names. Enjoy.

I Can't Watch That Clip of Our Vows Without Crying A River.

Well, maybe not a river. But definitely a respectable puddle.

So, I'm back. And married! It only took twenty-six years.

As you can tell from the blogs of my nearest and dearest, the wedding day, it saw rain. Luke and I knew it was coming; at the rehearsal we were huddled together under the shelter of the gazebo, shivering, attempting to stay dry, giving up all hope that the sun would deem our firstborn child a worthy sacrifice for twelve minutes of cooperation. However, our wedding party was fantastic and agreed to proceed through the park as planned, so everyone could ooh and aah over their spiffy tuxes and dresses and I could savor the moment of walking down the aisle with my father. Equally fantastic was our paparazzi, who came armed with color-coordinated umbrellas for the ladies and a white sleeveless parka vest for me, the latter probably unintentional but they deserve the credit nonetheless. Mandy Meyers, if you haven't booked a photographer for your gig yet, call the Bellas. Really. Do it now. Just don't tell them Frema sent you, because they don't know who she is.

Seconds before this shot was taken, I was hissing in my father's ear, "They forgot to set up the chairs!" I'm currently torn over whether or not to call the park and complain. On one hand, since it was wet outside, I doubt our guests were expecting chairs, and even if they were set out, who would've wanted to sit in them? On the other hand, we paid two hundred and fifty-six dollars to rent the space, so dammit, gimme my effen chairs.

Despite all that, though, the ceremony was perfect; I felt it would be the minute my dad pulled into the parking lot. When I took my place on the bricks and spotted Luke for the first time, I knew with every fiber of my being that saying "yes" to this man was the best thing I'd ever done. And when I looked into his eyes as we exchanged our vows, I saw five years' worth of love fill his pupils and spill down his cheeks. He never looked more handsome.

Praying to God we make it past the first year.

There's nothing really poetic to say about the picture we took with our pastor; its primary purpose is to serve as a public service announcement to future brides who might assume stashing lip treatments in your dainty little bridal purse and leaving said purse in the back seat of your father's truck is sufficient, because when you're ushered from the ceremony straight into pictures with no lag time in between, you will think about your lipstick but ultimately be too chicken to put a halt to the festivities for five minutes to ask your dad to fetch it for you, as you can't stop imagining your guests tapping their feet and drumming their fingers in anticipation of your arrival with only a coffee bar to keep them company. Thus, you'll resort to coating your lips with the natural moisture of your tongue and hoping the photographer can Photoshop lip gloss. My recommendation? Chapstick in your bra, if not fastened to your wrist like a sassy charm bracelet. I guarantee you'll thank me.

Anyway.... The reception went just as well, even though the cake had pistachio icing instead of buttercream and people were too interested in the open bar to notice the pretty champagne fountain set up next to the entrance. Luke and I danced our first dance to "Someone Like You" by Van Morrisson, which I first fell in love with when I heard it in Prelude to a Kiss in the scene where Alec Baldwin is lamenting the sudden drastic change in his new wife and befriends a strange old man who strangely enough made a brief appearance at their wedding and also strangely enough knows the color of the undies Meg Ryan was wearing the night she left for a summerlong trip to Europe, or something, and Alec realizes that Meg is trapped in the decrepit body of one Archie Bunker. Those less cultured in Meg Ryan cinema may recognize it from the better-known Bridget Jones's Diary, when Mark Darcy tells Bridget he likes her just the way she is.

My father and I danced to "What a Wonderful World," during which he told me how beautiful I looked and what a great family I married into. Then he said it really was a wonderful world, held me tight, and started to cry. At the end he held up my hands and shouted, tears still streaming down his face, "This is my daughter!" It was the most magical moment I've ever had with my dad.

And now I'm verklempt. More to come later.

P.S. Thanks so much for all the lovely comments and e-mails this last week. If it weren't illegal, I'd marry each and every one of you.

Series Premiere

We're back...

...from the hair appointment. There is a veil on my head, and the strands are secured with much, much hairspray. Kasia dared the rain to do its worst. Samantha also dared oncoming traffic to avoid hitting her 1991 Buick Park Avenue. Twice.

It's eleven-thirty now, and there's still an hour and a half before it's time to go. All I have to do is throw on my make-up and slip on my dress, so I'm not sure what to do next.

At the hair salon, there was much talk about the procession, and whether or not we would have one. It's a little wet now, but not bad, so I asked the girls to go for it. If there's hard rain, that's one thing. But I want to do everything in my power to see that I walk down that aisle with my father. If there's one thing I want to be Bridezilla about, it is this. I hope everyone understands.

Also, I figured out the whole AMC thing.

I'm taping episodes for today, Monday, and Wednesday so I can get the gist of the storyline without eating up the whole tape. How smart am I?

Need to shower now. Hair appointment's at nine. Must step away from computer.

AHHH!

Holy Shit.

I'm getting married today!

Random Photos, Take Three: Leaves (Also, This Whole Tree Analogy Is Starting To Wear Thin)

P.S. Jason Chambers won't be at the wedding. He landed a cohosting gig for some martial arts show on The History Channel and is doing voiceover work today in Tennessee. Honestly, the priorities of some people. :)

It rained today.

And I don't just mean today, but ALL FREAKIN' DAY. It rained during my drive to Rensselaer, where I spent two hours receiving a heavenly French manicure and trampy-red polish on my toes. It rained when Luke and I went to the hall to set up, only to find there were too many chairs at the head table, no centerpieces, no dishware--in short, a whole lotta nothin' going on. Did my best to not freak out, but the tears, they weren't above punching the shit out of my eyelids.

It rained at the rehearsal. And I don't mean an "oh, isn't that adorable" little sprinkle. I mean RAIN, with umbrellas and chattered teeth and frizzified hair--the whole nine yards. We decided that if it rains like this tomorrow, we won't do a procession to the gazebo but instead just gather inside and take it from there. The rain is also forcing us to kabosh our plan for live music and surrender to the glory of the disc player, which saves us from damaging the church's keyboard and also electrocuting our musician, who was kind enough to run to the store between the rehearsal and dinner to purchase CDs we could play before and after the ceremony.

When I woke up this morning and saw the rain, I was all, Well, fuck. Say good-bye to dry clothes, in-tact updos, and those sexy stilettos I wanted to wear down the aisle. Tonight, though, I'm almost glad, because now we don't have to wonder when the first ball will drop; it already has. And even if there are ten million more, we'll still be married, and our loved ones will still be with us, and in the end, that's what's important.

Well, that and the open bar. Mentally, I've already downed my first daquiri.

Random Photos, Take Two: Branches

The Night Before The Night Before

Today was another big day, a day that began with fewer than five hours of sleep but ended pretty well. There were account withdrawals, oil changes, trips to the Salvation Army, and the printing of many, many Mapquest directions. Right now we're in Merrillville, printing out place cards and filling out our marriage certificate. Tomorrow I'll go to Rensselaer for a top-rate manicure and pedicure (forty-five minutes away, yes, but you're talking to a woman who travels three hours for a decent hair cut, so who's really surprised?), and then it's off to the hall. The rehearsal starts at 4:30, rain or shine. After dinner, I'll head to Chicago with my parents and siblings, who'll take me back to the park on Friday.

One of our first errands when we got into town was to grab Luke's tux, which meant there was a lot of waiting around while he dealt with too-short shirt sleeves and other related issues. When he walked out of the dressing room, though, fully clad in the clothing that'll bind him to me for eternity, I felt a little preview of the emotion I imagine he'll get when he catches his first glimpse of me down the aisle. He looked so handsome, and for the first time, I couldn't wait to take his name.

I wish there were more earth-shattering revelations to share with you all. Would a picture of tomorrow's pedicure help? Cuz my toes are gonna look FABulous. Also, on a scale of one to ten, how wrong is it for a bride to sport red polish?

Random Photos, Take One: Roots

Guess what time it is.

If you thought I wasn't stupid enough to stay awake past 1:00 tonight (yesterday?), you would be wrong, Internet friend, very wrong. It is 1:25. In my defense, I'm newly showered and lotioned up, and my kitchen floor was reintroduced to soap and water for the first time since Christmas, so progress, it has been made.

In addition to chatting with my bridesmaids and securing my Blogger videographer (bloggeragrapher?), I've spent a great deal of time opening up gifts from our wedding shower, washing glasses and plates and flatware, attempting to find storage space for all the new things Luke and I have acquired to jumpstart our new life together. Part of that has involved making decisions about our current individual possessions and which ones will be lucky enough to take the ride with us. During the three years I manned PR for Saint Joe, I became the lucky recipient of at least ten pint glasses featuring logos for Homecoming, the senior class dinner, and so on. In the spirit of compromise, I designated at least half of them to the Goodwill pile that has slowly overtaken the surface of our table. I said good-bye to cups and bowls I purchased at the dollar store my freshman year, and damn if those cheap little dishes haven't fared better than some of our best pieces, assuming you don't mind burn marks from heating up cans of Chef Boyardi. All the plates I inherited from my mother when I moved into my first non-dorm/non-parental living space, gone.

When Luke moved in last September we went through a similar process, and by "we" I mean "me," because even though I was lonely and heartsick and missing him more than my luggage (random quote alert! Did anyone get it?), I had become quite accustomed to having my way when it came to where I put those dollar-store finds, how many to hang on to, and which to throw in the trash. Now, though, as the two of us prepare to join more than our housewares, it's suddenly easier to let the old things go, because I don't have to worry about filling the voids I create. Life will do it for me.

Continuing With The Idiocy

1:46 a.m. That's what time I went to bed last night. When my alarm went off at 6:45, I laughed and reset it for 7:15, like thirty minutes of sleep can magically make up for an extra four hours. I stumbled into work an hour later, sans shower, make-up, and any resemblance to a well-rested human being. By 10:00, I was devouring my turkey sandwich with the passion of Augustus in Willy Wonka's chocolate river and trying to tame wild hairs with my index fingers and the moisture of my own spit. By noon, I was bidding a heartfelt farewell to the two women who give two figs about my misadventures and headed home.

So. Am home now, where I plan on loading the dishwasher, finally unboxing our wedding shower gifts, and watching AMC live. Since I'll be out of Internet commission for several days after the wedding, I figure I better blog while I can; hence, you'll see a number of scatterbrained sentences and random photos disguised as entries before Friday, as well as a live update from Lost A Sock the day of, as she'll be dropping off her precious boys before hitting the reception and has promised to post an update on this little site, as I have Delusions of Grandeur and want to believe the twenty people who read this site who won't be attending Our Big Day will have their fingers poised to reload.

Also, because Number Twelve's husband is unable to get out of work in time, and because Luke and I are redefining "progressive," Butterflygirl will be joining in the festivities as well! We'll be so happy to meet you, Butterfly! (I wonder how many brides and grooms say that to their wedding guests?)

Condensed

If you made it through my last entry, congratu-freakin'-lations! This post won't be as long-winded, partly because I'm getting married on Friday, and also because DID YOU HEAR WHAT I JUST SAID? I'M GETTING MARRIED ON FRIDAY. IT'S HAPPENING. YES.

Also, HOORAY FOR ALL CAPS.

Things are going well, I think, despite the fact that I haven't made it to bed any earlier than midnight for the last two weeks and my face is starting to resemble those red dots used to map out cities on a U.S. atlas. Remaining items from last Tuesday's list include wrapping the wedding party gifts, cleaning the apartment, packing, and convincing Luke that a good freak-out to the YMCA is nourishing for the soul, but since that won't happen, I really have only three things to do, and they'll be crossed off tomorrow, so it's all good. However, I still haven't received any volunteers to monitor my AMC recordings; if you're interested, speak up! My ability to witness the murder of Dr. Greg Madden and the life/death balance of Kendall and her unborn son, Spike, is in your hands. Why did I schedule a wedding during May sweeps?!

It's hard to believe I'll be a married woman in just five days. In five days, I'll have a new last name. In five days, it will no longer be appropriate to joke about putting Kiefer Sutherland at the forefront of my top five, and any babies delivered from my womb will officially be legitimate, unless Luke and I are overtaken with passion in the gazebo parking lot right before the ceremony and I become with child (and in that case, I'll be taking Pastor Tim's word we were already married in spirit). Sometimes those thoughts bring a Marmaduke-like grin to my face, and other times they're enough to inspire my insides to buy a one-way ticket straight to the soles of my toes. As much as I love Luke and know in my heart this is the best thing I could ever do, I'm still nervous enough to make myself sick. And realizing not everyone comes down with these pre-wedding jitters makes me even sicker.

So you can understand when the pastor told us on Sunday we were more than welcome to personalize our vows, I was like, thanks but no thanks, because my body is too tired and my stomach is too nauseous to be conjuring any deep insights about life and love.

However, we also took a few minutes to visit the park before heading home, and as we stood on the steps of the gazebo, I imagined myself looking into Luke's eyes and pledging myself to him for the rest of our lives, and I can't even think those words without welling up inside, so Matron of Honor, you better have Kleenex handy, is all I'm saying.

Now You Know Where My Witty Sense of Humor Comes From

OK, so it's been a few days since I've posted, but between deciding which table is worthy of getting Jason Chambers at the reception and going back and forth with Luke as to whether a wedding party dance is really necessary and explaining to my brother that "Blow Job Betty" is not so much an appropriate song choice, there's been NO. FREAKIN'. TIME. A fabulous entry is planned for tomorrow, an entry I've already started on, but in the meantime I leave you with a joke my mom told me last night and requested I share with all of you. ("You can put jokes on blogs, right?")

A lady goes to the doctor to get her annual mammogram, and when it's through, she comes home all excited. "Honey, honey, honey," she says to her husband, "The doctor checked me out and said everything's fine. I have the boobs of an eighteen-year-old."

And the husband says, "What did he say about your fifty-year-old ass?"

"Well," she replies, "We really didn't talk that much about you."

My mother, ladies and gentlemen.

Fifty Percent Married

I took off work today so that Luke and I could apply for our marriage license at the City-County Building downtown this morning and visit with our DJ in Valparaiso early this afternoon, all before we're due in Rensselaer so I can properly fulfill my volunteer duties for an end-of-the-year senior dinner at Saint Joe, a dinner I had to cover for the college's alumni magazine just last year. It's hard to believe I've been away that long. I wonder if there's a trace of me left.

Everything with the license went smoothly. I was even a little impressed with the thoroughness of the county's questions, which included:

- Are you now or have you ever been adjudged to be of unsound mind?
- Are you now under the influence of an alcoholic beverage?
- Are you now under the influence of a narcotic drug?

I didn't make it past the first question before I was digging in my purse for my notebook, so eager was I to share this information with you. What would happen if the answer to any of those questions was yes? Better yet, what if you said no but it was obvious to the whole world you'd enjoyed one Bloody Mary too many? Is the clerk authorized to make you stand on one foot or touch your finger to your nose? If so, how the hell did Ross and Rachel get married in Vegas on Friends?

They also worked in a special signature testifying to the fact that we both received our handy-dandy "Before You Marry: Information on Sexually Transmitted Disease and HIV" brochure, where they adamantly spell out your rights to privacy and even anonymynity. In other words, if Luke tests positive for syphilis, he doesn't have to tell me about it, and the state doesn't have to tell me about it, which makes me wonder what the point is at all.

Anyway, we filled out our application and paid our eighteen dollars and suddenly the clerk was asking us to raise our right hand and I was like, Holy $h!t, she's gonna do this RIGHT NOW, but she just laughed and reassured us she was only swearing us in.

So now we have a marriage license. Out of all the elements we've planned for this wedding so far--hall, flowers, music, and so on--this piece of paper is one of the only things actually required for this to happen. I told Luke I'm now fully within my legal rights to call him "Hus." I'll earn the "band" part in fourteen days--literally.

The Name Game

Only twenty-four hours later and Luke and I have already accomplished several items on our to-do list: we finished booking hotel rooms for the honeymoon, found one of two Bible passages for the ceremony, approved the song list for our mixed CD, and made arrangements for this Friday to obtain our marriage license--which, by the way, a big thanks to the anonymous commenter who mentioned that the Indiana rubella law had been repealed. All of you who assured me my American hair dryer can perform to its full capacity in Canada are pretty spiffy, too.

I'm tired. Even though Luke's been finished with his night gig for just about a week, I can't seem to get into bed any earlier than midnight, which means I get under seven hours of sleep, which means I'm ready to drop by the time I get home, and I vow to hit the sheets by 10:30 to make up for it, but then I get caught up in reading my blogs and visiting the AMC message board and scribbling the different combinations of my name (first name plus maiden name, first name plus married name, first name plus maiden name plus last name with a hypen, first name plus maiden name plus married name with just a space, and so on) as well as the new contenders for the name of our firstborn daughter. (It's a tie between Audrey and Norah, which just goes to show you how in sync we are with popular media.)

Yesterday someone at work learned I was getting married and asked if I was keeping my name. A funny question, seeing as that topic had taken over my entire being up until two days ago. When I was younger, I never imagined NOT taking my husband's name. I certainly didn't know anyone who hadn't, and with a last name like mine, I couldn't wait to meet a nice boy named John Smith and officially lose legal ties to the beast that most people tackle with the same facial expression worn when devouring a greasy steak sandwich. It's the double A that throws them off, another funny once you learn that neither A is actually pronounced like an A but more like a short-U/long-I combination.

When my name changes to this, I will lose two As and gain no As. An A-less last name. After twenty-six years and two college degrees and one nationally distributed pee article I'm ready to don a black veil and weep into my pillow, because dammit, it's my NAME. I stamp it on press releases and include it in bylines for company newsletters. I sign it on credit cards and meticulously spell it out for telemarketers trying to squeeze the last fifty dollars out of my bank account to purchase the newest version of Pro-Activ, which I would totally buy if Luke wasn't making me try every generic off-shoot known to man first. OK, maybe just two, and Klear Action really does work, so run to Super Target and get your box today!

(Come back, Frema! The point! It's over here!)

After a lot of back and forth, I've decided to take Luke's name. And I'm happy about it. I like Luke's last name. More importantly, I love Luke. I love that he and I and any babies we make together will be connected by such a tangible, emotionally charged bond. But I will list both when writing anything for print. For better or worse, that name is a part of me, just like my brown eyes and spinach dip obsession and tendency to pick corn strands out of my teeth with my pinky, and I don't agree with erasing all traces of it simply because I've switched from a Miss to a Missus. If I'm ever lucky enough to publish a memoir, I want my eighth-grade homeroom teacher to know her former student accomplished what she had hoped to do since the age of seven. I want to autograph copies for my parents and witness their pride in seeing the name we all share proudly centered on the book jacket. I want to mail one to my childhood self to show her that she done good.

Or maybe I'm just a self-centered narcissist who enjoys being difficult. Who's to say? Ladies, did any of you struggle over taking a new name?

Also, it's one minute to midnight. The vicious cycle, she continues. Bah.

But Will My Hair Dryer Work In Canada?

OK, so I've combed through my drunk post about eight times now, and each time I'm surprised to find only one misspelling. Not that I had any deep insights or even a point, but still! One typo! Apparently I proofread better when intoxicated. And also quote movies that my readers must have banished from their memory banks. Hell-o! Did anyone catch my awesome Troop Beverly Hills reference? Moving on....

Today marks sixteen days 'til the wedding, and there's still a whole lotta $h!t to do before then. Let's take the journey together, shall we?

Frema's Crazy-@$$ To-Do List

- Make peace with the fact that Luke has seen my wedding dress because I am an idiot and asked him to upload my pictures from Saturday. However, seeing as we already live together and our hall was booked two weeks before he put the ring on my finger, I'm thinking the whole traditional-wedding thing has kind of gone to pot, anyway. (It fits perfectly, though! Praise Jesus!)

- Send thank-you cards for bachelorette party

- Prepare naughty underthings for wedding night/honeymoon

- Provide hall with final headcount

- Provide hall with final payment

- Finalize song list for wedding favors (Mixed CDs! How cool are we?)

- Burn CDs

- Determine song list for reception

- Select non-romantic yet appropriately gushy song for father/daughter dance

- Secure travel arrangements for Niagara Falls

- Take blood test for marriage license (Damn Indiana and their stupid sexist laws. Why is it OK to marry off syphilis-ridden men but not women?)

- Obtain marriage license

- Meet with photographers to plan out day

- Map out reception

- Select Bible passages for ceremony readings

- Pick up garter, slippers, and other post-ceremony attire

- Scour Macy's for a new solution to The Crease

- Scour Super Target for the perfect non-smudge mascara

- Prepare gifts for rehearsal dinner

- Organize seating arrangements

- Plead with Luke one more time for the playing of "YMCA"

- Clean apartment so we can return from our honeymoon just to bask in the glory of our newly wedded bliss

- Clean out and wash car so we can drive through Michigan and Canada while basking in the glory of our newly wedded bliss

- Secure AMC recording with a trusted friend or relative, as we will be gone more than five days and I need to be there when Pine Valley learns that Erica's embryo was shamelessly stolen during an abortion procedure thirty years ago and that Tad and Dixie's daughter survived the car crash in Switzerland and that Dr. Greg Madden is to blame for it ALL

- Remind Luke how my frugal spending has earned me a clothing budget for Niagara Falls

- At some point purchase a foreign-outlet-friendly hair dryer for Niagara Falls (?)

- - -

This last one has me sort of stumped, because I didn't realize until this morning that Canadian outlets might be different than U.S. outlets and my friend Kendra couldn't blow-dry her hair in Italy so maybe my hair dryer will be useless and I won't be having any of THAT.

Also, you know your shopping spree is meant to be when you receive a discount coupon from New York and Company three weeks before your wedding. The only reunion that could possibly rival my return to my favorite clothing store after a six-month hiatus is this. And that's saying something.

Don't Let Nobody Say Frema Doesn't Keep Her Promises

Tonight was my bachelorette party. I am a bachelorette! And also in a drunken way.

It is 2:40 a.m. in the morning. To this minute, I have digested three vodka and cranberries, one shot of apple pucker, one amaretto stone sour (which was quite nasty), a buttery nipple, tequila rose, more cranberry stuff, and three shots of Sex on the Beach, which were poured into my mouth while kneeling on the bar in front of a lot of people. I danced with a pole and received many high-fives. There were piggy back rides. I was a rock star. !

Also, I pinched six butts. And even a few breasts. My own buttocks were slapped often by my well-meaning bridesmaids and they even wanted me to wear my bra over my shirt. Appalling!

Before I got there, I was nervous. I was afraid I wouldn't be a good bachelorette. I told the girls beforehand that I didn't want fake penises and I didn't want strippers. Only once tonight before I left did I wonder if I would miss having a stripper. But I did not. I went to the bar and it took a long time for me to warm up. I got a deck of bachelorette cards and one of the commands was to order a Horny Girl Scout. I was a Girl Scout once. I won "Junior of the Year" when I was nine. My competition was my best friend, Karen. But I still won, even without a lot of patches. We don't need no stinking patches!

There were crazy people at the bar. There were many lone men dancing by themselves with glow-stick bracelets. Many were trying to get all up in my business. I told them I was getting married in three weeks. I'm getting married in three weeks! I also had my hair appointment today, and it was good. After three hours and much dolleros, my hair is short and cinnamony again. I did the Cha Cha Slide but still don't know how to do the Charlie Brown. Did I mention I danced on a bar? But the guys were pretty nasty. I'm so glad I'm getting married to a good man. V. happy. Also, I danced to "My Humps" and "The Perculator." I got the alchohol rock in the pit of my stomach after my amaretto so I sat on the toilet. That helped. And water helped. Thanks, Amber!

I love Luke very much. Am very tired right now but very happy to be his bachelorette. And I love my home girls. And sliders. I had three, and some fries. Samantha thinks I will be up again soon. We shall see.

I love the Internet! This is all for you. Because we are in platonic love.

Settled

This blog is, at least. For now. On Tuesday I was overcome with an immediate desire to jazz up my template AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, a hard task when your html knowledge is limited to creating tags for bold and italic. Things got worse before they got better, to which at least one of you can testify, but it all paid off, because while thousands of bloggers have text boxes with rounded corners and a background color equivalent to the dried insides of your nose, my header is a really green shade of green.

My, but I have a way with words.

To make up for my skimpy number of entries this week, I solemnly swear to post in all my intoxicated-bachelorette glory before passing out in front of my sister's toilet this Saturday night. And also to report the results of my hair appointment. And whether or not I can still get into my wedding dress, as I'm scheduled to pick it up tomorrow. Oh, the suspense of it all!

We Are Too Close To The Wedding To Be Dealing With Hair Color Issues

The morning of the wedding shower, I went into my favorite Chi-town hair salon for a badly needed cut and color. My botch job from January resulted in the infamous, should-be-trademarked Severus Snape hair style, and it needed immediate attention, but I waited until April, because we have no money and I'm responsible like that.

And on that day, my hair was done. It was cut. It was colored. The roots were a little bright, but overall, fabulous. I received many compliments at the shower, and I felt an overabundance of warm and fuzzies for my pinch-hitter stylist.

Then Monday morning rolled around, and I washed it.

After squeezing my hair gently with a hand towel and nourishing it with expensive product and diffusing it with the utmost love and respect, I surveyed the final results and discovered that the top layer was still too long, but also, so were my ends, creating an undesirable flat crown and even more undesirable layery divide. Also, the color; it was no longer looking as light and shiny and cinnamony as it appeared just two days ago--in fact, it was alarmingly similar to Severus's patent-pending shade, the shade I spent EIGHTY DOLLARS to get rid of. Except the roots, of course, which continued to beam bright as the sun.

For weeks I've tried to ignore it, telling myself it'll lighten up, that the curls will eventually take their regular shape. But today is April 18, and the curls, they are not bouncy yet. More importantly, THE HAIR HAS NOT LIGHTENED UP.

Therefore, this Saturday afternoon, only several hours before I'm scheduled to live it up on the south side of Chicago in honor of my impending nuptials, I'll be sitting in Melanie's chair, freaking out over highlighting options and bleaching options and correcting options and any other options that'll encourage the hair on my head to behave itself in time for the wedding. C'mon, ladies (hair strands are female, right?), we're gettin' ourselves MARRIED here. In front of photographers who stripped my bank account of many, many dollars. This blatant defiance of authority will just. Not. Do.

Life After May 12th

In exactly one month from today, Luke and I will be married. I'll walk down this aisle, clutching onto my father's arm, fearful that a high heel might catch on a broken piece of brick. We'll say "I do" in front of the family and friends we love most after vowing to honor and cherish each other, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live. There will be first dances and banana cake and beef fajitas and a bouquet toss with my actual bouquet. What a wonderful day it will be.

Even more exhilerating, though, is everything to follow. I've been thinking about it a lot more lately, probably because evidence of our new life is tucked into every nook and cranny of this apartment, in the form of flatware and bedding and camping gear and Good Housekeeping cookbooks. As Luke participates in his second job interview in two weeks, so are we also etching out our path.

The first hurdle: apartment hunting. Space that was luxurious for one person has translated into "cozy" for two, especially when one of those persons has nowhere to stash her Sweet Valley High collection and is therefore resigned to housing them in a Tupperware bin partially blocking the doorway, much to the dismay of the other. We know we want to save for a year or two before purchasing a house (we refuse to pay PMI insurance. Refuse!), but we don't want to wait that long for babies, so the space that is cozy for two would likely be unbearable for three, even if the little bugger spends its first two months of life alternating between Mommy and Daddy's dresser drawers for naps.

Last year I signed a thirteen-month lease to take advantage of my complex's "first month free" offer. Upon our return from Niagara Falls, we'll start pouring through apartment guides and Web sites to determine new housing candidates and settle on a winner by June 30.

I can't explain why this simple course of action is so exciting to me. It's not like I've never looked for an apartment before. In the last three years, I've moved three times. I lived in a house for the first time in my life and scored my first roommate (not to be confused with scoring with my roommate). I tackled the personal milestone of living alone, and then again with someone else, someone with whom you're allowed to apply "score" in the proper sense. Nothing about this process will be new, except the paperwork bearing my signature will feature Luke's last name instead of my own, a last name with no double As, no apostrophe, no chance of a mispronounciation like "Maytag."

We'll have other decisions to make, too, once we've re-established DINK status, like when to replace Luke's '91 Chevy Lumina, which can't be trusted outside city limits. Should we even have two cars? Would it be more practical to get by on the Cobalt instead? Speaking of the Cobalt, should we pay it off before starting a house fund? What kind of house do we want in the first place? Will I stay at my current job or pursue my not-so-newfangled notion of becoming a teacher? If I do, how will that affect my desire to stay at home with our kids?

There are no answers to these questions, but for once I'm not scared of them. Instead, I can barely sit still. We'll finally start living the dream we chose for ourselves the minute Luke gave his notice at the Rensselaer Republican last fall. We'll be together in every way that counts, planning for a future with no road blocks, no exit ramps, no tolls. The possibilities are endless.

We couldn't have asked for a more appropriate wedding gift.

They Don't Cover This In Pre-Marital Counseling

I don't know what Luke and I were thinking, dedicating so much time to piddly matters like our family's religion when there were clearly deeper, more life-altering subjects bubbling just below the surface. I discovered this last night, while perusing through our DJ's song list and realizing my future husband was serious when he said there would be no "U Can't Touch This" at our wedding reception.

Before we even started dating, we knew our musical tastes weren't a hundred percent compatible. He liked They Might Be Giants and Beth Orton, while my CD collection suffered from chronic Boy Bandism--NKOTB, Hi-Five, N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees; you know, the essentials--with recurring bouts of Cheesy Pop and Early Nineties Rap, the kind of rap my sixth-grade friends jammed to while their parents were at work, the kind of rap that earned me a week's grounding when it was found pulsating through my boombox. What can I say? George and Lyn were not big fans of directives like "Let me lick you up and down 'til you say Stop."

Anyway, now that I'm old enough to control the dial on my CD player, I often find myself drawn to stations that highlight tunes from my early years, banned and non-banned alike. And this has naturally influenced the types of songs I consider DJ-friendly. I mean really, people, who wouldn't want to Ride The Train and be Dangerous on the Dance Floor while ingesting large quantities of alcohol and very scrumptious cake?

Apparently Luke, who is of the mindset that our reception should feature mostly contemporary music, even though "My Humps" is the only current song he knows, and THAT is only because I have a passionate love for it that defies all logic, reason, and hatred for the phrase "lovely lady lumps" (though Fergie does deserve props for her mad use of alliteration, and YES, Samantha, that is the same Stacy from Kids, Incorporated). He thinks "The Perculator" is just a coffee attachment, and if that's not good enough reason to sport a paper bag over my head with the words "I Don't Know This Man" when we're out in public, he's actually banned the playing of "YMCA," only the biggest dance staple to feature homosexual, role-playing, culturally diverse men in the UNIVERSE. Next thing you know he'll be telling me that "The Macarena" wasn't a movement at all but in fact a presidential conspiracy to encourage the shocking and gratuitous use of The Elbow. You know, because elbows are needed for the bending of the arm, a motion that plays a critical part in getting one's hands from the head to the hips.

Is there any hope for us? Also, what songs get your feet moving?

Shower The People You Love With Teenage Literary Drama Actually Geared Towards Pre-Pubescent Girls

Finally, the moment you've all been waiting for: the reveal of those individuals who fought long and hard for their chance to receive a small piece of Heaven that is Sweet Valley High. Number Twelve, Isabel, Lauren R., and Fraulein N., pull out your bangle bracelets, roll up the cuffs of your jeans, and prepare to be amused by the delightful antics of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield as they learn about life and love with their crazy gang of bookworms, playboys, cheerleaders, and jocks.

Choosing a winner was really hard, not only because every woman is worthy of the wisdom SVH can bring, but also because only four people expressed any interest in receiving one, and how could I deem one gal's reason as more valid than another? I mean, would you be able to choose between a first-time mother about to go into labor versus a stressed out bride-to-be versus a working mom looking to make peace with the gaping hole in her teenage existence versus a woman who wants to reconnect with the series that introduced her to Linda Ronstadt? Cuz I sure couldn't. Also, I'm a little bit in love with all of you for leaving such great comments when you visit, so the idea of strengthening the Internet bond I feel we now share by declaring everyone a winner is really the best way to go. So, if I don't have your address already, be sure to send it to my gmail so we can get on with the sharing as soon as possible.

In other news, in case you couldn't tell by these blogs, Luke and I were given a totally awesome wedding shower by my sister and my parents. There was spiked punch, Frema's landslide winning of The Toilet Paper Game, and the congregation of blog readers and writers alike.

 

Lost A Sock, Number Twelve, and me.

Auntie Betty, Ryan, and Brooke. Unlike her digital-photo companions, Ryan is not a faithful reader of this blog, but I didn't remember to get a picture of Betty and Brooke together, so there you go.

Our towel cake. I have never heard of such things being used outside of weddings in my family, but apparently to someone they are a traditional element of bridal showers, and my mother has taken it upon herself to carry this tradition on with us. Yes, my momma made that, with her own two, carpel tunnel-ridden hands, no less. Talk about having a kick-@$$ heirloom to pass on to your kids.

Edited to add: OMG, I can't believe I forgot to showcase the coolest readers of all. Our families! Here we are with Luke's parents, Daddy D. and MJD. Don't be surprised if both sides ostracize me for making such a fatal error in judgement.

Samantha and me. She's been the best matron of honor a girl could ever ask for.

Sunday was the day we met with our pastor for the first of two premarital counseling sessions, which took place in Joe's Crab Shack after the late-morning service. A man of many opinions but few words, Pastor Tim's message to us was simple: remember what brought the two of you to this point and never lose sight of it, no matter what. Be aware of what your partner loves most about you and work hard to nurture that part of yourself. And finally, "Take a good, long look at the person sitting next to you, because that's all you need to make your marriage successful. Each of you will serve as an anchor for the other."

It was a new experience, sitting in front of a person who didn't know the details of our relationship and yet listening to the best advice on marriage I'd ever heard. And explaining to him what it is about Luke that I love so much moved me in a way I didn't expect. It was as if I was looking at him in a new light. Luke is prepared to love me for the rest of my life. He'll be by my side through new jobs and the birth of our babies and the loss of my parents and the purchase of our first home (though hopefully not in that order). We'll celebrate second honeymoons and golden anniversaries and the beauty of compounding interest with our 401(k)s. And one day, after we've retired and our children are grown, we'll be like those sweet little couples I see walking hand-in-hand down the street, shuffling along at a snail's pace, barely talking, happy enough just to be in the presence of the other. Thinking about it chokes me up inside, because I know how lucky I am to have crossed paths with a man of Luke's caliber; I know some people go through their whole existence never being part of such a happy accident, never knowing what it feels like to be loved so intimately and so completely by another human being. That feeling is the best reason I have to bow my head and give thanks to God.

On that note, I leave you with the most unique gifts we received on Saturday, courtesy of our beloved Number Twelve:

Brenda's Ability To Do Good Hair: Denied!

By now, everyone who reads this site knows I heart Brenda, my Chicago hairdresser, because apparently stylists in Naptown can only shape and color celebrity styles for the likes of Eighties Madonna and Severus Snape. One of the first things I did when Luke and I got engaged was to make salon appointments for my bridesmaids, flower girl, and me, so there was no chance in hell that Brenda wouldn't NOT do my hair. I was on it like flies on that stick-paper thing my parents leave in the basement because, well, they don't like flies.

Guess what? Brenda's not doing my hair.

It's tragic, actually. On Friday the 13th, she broke two bones in her right hand, her magic hand, the hand that gives me bouncy layers and the side bangs I love so much. She's at work but limited to answering phones and sweeping up hair for the next four to six weeks. It's like having Mariah Carey pre-Charm Bracelet wipe spittle from Hilary Duff's microphone at the Grammys.

I called the salon yesterday and transferred my upcoming Saturday morning appointment to Kasia, a stylist with a great reputation for updos, and the other person scheduled to help Brenda with my wedding party, and there's still at least a slight chance she'll be in tip-top shape come May 12th, so all should be well. But I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about Gina, one of my very awesome bridesmaids, because she is the only reason I discovered this potentially life-changing information. Seeing as I discovered Enve through her seven years ago, she became aware of the situation at her own cut-and-color and immediately contacted me so alternate arrangements could be made. It's in instances like these that a wife-to-be truly needs her bridesmaids. Don't fuss over silly things like bachelorette parties or finding something blue. Just let me know if my hairdresser ends up in the ER.

This weekend will be a busy one, as tomorrow Samantha and my family are throwing Luke and me what is sure to be a beautiful wedding shower, and Sunday we have our first pre-marital counseling session with the pastor who will marry us. One of the subjects will be religion, which I really am feeling much better about these days, as Luke and I continue to talk openly about what kind of church life we want with and for our children. I also broached the subject with my mom last night, something I was pretty nervous about because I never want my parents to think that I'm unhappy with the way they brought me up. I didn't want them to become defensive of their choices, especially since they made some really great choices, and to be totally honest, I was also afraid they'd think I was ruining my chance at Eternal Salvation by even considering converting to a Protestant denomination. For better or worse, whether I get it or not, I will always seek their approval.

The conversation I had with my mother proved (once again) how little credit I give my parents sometimes. She reminded me about the similar faith journey she took around my age that brought her to Catholicism, years after she and my father got married. She said Luke and I are going to do the best thing for our family, and as long as we believe in God, everything will be fine. Well, that and infant baptism, which we do, so it's all good. For the first time in months, I'm at peace.

Note: the SVH contest will run through the weekend, because I'm leaving for Chicago today and don't want to make such a difficult decision in such a short time frame. So if you want a book, it's not too late to beg for one. And I promise not to give Luke any special consideration. Really. It's anybody's game.

Booked. Also, Slightly Less Freaked. I Think.

Two rooms at this hotel for the Sunday and Monday night after the wedding, with additional plans to stay over in Michigan that Saturday and Tuesday, to break the eight-hour drive up a little. Today I received permission from my boss to take a week-and-a-half break from work beginning with the Wednesday before the wedding, which allows me some time to sort through last-minute reception details and also have one week where Luke and I can simply enjoy our new married status. As I look at the calendar, I realize by this time in May I'll have been Mrs. Useless Clutter for almost two weeks. Wow.

And I'm feeling good. We've been doing a lot of reading on different Christian denominations, attempting to pinpoint our non-negotiables. It's harder than you think. For example, Catholicism believes in the Assumption of the Blessed Mother--that her physical body was transported into Heaven in addition to her soul. It teaches she was a virgin throughout her life, despite being a married woman. There are prayers for Mary, special devotions and stories about her appearing to St. Bernadette of Lourdes, the children of Fatima, and other faithful Catholics around the world.

However, in the Protestant tradition, Mary is regarded simply as another saint in the communion of saints. The "foremost of saints," according to this Web site, but Luke didn't learn the Hail Mary. He never prayed the Rosary. For him, there was no Assumption, no perpetual virginity on her behalf, because there is no basis for either one in scripture. And if there's no basis for this in scripture, why is the church teaching it? Where did these ideas come from? Church officials? Those who saw her? While we're asking questions, do I truly believe these miracles took place? If I do, how could I not raise my children in Catholicism, if it turns out no other denomination of Christianity supports them? And if I don't, how could I not leave the church?

I'm working ideas out even as I type this, so obviously I don't have any answers. For the first time in my life, I'm taking the time to question my beliefs and how they came to be regarded as truths by the Catholic church. Can you believe I got through parochial high school and college without knowing the whole perpetual virgin thing? I may not have given anything up for Lent, but I don't think it's a coincidence my religious exploration is taking place during the same time Jesus was dealing with some difficult issues of his own.

And throughout all of these hard questions, questions that might lead to answers that surprise us both, Luke still wants to be my husband. Despite my recent tendency to subject our relationship to the unforgiving glow of the pre-marital microscope, he's not once doubted his decision to make a commitment to me that will last the rest of our lives. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" I say after filling our apartment with post-sloppy joe flatulence. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" flys out of my mouth after sharing that I can't really consider other religions before I've thoroughly investigated my own. But no matter how many times I ask the question, no matter how many ways I ask, his answer is always the same. Yes. Yes. Yes. Words can't express how grateful I am that he continues to have such faith, in himself, in me, in us.

Even more earth-shattering than my personal spiritual journey is that we were able to enjoy drinks, steak, and ribs on Saturday night courtesy of Vibes Music, which shelled out EIGHTY DOLLARS for two stacks' worth of used CDs, the titles of which escape me now. I can, however, tell you what they *didn't* take: The Best of Piano by Candlelight Volume 2. Jamiroquai's Synkronized. Lenny Kravitz's Five. The Spice Girls' appropriately titled disc, Spice. Thus, I'll spend at least part of this week hunting down alternative sources through which my questionable musical taste can be savored by the masses.

Lastly, in regards to the SVH contest: forget about another quiz sure to stump friends and family alike, because I just took the damn thing again as "Frema" and only scored an 80. Apparently when I made the quiz last March I was still high on Spider-Man 2 and thought Toby Maguire had more sex appeal than Kiefer Sutherland; now I'm seriously wondering where my brains were at because who doesn't agree Kiefer Sutherland and his urgent scratchy voice are the hottest things ever to grace the Earth? If I had a list like this, he'd be number one, hands-down. If I had one. Which I don't, Luke. Just saying.

ANYWAY, the contest. Let's try this: Why don't you tell me about an important lesson you learned from Francine Pascal's endearing-yet-often-simplified-and-over-the-top series? Like, I just reread Forbidden Love, where Maria and Michael get engaged even though they're not supposed to be dating because of some Romeo and Juliet type feud their parents are involved in. They have to do this project for history class where they pretend to be married for two weeks and manage a budget and deal with problems facing their imaginary children. Michael learns that Maria doesn't want to be a housewife and Maria learns that Michael is comfortable using "belt therapy" to correct their son's juvenile delinquency. In the end, they break up, the families reunite, and Maria ends up dating Winston Egbert.

The lesson? Who cares? I still can't get over Sweet Valley High sanctioning the teaching of marriage and family values in history class. But you'll do a much better job than me. To the best answer, the spoils.

There Are Various Possible Titles For This Post

So Far Nine People Are Coming To The Wedding, Not Counting Me, Luke, the Pastor, His Parents, My Parents, Our Brothers And Sisters, Their Significant Others, The Bridesmaids, The Groomsmen, The Flower Girl And Her Mother, Who Also Happens To Be My Aunt And One Of My Favorite People, And Random Strangers Because We're Holding It At A Public Park

What Happens When Luke Works Nights

The Wakefields Made Me Do It

But first, a word on my hiatus. Things have been shakin' in the Frema/Useless Clutter household. In a nutshell, the freak-outs, they're getting worse. A couple of weeks ago a discussion about blogs turned into a discussion about Dooce, the Internet's most well-known blogger, which turned into a discussion about marriage, which turned into a discussion about clinical depression, which turned into a discussion about whether or not clinically depressed individuals should bear children, which turned into me crying actual tears because Luke will surely want to divorce me when I am diagnosed with clinical depression.

Last Wednesday I came home sobbing because my recent submission to this Web site led to frantic searches on the Internet about interfaith marriages and a train of thought that concluded Luke and I can't get married because he doesn't make the Sign of the Cross or believe in Purgatory. I'm not even sure that I believe in Purgatory, but one can only assume my old Catholic-school uniforms will prove equivalent to a "Get Out of Hell Free" card on Judgment Day.

When confessing all of these tidbits and more to Lost A Sock during a four-hour Steak-N-Shake marathon on Friday night, she shook her head in amazement and said, "What does Luke do when you say all these things to him?"

What does he do? He listens until I'm done, says something Calming and Insightful about God loving all people, not just Catholics, reminds me that we'll work it all out, and sighs, "I wish you would talk to me first before you get yourself so upset." And then he rewards my honesty with a trip to Wendy's, which is probably the best reason to marry anyone.

This weekend, though, was not about the freak-outs. It was about receiving the first RSVPs for our wedding. Watching our pastor and his new wife exchange vows in front of God and an entire congregation. Holding two babies two days in a row and kissing a nose that was only three days old. (Congratulations new Auntie Brooke and second-time Grandma Betty!) Looking through pictures with my mother and thinking about how brave my parents were to make such adult decisions before they were even old enough to drink. Digging out boxes from the basement to find the cases to my CDs, a dusty but necessary action in order to sell them for cash. Along the way I stumbled upon collections of books gathered during high school and college, the majority of which I'd obtained from a former English professor who would leave old books outside the door to his office, free for the taking for those interested in owning their very own copy of The Left-Hander’s Guide to Life. So I decided to sell them, too. My mother was slightly suspicious, as if a lack of funds had possibly forced us out of our apartment and onto the nearest highway exit ramp panhandling for change. "You guys are OK, right?" she asked. "You have food and everything?"

She would've been reassured tonight, as I used the $22.25 earned from selling my literary treasures and twelve dollars of my state tax refund to purchase a pair of old-school Nancy Drew hardcovers, two Christopher Pike books, three Choose Your Own Adventures, and sixty-nine installments of Sweet Valley High.

In my defense, Luke began temping again on Monday night and it's been very lonely and the Sweet Valley High books were only a quarter a piece. Plus, I want to share them with my own little girls, because any daughters of mine and maybe even sons will be required to know who the Wakefield twins are, which one is older, and what their dress size is, because these three facts are drilled into your brain by page five of every book in the series. Plus plus, their characters never engaged in premarital sex, used the Lord's name in vain, or subjected themselves to illegal drug activity—well, except one character. Regina Morrow, the deaf girl who dated flirtatious playboy Bruce Patman and was a kind and loving person until she found out Bruce was dating Jessica's best friend Amy behind her back. Blinded by Heartbreak and Betrayal, she attended a party where she was introduced to cocaine, had a rare adverse reaction to the drug and actually DIED. Then SVH had a memorial service where Elizabeth gave a Deep and Moving speech about Regina's life, and her parents took the day off work and the twins' older brother came home from college to talk about Why Drugs Are Bad but also The Importance Of Communicating With Your Parents If You Ever Feel That Drugs Are The Only Answer To Your Problems. If you're interested in sharing these lessons with your own children, you owe it to them and yourself to read Number 40: On the Edge and Number 41: Outcast.

To top things off, I said "Screw frugality!" and spent four ninety-five on a personal pan cheese pizza and five breadsticks from Pizza Hut.

Three fast-food splurges in a seven-day period. My doctor and my bank account must be so proud.

The. Freakin'. End.