the thing*

The thing about Halloween is, you can be standing in a room with The Birds who are making out with The Bees, and Cinderella (the Crack Whore Edition) can be complaining about her stilettos, and Aeon Flux is throwing sexy looks at Indy Jones, and Spider Jerusalem can be arguing with the iPod Commercial about something obtuse, while the retired Lois Lane and Clark Kent complain about their grey hair, and if you're Piglet and you're making out with Doctor Who...

my point is, after a while, it all seems pretty normal so that the next time you see Biscuit and Mike, you're going to wonder where all the buzzing and the feathers went.

* this title stolen directly from Kate. you can do that when you've worn each other's most intimate shoes.

A Helpful Proposal

On the post I wrote directing traffic to our wedding gallery, helpful at yahoo dot com said: "You two should check out weight watchers together."

I replied, "Luckily for us, there might be a solution. You, on the other hand, are doomed to be an asshat for the rest of your life. Good luck with that, fucknut!"

Then I emailed Helpful at yahoo, just to confirm my suspicion that it's a fake address. Indeed, it was. So, dear Helpful, your IP has been banned. Much like leaving NO email address, leaving a fake one is considered anonymous mud-slinging and won't be tolerated in this queendom.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat a delicious slice of sugar-rich pound cake and exercise it off. WITH MY HUSBAND.

Topping the Week off with a Cupcake

It's been my first full week as a Married Woman. I've gotten used to the ring, since I've always worn rings without compunction on my left ring finger and this one is just a little slimmer, simpler, and a truckload more symbolic. It still sends pretty little shockwaves of happiness through me, though, when I see the ring on Stuart's hand. This little voice in my brain goes, "OH! MY! GOD! WE'RE! MARRIED! EEEIIIEE!" Actually, that little voice is really Biscuit's voice.

This week we've: gone over to Biscuit/Patches' house within a day of our return, just because I was so homesick for everyone as soon as I got back to NY. We drank apple cider and hashed out all the drama we'd missed. And how!

We've also: paid all our bills, done everything on our little chalkboard to-do list, and found a lot of extra time for snuggling on the couch.

And let's not forget: hosted the PWSWM (minus one sick fishy) for homemade Maine applesauce, rich delicious pound cake, and a vat of mulled wine big enough to drown a badger in. Not that you would, mind.

That was the same night we: went up on our rooftop to watch the eclipse and I swear it looked like the Man had been punched in the mouth and blood was slowly spreading all over his face, also, that guy was totally about to check out porn on his computer across the way and if I get kicked out of my apartment for the terrifying belly-laugh of MWAH HA HA evil that Biscuit released into the bathroom window well, we're moving into his place.

And yesterday, don't forget, was Thursday, so we: gathered with the Tribal Troops over at Swift, for beer and spuds. The funniest thing that happened last night, other than the general hilarity that is Kate and I being able to quote all of Eddie Izzard's Dress to Kill between us...

Guy in Bar (grabbing my shoulder): Hey! My friend here, he just got divorced!
Me (missing only the beat it took me to decide NOT to say "fuck you!", and holding up my left hand): And I just got married!

So that was LAST night, and tonight, O Joy of Joys, is our first official Date Night, so we're going to: have dinner at Westville, grab a cupcake at Magnolia's (Stuart's first!) to enjoy while we saunter over to the East Village to see I Heart Huckabees.

And while a little tiny part of me misses having Date Night with the girls, I'm really looking forward to this.

Especially the cupcakes.

Presenting Mister and Missus Kissyface

It's captured on video, forever. Moments after we were married at City Hall last Monday, my brother was filming Stuart and me kissing, and he said conspiratorially, to the camera, as if this was one of those wildlife shows: "This is what they do. All. Day. Long."

And he's right. But just in case you're not sick of it yet*, here's a simple gallery (thanks to Jason) of images from the party, the ceremony, and our honeymoon in Bar Harbor. There will be black-and-white images uploaded from the party as soon as I get them back, but for now, There are now some black-and-white images, shot on film. Enjoy.

Launch Wedding Weekend Photo Gallery.

* And if you are sick of it, I highly suggest not looking at the photographs. Side effects for the cynical and jaded include but are not limited to: Bashing your computer screen with a mallet, throwing up a little in your mouth, and being so innundated with cuteness that your "spleen hurts", claimed one test study participant.

In October I've Been...

... Reading: I started out the month reading Evelyn Waugh's Decline and Fall, which I liked but not nearly as much as Vile Bodies which I liked enormously much. Then I tried to read Henry James The Bostonians because they didn't have the more popular The Europeans at Strand. That lasted about ten pages. I'll try later. When the alternative is watching paint dry. When Stuart got here, I started reading his Bill Bryson's Notes from a Small Island which I enjoyed to pieces because Bryson is so funny he's actually embarassing to read on public transportation because you laugh out loud and everyone looks at you. Now, continuing to read Stuart's books, I've started both Terry Pratchett's Pyramids and Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One*.

... Watching: Absolutely no TV whatsoever. Well, last night we caught the Charlie Brown Halloween Special on ABC, just so I could see Snoopy do that happy dance he does where his head is thrown back and his arms are outstretched and he's radiating joy into my very living soul. But we've been loving Netflix lately. So far we've watched Finding Nemo, Lavender Hill Mob, Groundhog Day, and The Ladykillers. Up next: Nightmare Before Christmas (for Sunday night!), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Father Ted Series 1**.

... Listening to: Okay, this is where it seems like I'm an indie tool*** but please believe that for every cool edgy band I mention, there are at least eight times that I dance around the living room to Al Green or get a little weepy listening to "When I'm 64" or "For the Longest Time". I'm mentioning the following bands because they happen to be new aquisitions in my musical lexicon, entire albums of stuff I'm digging these days. Anyway, thanks to the kate, I'm really loving The Decemberists now - both Castaways and Cutouts, and Her Majesty the Decemberists. I took Stuart, as a birthday present, to their CMJ show at the Bowery, where the French Kicks did a somewhat disappointing opening act (which is a pity because I used to really love the Kicks when Nick played drums but now he just sings and looks drunk and arty) but then The Decemberists came on and they were absolutely stunning and they did Legionnaire's Lament AND Cautionary Song which are my two favourites off Castaways and Cutouts.

I'm also just getting really into The Divine Comedy, which apparently everyone loves and adores, but Stuart played me their Secret History album on our road trip up north and I haven't been able to get National Express or Gin-Soaked Boy out of my head since, plus, any band that fuses Noel Coward songs with an early-nineties club-thumpy bit has got to be pretty darn hot, no?

But yeah. What I said about crying over "When I'm 64", too.

*Actually, by "started" The Loved One, i mean, Stuart is this SUPERHERO of a human being and can READ ALOUD WHILE DRIVING (which pretty much means I've hit the Husband Jackpot) so I've "heard" the first 20 pages.

**Father Ted is, apparently, this hilarious British TV comedy that our relationship will not survive my ignorance thereof. This is a general theme on our Netflix queue ... "wait, you haven't seen-" "-no, you totally HAVE to watch.." "NETFLIX."

*** I cannot stress this enough. I am not an indie tool. I am not an indie tool. I AM NOT AN INDIE TOOL. You know why? Because I don't spend half an hour putting my ATTITUDE on every morning. And also, I like puppies.

Cooking for Two

All I heard was a bang and the sink turning on. I turned away from the magazine that Stuart had assuredly put me down in front of to see the broiler open, his hand running under the water, and a sheepish look on his face. He'd touched the cookie sheet stored there, before realizing that it had gotten hot from the oven. He didn't even yell out a stream of violently imaginative obscenities, like I would. But I could see he was frustrated.

Our oven isn't cooperating with us lately. The old rusty heap is much beloved for its antique settings and its finicky pilot-light-less, but the door has a tendency to start malfunctioning every year and not closing properly. This will be the second time I have to call my somewhat-grumpy landlord in to screw it back into place or do a dance of forgiveness to the Clunky Old Oven Gods. Maybe he'll have to replace our oven. On any other night but last night, this would bring me sorrow.

But as I let out a stream of violently imaginative obscenities over the fact that heat was escaping all over the stove top making it impossible to fry my bacon, and that the smoke of oil and grease from our cooking chicken breast was gently settling in thick waves around the ceiling, I probably said something about getting rid of this damn sputtering antique.

It was only twenty minutes later, as Stuart put the original Ealing Studio's Ladykillers on the DVD player, and I was putting final touches on our dinner, that I think our mutual cooking frustrations subsiding. Because there was two steins full of airy bubbly beer to drink. There was a pair of sourdough loaves, topped with melted sharp cheddar, crispy bacon, juicy tomatoes, ripe avocados, and warm chunks of chicken breast. And as I wrote "i (heart) u" in mustard on Stuart's sandwich, it suddenly didn't matter that we took longer than usual to shake the cares of a weekday off our shoulders, or that we both grimaced repeatedly at a temperamental oven and burnt fingers and smoky ceilings.

There was a brilliant Alec Guiness, a tasty enormous sandwich made as a team (him: shopping, chicken, avocados; me: tomatoes, bacon, cheese) and a warm snuggle on the couch, limbs intertwined and stomachs happy.

That's not bad, for a Monday night.

Legally Wed

Getting Hitched

I almost just gave myself a black eye. Coming in from a snack outside, I slipped on the top step of 5, pitched forward, and managed to land, shaken, on both feet, as two security guards rushed forward to catch me. Had I fallen on my nose, as gravity was certainly inclined to ensure, I might have been sporting a charmingly black rim under one or both of my eyeballs.

Which really wouldn't have looked good in about two hundred photographs that will be taken this weekend. Which is precisely what was going through my mind as a determinedly threw my Frye-clad feet towards carpeted ground and willed them to land without breaking or buckling.

Because this morning, we went to City Hall to apply for our marriage license. I wish I could say the place was charming and everyone was sunnily filling out forms with speed and efficiency. Not the case, I'm afraid. The Marriage License room is dank, the paint hasn't been retouched since about 1964 when Dull Orange was certainly the shade du jour, and the clerks are likely to stop halfway through your case to eat something from the next desk over, chat with a coworker, or learn the art of basketweaving. There were as many pregnant minors sullenly getting shepherded to their sudden marriages as there were childless of-age couples, like Stuart and I. It was depressing.

After a couple of hours and a lot of kissing to make up for the hassle, Stuart and I emerged from City Hall to eat a bagel and throw pieces of my bagel at a small gathering of sparrows. We've been told, by several people that have gotten married at City Hall, that the marriage ceremony section of the process is a good deal cheerier. And we've promised each other to keep our spirits up, and have a good time on Monday, when we return with my parents and brother to be legally wed.

In the meantime, though, we're busy. We're buying the ingredients for the sangria tonight. Then my brother arrives, on his birthday, and tomorrow morning we're meeting Kate and Shiv in Brooklyn for breakfast and mani/pedi time for the girls. Then we have an apartment to rearrange, to somehow accomodate 40 people for a party. My parents arrive in the afternoon with flowers and supplies and love, then we have to pick up all the food at the local Brasilian restaurant and go pick up Biscuit and his marvellous cake. And then we get pretty. And then we have guests. And then we cut cake and say things to each other that are cheesy and will probably make everyone throw up in their own mouths a little but I don't care because we're getting married.

On Monday. On Monday, we put on our pretty suits and frocks, drive down to the courthouse with minimal driving-nightmare arguements, and we get hitched. Married. Legally wed. Monday night, after we've kissed my family goodbye, we have a beautiful dinner at Babbo to revel in our newly-ringed selves.

Did I mention the rings? We bought them last week, at Tiffany's. They're 3 millimeters of shiny gold beautifulness. We looked at them last night, practiced the putting-on-of-rings, and talked about vows and weddings and happiness.

Here it is. The weekend we get married, and celebrate with as many people could be here, at such short notice. And then, next week, we're off to Maine for three days.

Forgive me for not posting often. I think you can understand why.

See you on the flip side of matrimony, people.

Paging the Movie Industry

Does anyone have the name of a guy I can yell at in the DVD production and distribution sector of Hollywood?

Because my favourite Audrey Hepburn film, Two for the Road, doesn't exist on DVD.

Which means our shiny new Netflix Queue of Joy and Couch-Potatoness, which has brought Stuart and me hours upon hours of amusing choice and reorganization ("Can we watch Blackadder the same week as Fear and Loathing?") is sadly bereft of one of my favourite films of all time.

I may just have to buy it. ON VHS. GASP.

Someone do something, QUICK. I'm reverting to the 20th century!

His and Hers Weekend

Three Days

I picked a stellar spot at Terminal 7. It was at the end of the arrivals corridor, within sight line of the heavy metal doors, but by leaning against a column I managed to avoid the collapsible barriers that lined the corridor. At ten to nine, I took up watch. At ten to ten, my lover came through the doors.

After leaping heart false alarms brought on by sudden glimpes of other tall men, of other confident lanky walks, of other curly dark heads, there was my tall curly haired man. And while my three inch heels made it nearly impossible to break into a run, I did my damndest to get to those lips as quickly as possible, to fold myself into that chest, to breathe in the smell of his shirt, his skin, to drink in that smile.

And I haven't stopped since then. Over french bread breakfasts, over long coffees, around books, after shared tooth-brushings, over hot dogs in Central Park, at the ring counter at Tiffany's, on little wooden bridges in the Rambles and overlooking a willow-lined pond, under the Roosevelt statue at the Natural History Museum, on crowded subway cars, under reddening trees on our street, under the covers and during a shower or two.

Kisses. Hugs. Laughter. Coffee. Jokes. Stories. Dinners. Breakfasts.

It's finally here. And I can only pinch myself, laugh, and then kiss him again. Wherever we are.

Five Hours

Work is done.

Friends have been rapid-fire-emailing to distract me all day.

Strange German names have been picked for our inevitable offspring, providing much consternation and amusement.

Desk is clean.

Purse is packed.

Hair looks... well, curly and crazy. That is to say, normal.

Outfit still looks cute and presentable - kelly green merino sweater, brown cord flouncy skirt, jean jacket and brown heels.

Heart is a flutter.

Stomach is a flutter.

Happy.

Happy.

Happy.

Let life begin again. In exactly five hours.

Ten Hours

I didn't really start getting major wobblies until last night. Up until last night, it was a little surreal. For months and months it was like, he was over there and I'm here and all I wanted was for him to be here too. And while empirically, I've realized all week that he'll be here on the 7th, it was like my thumping little heart refused to accept such good news could be possible.

I kept feeling like I was going to wake up, and it would still be July or something.

Then, last night, I was dusting his dresser. HIS DRESSER. The dresser that is in my room, all sanded and varnished by my mom and her master skills with furniture renovation. His dresser, where soon will go his shirts and sweaters and unmentionables. I cleaned our bathroom. I made sure there was half the space on all the shelves.

I arranged the office, leaving room on the bookshelf for his books.

I made our BED THIS MORNING. Our BED. A bed which, in its lifetime, has been mostly my bed, but is now undeniably our bed. I smoothed the sheets and plumped the pillows and tucked in corners.

And then I locked our apartment and left for work, knowing the next time I walked through that beloved doorway, I'd be with Stuart. We'd be coming home. To OUR apartment.

Fixing our apartment last night drove it home, like I thought it would. When I fell asleep last night, I knew it was the last time I'd sleep alone, wishing he was there. Because it's not July. Because he's coming home tonight. In ten hours.

Twelve Hours

I seriously have to remember to keep breathing through the butterflies and excitement.

Update the Second, Or: Friends on Bikes

I'm glad to see that our dear friend CLM posted to his brand-new site about his brand-new adventure, his Big Bike Ride down to Florida. I'm glad because I'm a natural worrywart and I'm perversely fond of the prickly CLM and his odd hobbies and would like to see his health very much intact around Thanksgiving, when he returns to us. While I think biking down the nation's coast line is quite cool and I wouldn't consider anyone I know more capable for the adventure, I am also naturally a little worried for him. There are all kinds of things in the South. Bears. Kudzu. Christian Evangelicals. All KINDS of roadblocks, really.

So check his site over the next 6 weeks or so, follow his adventure and leave encouraging comments. Also, if you live anywhere between here and Florida and he's ever driving past you, offer him a hot meal, or at least let him know where all the internet cafes are. So that we can keep hearing from him.

Update on pH Changes, Or: Biking Downhill

Well, they say if you want something done, you've got to do it yourself. Yesterday, I went home despondent because while on my browser, the banner images and the content block lined up fine, other people said it was wonky. I was furious. There, I thought. I'd tried to take care of something complicated myself, and I'd only managed to screw it up even more.

But today, after a fresh night's sleep and a coffee-filled, sunny morning, I attacked the problem head-on. And by head-on, I mean, with the BEST TEACHER EVER by my side: Biscuit. With his guidance, I've fixed the wonky positioning, and recoded all the back pages into bannerific harmony.

I told him, at one point, after he gently nudged me in the direction I needed to go in order to find the glitch in the code for redoing all the back pages, that he'd make a really good teacher. Running through the problem with him, and realizing that I was at least partly solving it myself, was a good feeling. You know what it was like?

It was like soaring down a hill on my bike for the very first time, and then realizing that my teacher, having faith in my ability to do it alone, had removed my training wheels. And there I was. Doing it myself. So if I never learn how to drum or sew, I know that I'm finally learning something new.

WHEEEEEE WATCH ME GO.

And, before I zoom off too far away on this new bike... thanks, Biscuit.

Two

Little Changes That Bring Me Joy:

1. Organization of the realtime variety - Last night was spent happily going through all my papers and pens and notepads and doohickeys and whosits and whizbangs and whatnots from my incredibly crowded, incredibly messy desk. The four drawers are now mostly-empty, with only blank papers, office supplies, computer supplies, and pens, respectively. My desktop has nothing but a phone, a pen jar, a laptop, and a pod-dock. Very neat. Very clean. Very happy-making.

2. Organization of the cyber variety - Here you have it, people. My shiny new banner, that the great Shivlet designed for me many moons ago, with accompanying buttonage. I just made every change myself. That's why it's not perfect, and the back pages are so last design. And the pinstripes aren't lining up right. But you know what? This was my debut foray into handling my MT stylesheet completely on my own, and I'm inordinately proud of my bumbling attempts. Expect further tweaking later. For now, I'm just proud I managed to change some color tags without setting fire to the place.

Three*

Things I'd Like to Learn Before I'm Too Old**:

1. Drums - For some reason, probably because they're bangy and loud and I'm rather bangy and loud as well, drums have been the only musical instrument that I've really had a keen longing to pick up. When I was a wee lass, like any bougie princess, I learned the piano. I was quite good at it, except that because I have a very sharp memory, I never bothered to learn how to read sheet music - I simply memorized the songs. An early indication of my laziness. My piano teacher was a Russian woman, married to a mid-level Ivorian diplomat, who frequently traveled back and forth from Cote D'Ivoire to the Soviet Union during the last few years of the USSR. For these reasons, my parents and other expats were somewhat convinced that she was KGB. I always thought it was a joke on their part, only later did I learn that they were serious in their suspicions. Pretty heady stuff, being taught to bang out Mozart by a Red.

Anyway, drums: I think I would make the perfect drummer, really, because I have absolutely no inclination to become a songwriter, can't even figure out the process of creating a song, but if a musician told me what to bang out to what beat, I'm quite certain I could sort it out. I've got some Brasilian in my bloodline, after all, and we've got nothing if not rythym. I'd make a valuable addition to any band, because c'mon, chick drummers are HOT. Now all that lacks is someone to actually teach me how to play. I'm quite certain I'd be stellar, though. Takers, anyone?

2. Sewing - This is sort of a criminal oversight on my part, not being able to sew. My mother is a virtuoso on the Singer and my childhood is filled with memories of sitting on the floor of her sewing room, playing with remnants and scraps of delicious fabrics and exciting zippers and ribbons. Since we lived in Africa and clothing stores were a bit thin on the ground, Mom often designed her own clothes and either made them herself, or, if she was too busy expertly organizing my perfect childhood, often sent the job out to a trusted tailor. She made me Halloween costumes (southern belle, little red devil, big furry cat, etc) and made dresses and skirts and shirts for herself. I've stitched a few things here and there, but I've got nowhere near her expertise.

It feels lacking, somehow, in my life, because I'm relatively creative when it comes to clothes or design or fabrics. I get really excited and happy in fabric stores, running my hands along various textures and patterns. Everytime I see a beautiful pattern, I think of something great I could make with it, and I get stopped in my tracks because I know I can't make it myself. There's an extra sewing machine at my parents' house with my name on it, my mother says, whenever I'm ready to pick up the mantle of creative stitchy-stitchy. I think I will, someday soon. After all, who else is going to make my future children's beautiful Halloween costumes?

3. Writing - I know, I know. I'm writing here. I actually do know how to type, obviously, and even string sentences together with varying amounts of success. It's not about learning how to write, though. It's about learning how to be a writer. How to trust the outcome of your creative fountain to sound good on the page, to not censor a thought before it even becomes an idea. It's about learning how to spend hours, typing, not caring if it sounds perfect or flows correctly, but just that it flows. It's about having the keenest eye possible, to spot a story wrapped in the daily ennui of existing. One of my favourite authors, John Irving, holds that hallowed place because of his ability to make a soaring, weaving, funny, irreverent book out of two or three little incidents - a woman in a bear suit, an abortion/adoption clinic, a game of squash. And another of my beloved, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, doesn't feel beholden to the mundanity of realistic plot lines - he's free to create a world where there are five family members with the same name in every generation, or where magic and love triumph over banality. Or yet another, John Updike, who will take the people you see every single day on a commuter train or a restaurant, and play fly on the wall to their tangled inner lives.

I sometimes think my love of reading, and my overwhelming respect for the writing life, hampers me from writing my own stories. For every character, idea, plot line, complication that is born in my mind, twenty five existing equivalents spring forward to defend their place. Often written better than I could hope to achieve. But I know that if I can put aside this mad drive for pure originality (after all, what is original about commuting or love or bears?) and have a little faith in my imagination, and if I could teach myself the discipline that is so sorely lacking from my talent, I know that eventually, I could really call myself a writer without cringing from the enormous shoes that my size six feet cannot yet hope to fill.

* Yes, I know I skipped Five and Four. Be assured that they did pass, in the way Time insists on doing. I spent the weekend at my parent's house and there are more important things in life than blogging consistently. Like, for instance, watching Eddie Izzard with my dad or shopping for new carpets.

** And by "Too Old", I mean, Dead. But that seemed like such a morbid thing to put in the title.

Six

Photographs from Last Night's Debate Watching, Or: This Is As Political As This Site Will Get In The Next Two Months, Thanks

Nellie spent much of the presidential debates trying to get our attention by meowing loudly and licking herself inappropriately. It didn't work.

This is one of the few moments that Biscuit did not have his face in his own hands, brought to the verge of tears by President Bush. I suspect it's because he knew I was about to take a very handsome photo of him.

Wearing one of Mike's sweaters, drinking out of their oversized white coffee mugs, and sitting on that sprawling couch made me feel about five years old. As did my frustration with the debates.

I was merely taking a pretty photograph of Kate's composed, calm face during the debate. But then Biscuit yawned. Still, Kate looks very composed and pretty for someone sitting next to a man singing an aria.

I think this picture should be entitled, "Proportion, Or: How a Coffee Mug Can Look Twice the Size of a Normal Housecat". Biscuit thinks it should be called, "A Montage of Krissa Descending into a Nightmare of Crystal Meth". I did no drug of the kind, although it probably would have aided the debate-watching significantly.

How much do we all love that snarky face. THIS much.